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
You’re welcome,
x
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