When I was 10 my cousin “pantsed” me in the middle of Disney world, boxers and all…that was a rough day. I think I feel about as self-conscious walking the streets of India day in and day out, as I did in that moment.
At first it’s not that bothersome, the constant staring; but as the days go on, the eyes dig beneath your skin, making you tingle, eventually reaching your soul, creating a self consciousness you didn’t know was possible. As the thought of their eyes ruminates, anger and resentment builds up more and more. Over time I felt as if I would one day snap under the weight of their staring.
It’s amazing how shameless the Indian culture is. I was walking on the street once when a man on a motorcycle slowly road by. As he approached me he slowed down to a near crawl, staring and staring. He turned his head as he rode, holding his gaze. He only sped up once it became impossible for him to turn anymore. I do not understand why people do this. I am different. I know that. I am tall, pale, and have red hair. But what is gained by staring. Why won’t a few quick glances do? It makes me feel like a sideshow freak. As if my every feature and movement was so abnormal that I require as much time as they can suffer, in order to study and judge me. There is very little sense of rudeness here. People will stop what they are doing and point me out to their friends. Literally point. Groups of kids play cricket in the fields by where I live. Every weekend I walk by them on my way to the store, or to catch a rickshaw to the city. As I do, they stop their game just to point at and talk about me.
I was walking through a zoo in Chennai with a fellow intern from America. He is white as well, but lacking my general gingerness. As we were looking at an exhibit of birds, a group of young women came up to me, asking if they could take my picture. I allowed them to, and stood as eight girls whipped out phones and cameras to snap as many pics as they could before I got away.
When my sister came for a visit we toured the monuments in Agra. At least four times we were stopped so people could take pictures with us. I did not understand why. There were scores of white people at these sights, so why was seeing us so remarkable. Why was our presence worth a spot in the scrapbook? I’m trying to imagine an Indian family decades in the future, flipping through their photo album, remembering their past. They come to a picture with the tall ginger, and a small caption under the photo reads, “Spring 2011 – Met a pale, fire haired American”
Even in my office I received stares. Since the first on through I pass people that are so interested in my presence/appearance that they stare at me. They walk by my desk, not four feet away from me, burning their eyes into me for what seems like an eternity.
When my friend Casey came to visit he seemed to have a solution for this problem. Like me, he is a ginger, though of average height. We were riding in a rickshaw when I noticed him staring at something. I asked him what he was doing, to which he replied, “Staring this kid down.” He had noticed a teenager staring at us, and so he stared back.
I was impressed and entertained by this, but I could not bear to do it myself. Being here for six months, I couldn’t handle that much staring.
Things such as this were what made me miss home the most. We all want to be special and stand out, but on our own terms. In India I feel like the nail that sticks out, and every pair of eyes is trying hammering me down.
Today’s lesson, India is worse than Disney World…go figure
Over my past few months here in India I have, on occasion, found myself with a lot of free time on my hands. Be it before or after work, or on the weekends. By looking back at how I spend this free time I have realized something…TV shows are addicting. And I don’t mean watching different shows back to back, I mean blasting through a series one episode after another, for hours straight.
Most people my age will confess that after tuning into a Jersey shore marathon, for “just for a sec,” somehow six hours goes by, it’s two a.m. and your making popcorn ready for more.
This is what I call, a TV show bender. As you can guess, this has happened to me numerous times. Over the past few months I have gone from Seinfeld, to the Office, to Entourage, to West Wing, to Archer, to House, back to Seinfeld, back to Entourage, to Curb, to Studio 60, and finally to Modern Family.
I will tell myself to will stop, but it never happens. I have read a few books since being here, but they have come between relapses. And that’s what it is…relapse. In order to get off “TV” I think it needs to be treated like a drug. It needs to be removed from one’s life entirely for weeks, until one no longer misses it. I see this as the only way out, and I can say with full confidence that I ain’t doing it.
If there is one thing I need here in India it is a quick and easy way to pass the time, and there is nothing better to do that than a TV show marathon. I also believe movie series can fall into this category, in a day and a half I watched all the “Lord of the Rings” and desperately wished there was more. If I had all the Harry Potter’s I’d have watched them as well, and same goes for Star Wars as well.
It is the great addiction of the 21st century. Why do you think Hulu and Netflix are so popular? Sure people use them to watch movies, but more and more people are watching TV shows. They will order season 3 of Friends on Netflix, and stream season 5 of Family Guy on Hulu while they wait.
It is a sad, harsh fact, but TV is addicting, and I would inject Season 2 of 30 Rock right in my veins if I could.
