Shock and synthesis

By Sarah Bakeman

Sarah Bakeman dances with Reena at her home in Gohran as neighbors and friends gather to watch. Sarah departed for India with big fears of unknown circumstances and an anticipation of being shocked by the unfamiliar culture. | Photo by Madelyn Kremer

Haryana, India, was both culture shock and human synthesis.

Haryana, India, was interviewing Shimla, a woman with crescent moon-shaped swatches of purple under each of her eyes. It was faded bruises from the hand of her estranged husband, their pigment still clouding her smile-lined skin. It was sitting on white plastic lawn chairs placed along Shimla’s pink, flower-painted bedroom wall and hearing about her recent health complications, her debt and her husband’s repeated pattern of leaving, coming back to steal and abuse, then leaving again. It was shock: the sharp sting of a life so different from my own.

Haryana was also standing from those plastic lawn chairs, putting my notepad away and pulling up Haryanvi music on YouTube. It was the opening of Shimla’s front gate — the one with the tricky latch — and welcoming in friends from the village to dance with us. It was attempting to mimic Shimla and Reena’s rolling wrists and swaying hips, but devolving into my own jutting elbows and sharp shoulders with a laugh. Shimla laughed in return, gesturing to her chest — an unspoken way of telling me I shimmy too much. It was synthesis: the effortless joy that comes from being human alongside another. 

Shock was spending days with Krishan, a local milkman and the subject of our documentary. It was following his 12-hour work days and seven-day work weeks, because crops need tending and buffalos need milking and babies need nourishment every day. It was his hope for the career to die with him — for his son Mohit to find passion over mere provision. It was sitting with Krishan and Mohit on cots during midday downtime, sipping chai as Krishan took long draws from his hookah. It was sharing stories and photos from home. It was Mohit asking if there was anything like the caste system in America. 

I felt synthesis when Paige answered his question. India’s social problems are its own — the caste system, misogyny, wealth gap — but back home, we battle inequality too.  

I felt synthesis when Krishan’s 8-year-old niece Suhani got bored, lifting her hands toward me. I showed her the hand games I learned back on my elementary school bus, full of claps and interlocked fingers. Synthesis remains in my Spotify search history, where Suhani would find her favorite songs and play them for me. Synthesis, I realize, was often found without a word.

I felt shock in a cruelly literal sense during the Lohri festival, an annual celebration of the winter sowing season’s end and a plea for abundant harvest. A six-foot bonfire blazed in Kumar’s backyard and music blared from speakers as my classmates danced. The sun had set and the party began, but behind a bedroom door, my body was shutting down from a harmless-looking mini-muffin. Anaphylactic shock. I felt the inside of my mouth swell. A fuzzy, wool sweater sensation took over my tongue. Under my ankle-length skirt and black long-sleeve, hives usurped my skin. My lips were Kardashian plump, with inflated ears and eyelids to match. I radiated heat like my old, virus-ridden laptop before it inevitably gave out. But I could still breathe.

My mind drifted to the anxiety-induced pre-trip Google searches. Reddit forums about traveling to India with a severe tree nut allergy, featuring uplifting comments such as “dead on arrival” and “WTF! Don’t come here.” Telling Scott (my professor) and Mild (my roommate) that I was too scared to go on Textura India 2024. Going anyway. Realizing I’d never been through a reaction without my mom.

The only thing that pulled me out of this shock was synthesis. It was Madi and Mild gently holding my slippery hands so I would stop running them over my increasingly swollen ears. It was India partner Gunjan breathing with me, telling me to suck air into my stomach, not my chest. It was professor Paige administering my EpiPen after two Benadryls didn’t help, and Scott pacing as he lined up a trip to the emergency room. It was Rafi playing Simon and Garfunkel on the foggy road to Kaithal and dragging me by the arm to a doctor who knew just what to do. It was returning to the hotel to play Avalon in the dining room over roti and sizzler with Scott, Gunjan, Rafi, Mild and Madi while bonfires blazed and music blared across Haryana just outside.

For me, India was a constant state of both shock and synthesis. It was my first time out of America and an affirmation that I want to keep leaving again and again and again. Everyone involved in this publication took a risk – whether it be embracing a new experience or sharing a story. And I’m sure it was worth it.