Today’s lesson,
Try and watch just one episode during a NCIS marathon…I dare you.
There are two constants on Bangalore roads, traffic and cows. There are cows that roam free, grazing at their will. Some cows are herded; pushed forward by a small lady with a stick. Some cows wander alone, care free, yet lonely. Others travel as a group, always watchful of their young.
I rather like the cows. They offer a humorous contrast to the bustling life of the city. Everyone tries to get where they’re going as fast they can. The cow has nowhere to go, and takes its time along the way.
On my way to work in the morning I am guaranteed to see several cows. While I am waiting to be picked up, once in a while a herd of Indian buffalo will pass by. I think I like them more than regular cows. Cows are too neat and cosmetic. The buffalo looks tough, powerful and confident. With long horns, a hairy back and bones that bulge out, the buffalo is not to be messed with.
I was stuck in traffic today. A field of cars five wide and fifty deep were waiting for the signal to go. I leaned my head out the window, where I was face to face with a large momma cow. She hardly gave me a second look after we nearly butt heads, while I simply stared. After her followed three more, and another four on the other side of the truck. All of the sudden over a dozen cows were weaving in and out of the cars, like the slowest slalom race I had ever seen. It seemed to go one forever. Some how their massive bodies squeezed through the spaces between the cars. Just as they were at the front of the jam, cars started to honk. The signal had turned yet the cows were in the way. People honked and yelled, not at the cows, but at their herder; a small woman with a stick, desperately trying to control the movements of 14 cows.
I will never forget the great slalom of the cows. It was as much amusement as I could ever hope for in a day. It also managed to bring me a moment of peace in an otherwise un-peaceful world.
As I begin my trip home from work, I notice the air has a different smell to it. The weather has called for rain, though, as of yet, none has come. The sky is dark, and rain clouds loom, but they bring no precipitation, only its smell. It is the rich earthy smell, which one imagines rain always had, not more than a few centuries ago. The rain here cherishes its heritage, much like the people below it. It is not like the high-tech modern rain of New York, or LA, scent-less and without emotion. A rainy day here invokes thoughts and feelings.
As the transport propels forward, other smells waft in. We pass a herd of cows on the road. The scent of their fur and manure is strong, and enveloping. It is not a pleasant smell, but at the same time it is not offensive. It is natural, and for that, it has an inherent goodness about it that one cannot understand. A bus rolls by, and spews black smoke as it changes gears. This stings the nostrils upon entry, and shortens one’s breath. It makes me dig my head into my shirt, where another smell lurks. I smell the refreshing yet out of place scent of my deodorant. It relieves me of suffocation, but makes me self-conscious; for I know it highlights that I’m an outsider here. While on the subject, I can smell the driver as well. I do not imagine he has showered for at least a week, and the thought of deodorant is laughable. The smell makes one angry, because for some reason we take B.O. as a personal offence, all while he has done nothing to truly offend me.
We roll on through a small village. The smell of food being prepared fills the air. The spices, and curry are so strong I can nearly taste them, and the flavor of smoked chicken teases my tongue. As we turn the corner a cloud of dirt and sand hits us head on. It is suffocating, not unlike the bus, but it does not sting the same. It stings the eyes, yet penetrates deeper into the nostrils. It can be felt in the chest, as if mini dunes were building in the lungs. We pass a pile of burning leaves, that’s how leaves are disposed of here. Their smell is pungent, and just seems wrong, much like the action it’s self. The smell of the leaves is similar to that of burning plastic, which to me speaks to how unnatural and wrong it truly must be.
As we turn through an intersection an old Royal Enfield motorcycle passes us. It is loud and it emits a nearly pure white exhaust. It smells powerful and raw, the way an automobile is supposed to smell. I do not like the smell of automobiles nowadays, or lack their of I should say, with catalytic converters, big mufflers and such. It takes away from what a car really is; it makes one lose a connection with the automobile itself. Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but I think there is a certain value in the minor suffocation one experiences when trailing the cloud of white smoke a 67 mustang emits as it speeds off.
A car screeches to a halt as it is cut off. The smell of the burning rubber seems to be immediately present, as if brought on by the sound alone. I must say I like this smell. It brings with it a certain excitement, as if one is somehow a part of the sudden stop, or start for that matter.
As we head towards my apartment we pass a flower stand. One can barely get a hint of their scent. It seems their scent is almost too weak to break through from the world around them, and yet they manage, if only just.
As we approach my apartment and I bend to pick up my bag from the floor I can smell the dust from the seats in the truck. It is fitting, and for that reason, doesn’t seem as objectionable. As I get out I can smell the rain again, but only for a moment. Work is being done around my building and I can smell the sawdust, refreshing like the rain, for it is natural, but suffocating like the sand.
As I walk to my gate I see my friend the stray, scavenging for food, not to far from his spot on the sidewalk. I wonder what he thinks of smells, and if he too enjoys the smell of the rain. He wouldn’t know what high-tech western rain smells like I suppose. Perhaps this takes away from his appreciation of the natural smell of his rain. I wonder if rain is like an accent, normal for the local, but strange to any foreigner.
When I leave here I think it is the smells whose absence I will notice most often. I certainly won’t miss some, but I will miss the rain. I will most surely miss the rain.
He lies quietly at his post. He does not come back every night. There are some nights, which he hunts, searching for a real meal among the litter and trash. Some nights, during which he explores, searching for a new domain, one where he can find opulence and a mate. Invariably however, he always ends up in the same spot, on the sidewalk by my apartment, alone. It is peaceful there; he is not disturbed by traffic, be it with wheels or feet. He knows that there he can doze off early, and wake up late. If there is ever a peaceful sidewalk in Bangalore he has found it, and he is reluctant to give it up. He worries that his peace won’t last, for he knows it never does. One day a pack will come, and oust him from his spot, for he is alone and weak. The peace he finds comes at the price of food, for here there are fewer people, so there is less food. Just for him, I throw down my half eaten apple by the side of the road, hoping he finds it. I wish I could do more, but I know that wouldn’t help him. I understand the satisfaction that comes with earning what you have, and he should be satisfied. I can see his fear though. Each time I walk by when he’s awake, he shudders at the thought of being shoed away. When he sleeps though, it is a deep and peaceful sleep, which the loudest horn cannot wake. He dreams of better times; when he can find a harmony between peace and food. His conscious self is more practical. He wakes to the already bright day, gives a great yawn with a stretch and he’s on his way. He doesn’t look for his dream; he simply looks to survive the day. He goes out and scavenges what he can, not because it’s what he wants to do, but because it’s what he feels he has to do. He could set off. He could head farther from the city. But what about food? But what about his peaceful spot on the sidewalk? It’s so hard to find a peaceful spot. He can’t give up his peaceful spot. He’s knows it’s never going to last, but that’s what he has, and he’s not going to risk it while he has it. Besides, who would?
I have been reading a book, Essays of E.B. White. It was a gift from my dad, and is turning out to be a splendid gift at that. White’s imagery and smoothness make for an easy, enjoyable read. However, his ability to see the ironies in the world are what keep the reader engaged. What’s more is how his observations and thoughts, from the sixties, are so clearly relevant to the state of the world today.
In one of White’s essays he talks about New York and what makes the city unique. He sees it’s most basic unique quality as being able to take in anything, while giving its inhabitants the choice to be affected or not. It is essentially, fully accommodating, yet un-disturbing.
This characterization led me to think about my current city, Bangalore. I realized that a resident of Bangalore would easily feel this same lack of encroachment, but not out of choice or respect, out of complete ignorance of their existence.
What is exceptional about Bangalore is its lack of shame. This is not a city with poor areas and rich areas. It is a poor city with rich buildings towering over the slums. The shame extends the full spectrum of wealth. The rich feel no shame about living with slums and beggars in the direct shadow of their excess. What’s more, the poor feel no shame at trying to scrape what scraps they can from what the rich leave behind. There is total complacency with the building of luxurious apartments, with high walls as the only means of separation between luxury and slum.
I’m not saying there should be segregation of classes. I’m saying that without shame, nothing is going to change. Seeing how the rich are only getting richer, they are unlikely to change anything on their own. In order to achieve a better balance in the city, the poor need to take a stand. The problem with a beggar is not the fact that he has no money, but the fact that he thinks begging is his best option. It is nearly impossible for a poor person in ratty clothes to walk into a business and get hired. But it is possible for the poor to protest their being ignored, to protest the limitation of their opportunities, to protest having to live in the shadow of affluence. If the poor rise up, the rich and the powerful will feel the shame that is so long overdue. They will realize that the city needs to change, along with the country for that matter, and they will make efforts for the betterment of the community, if only so the poor stop complaining.
What is unfortunate is that this may never happen. It is imbedded in the Indian culture that no one should care. My boss explained Indian traffic to me with a Hindi saying that states; anything goes. This is the problem. The lack of respect, the lack of shame, the lack of responsibility all stem from the thought, anything goes. When one is fully accommodating, one appeals to the lowest common denominator. This country has speed bumps, rather than stop signs, because people aren’t trusted to stop. Problems such as this are so rampant, one can hardly fathom. I like to think that I am observing the Indian culture with a non-ignorant view, though as an American that is unlikely. All I know is, if you can’t trust the general population to use stop signs that is a problem.
I was in a transport back from work one night drinking a cup of tea. When I finished, the driver told me to through the cup out the window. I refused, but he prodded me to do so, saying how it’s ok, everyone does it. After my repeated refusals he and the rest of the people in the transport laughed at me. People litter in America, that’s a fact. However, those people are looked down upon, and lose respect for it. Here in India six people laughed at me for choosing not to litter, that’s just wrong.
Every night when I go to board my transport home from work, the same thing happens; I go down to the loading bay, along with a couple hundred other people, find my transport number on the board, hunt for it in the sea of vehicles that branch out into five different groups, all of which converge at the same point to leave, and board it. When it is time for the cars and trucks to leave it is pandemonium. At five minutes prior to departure time the drivers are hanging out, chatting with each other, laughing and joking. When it is a minute past the time to leave, every driver is honking, cutting each other off, squeezing within a centimeter of the car in front, and nearly hitting people in their rush to get out. When I say nearly hitting people, I don’t mean they narrowly avoid them, I mean they head straight towards them and the people, if they’re lucky, barely get out of the way in time. The lack of civility and respect astounds me, and it is all bred from thousands of years of Indian culture.
People tell me; this is India, that’s how it is. I think that’s not good enough. Traffic is unnecessarily bad, and people are unnecessarily poor and unhealthy. There is a difference between doing things a different way, and doing things a wrong way. To me, this is a wrong way of doing things. Until the culture and the mindset changes so that respect, civility and trust can at least be understood, if not respected, rather than laughed at, India’s ascent to a developed country will go unrealized.
It may be very well though that the current wealthy class and powerful leaders want India to always be a step behind. This will keep wages low and continue the flow of foreign money into the pockets of a few. So long as the poor only care enough to reach for a handout India will be a developing nation, with cheap labor and a small group of wealthy and powerful elites. I’ve met some great people in this country, and it would really be something to see the heart and faith of these people in a modern nation, but lets just say, I’m not holding my breathe.
Today’s lesson, if you want something…you have to take it.
Once the Capital of the Mughal Empire, Agra has one of the richest histories of any ancient city. The wealth and fortune that flowed through the city is unimaginable, especially when you look at it today.
Many people have seen plenty of stock photos of the Taj Mahal, Agra’s and India’s for that matter, main attraction. Literally 20ft from any of the Taj gates are scammers and beggars, all living in the slums that dominate the once great city. The sight of white skin seems to draw huge crowds of Indians; selling cheap toys, maps, foods, beverages, or tour services, all several times above the market price. What amazes me is that these people must return to their posts by the tourist hot spots day after day, because what they do works. At some point, some white people purchase their crap and at the price they ask for. A word to the wise, if you ever purchase an item off the street in India for over 100 rupees, you got ripped off; and if you took the asking price or didn’t haggle to the point where they chased after you because you refused to pay above a certain amount, you got ripped off.
I don’t mean to sound like I think this is an Indian thing. The cause is people with too much money flaunting themselves in a country where most people have too little money. Please note that “flaunting” in the third world, consists of having white skin and wearing an outfit that cost more than 20 dollars.
Anyways in Agra my sister and I, remember she’s visiting, saw the beautiful sites of the ancient Empire. I personally liked Agra Fort better than the Taj Mahal, but maybe that was because our “complimentary” tour guide at the Taj was annoying and abrasive when I dismissed him of his services five minutes in.
The hotel we stayed at was ok. The view of the Taj was great, but the bed had some tiny ants, the shower seemed too risky, and I’m pretty sure the mutton I had on my last day gave me some sort of food poisoning. Besides that the place was great, good breakfast with a view of the Taj , a colony of monkeys that hopped the roofs around us, and slow service, as per the Indian standard.
Getting around during the days was very easy due to the help of our semi tour guide, rickshaw driver. The driver had picked us up from the train station on our arrival, provided by the hotel free of charge. He offered to shuttle us around the next day to the best sites, so I took him up on it. He was very nice and very helpful, insisting we acknowledge no one who tried to sell us anything. He even brought us to a nice place for lunch where we had a great roasted chicken. If I must say there is one thing I will miss of India it will be the combo of quality and price of its roasted, or tandoori as it’s called here, chicken.
The next day we saw the Taj in the morning, it was big, pretty, and now checked off the bucket list. Originally we were going to catch a train back to Delhi, as we had taken to Agra, but we decided that did not leave us with enough time, so we hired a car for about 50 bucks to drive us back. This was one of the most memorable drives I have ever had, and I’m sure that I will be able to laugh more about it in years to come.
From the start our driver clarified that his English was not much, he spoke only Hindi, splendid news to hear indeed, now only if he had told us he couldn’t even read Hindi. Our trip started boring enough. There are no long highways in India so we took a route-66 type road with lights and traffic at random points and tractors with huge bags in tow that took up the entire road. This was not at all surprising having been here for a few months. A surprise did come though when we were stopped at a light. Being stopped there wasn’t the surprise as several other cars were as well…if only the truck behind us had gotten the memo. We were hit from behind by a truck and, while in Hindi, I assume the blame game immediately started; luckily there were traffic cops at the intersection, a rare spot of luck, and the issue was to be sorted out formally, as formal as it gets that is.
I apologize for the break in text, but I feel obligated to apologize to my parents, as this is the first they are hearing of this accident. Both Liz and I are perfectly ok, and were at the time as well. It wasn’t a hard ram, more of an, “OMG my brakes suck,” bang, which caused us to jus forward and exclaim, “are you f***ing kidding me?”
Anyways, the deliberation of blame went back and forth I’m sure for quite some time. Our driver had pulled to the side of the road several meters up, and, of course, if there are white people around there are beggars ready to harass them. Within thirty seconds of being left alone in the car a few children came up to the window, tapping, and begging for change. Now I know this is a sad image, and it is very much worse to see. Being here, even for just a few months, has desensitized me as to the plight of the individual among millions. I cannot tell you how many times I have been begged for change and it’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I think handouts can make things worse. Give a man a fish, he will ask for more the next day. For a good 20 minutes my sister and I were sitting in the car alone stuck in the awkwardness of having nowhere to go, yet wanting to get away from the relentless prodding for money.
Finally our driver came back, with a huge smile on his face I might add, apologizing. I don’t know what Indian businesses think is virtuous about having a wide mouth smile 24/7 for white customers; personally, I think it gets annoying, and sometimes creeps me out.
When we finally reached the Delhi area I soon realized something, our driver had shit clue of where he was going. He pulled next to several people asking for the Indira Gandhi airport, always turning to me to reaffirm that was actually where we were going; by the fifth yes, I think it is a safe assumption, but that’s just me. Finally we found a guy heading in the same area, and we followed him for several kilometers. When finally close he pulled aside at his stop and walked to our car to give us directions. Apparently there are two separate buildings for the Indira Gandhi Airport; one for Domestic, one for International. The helpful man asked me which we were, I said domestic, and after he repeated the same several times, to my repeated confirmations, he asked where I was going, to which I said Bangalore, prompting another confirmation, until finally he told us to got to Terminal 1, which required us to take a right and then a left.
Oh how simple directions can seem when one can read a sign. Our driver on the other hand, could not. After turning right, when we came up to the first left, there was a sign with Hindi and English writing. The writing said some street name, with an arrow pointing left, and separately IGA T-1 D (IGA for Indira Gandhi airport, T for terminal, D for domestic) with a big arrow pointing straight. As our driver slowed at this fork, I told him straight, pointing out the number one and the corresponding straight arrow, but to no avail. Our driver took the left, until 20 ft. down the ramp he realized he was wrong. So, in true India fashion, he rolled down his window to confirm the correct direction, and then reversed back on to the busy overpass, so he could continue on it straight. A faint, revival and heart murmur later, we were back on track.
From this point I took the drivers seat, using the “cab driver” as a vessel by which I would speed up and turn the wheel. At every sign and intersection I told him which way to go, all of which he second guessed, but finally after some constant repeating, with gradually increasing volume, we arrived at our gate. We got our bags form the trunk, which couldn’t close easily due to the damage, I paid the driver and quickly turned our heels to put him, his car and the troubles associated behind us.
We had plenty of time in the airport, which allowed us to eat, read, and eat some more. It was rather funny to see that the restaurant we ate in at the Delhi Airport, Fresc Co, had 6 locations in Europe, mostly Italy, and two in India. I was curious what prompted its India expansion, but more curious in getting the chocolate croissant from the bakery next door. Best chocolate croissant ever by the way, no offense to a little bakery in Seattle. (For those who get that one, you get a scratch and sniff sticker)
This concluded our trip to Agra. The two days since our return have been relaxed. We walked, we shopped, we read in cafes, we sampled desserts, and just this evening I said goodbye to my sister. Her stay renewed my sanity, and my writing, as it would appear. I will miss her very much, and I look forward to spending some time with her on her turf in LA this summer.
