My First Trip to India
The water is as blue as turquoise mined from the Sinai Peninsula in Egypt; bowled in checkered tiles of varying blues. Fallen leaves aimlessly float in the middle section of the pool — as if they’ve gathered there for an event. No one is here, other than a man on the other side of the pool wearing a Speedo that probably should’ve been retired a decade ago, sprawled across one of the wooden lounge chairs and pecking at his phone; and me, drinking a South African Sauvignon Blanc out of a weightless, plastic wine glass.
This scene is far from what I imagined for my first trip to India (Bangalore specifically). Instead, I envisioned riding through chaotic streets where cars, tuk-tuks, cows, motorbikes, and pedestrians, expertly weave through poorly-maintained streets; or walking on uneven, trash filled sidewalks shamefully trying to divert my eyes from the countless people whom are homeless and whose eyes are devoid of any emotion but desperation. I had been warned by almost everyone I told that I was visiting India that the smell of strong spices and alarming pollution would invade my nostrils as forcibly as the over-crowded cities and abject poverty would assault my eyes. Warnings were repeatedly given: Don’t eat the food. Don’t drink that water. Don’t give people money or candy. Don’t show your shoulders or knees. Don’t go anywhere alone. Don’t engage in conversation.
India seemed to be the land of don’t. For the first time, I felt anxious, not excited, about going somewhere new.
But I travel for this very reason: to challenge the arrogant mindset that America (and Europe) are the only places in the world that are truly civilized (and whose people are worthy).
India is indeed crowded. There is abject poverty. Cows are worshipped by some. Pollution is an issue. Yet, these conditions don’t speak to all whom India is. She is romantic, having been pursued and conquered by many suitors; she is paradoxical as she leans heavily on the traditions from her long rich history while leading in modern technical advances; she’s loud, yet guides you to find your inner peace; she is devoutly religious; she’s boldly colorful and spicy. She’s overwhelming and fascinating at the same time.
The traffic is the bugle call — the first thing that seizes your attention. Traffic here is like Einstein’s brain, scattered, chaotic, and yet brilliant. It is inexplicable how anyone gets anywhere on time, but they do. Though a tuk-tuk, BMW, and motorbike must certainly speak different languages; they all somehow communicate with one another — holding spirited, halted conversations that are usually effective. When the conversations turn to debates, the drivers become involved: rolling down windows to argue a point or pulling to the side of the road to engage in a proper fight. Road rage exists in India, but is addressed with fists instead of bullets. Perhaps oddly, I find some honor in that.
Conversely, it seems dishonorable to discuss those people whom are homeless or living in poverty (though so many harped on it prior to my trip). When I maneuvered the crowded sidewalks and streets, I couldn’t help but to think of America; not because I felt that our situation in America is so different — but to the contrary how very similar it is. The smell of strong urine emanates from many of the sidewalks in San Francisco. I cannot drive or walk any distance without seeing people sleeping in tents alongside the road, under bridges, on sidewalks and curled up in the doorways of retail stores laying on top of a piece of cardboard… in the one of the wealthiest cities in America.
One of my guides explained that because of the caste system a person cannot escape the class into which he was born. Dalit, the lowest class, is shunned from society. People won’t rent to them and temples won’t even allow them to worship there. I shared with him that similarly, in America, it is almost impossible for poor people, particular minorities, to get out of their socio-economic disempowerment; and we are shunned by landlords, banks and most of middle and upper-class America. We tout the American Dream: that anyone can make it as long as they work hard enough. There are certainly some success stories; those tear-inducing rags to riches, “person who slept in his car now a graduate of Harvard,” tales that fill the airwaves. But soberingly, these stories are the exception — not the norm. Like in India, there is a caste system in America. Ours is unacknowledged.
But that doesn’t mean people aren’t working — trying to escape their station in life. Indians are industrious individuals. India is the world’s fastest growing economy. Its GDP could overtake that of the US before 2050, turning India into the strongest economy worldwide. There is an energy in India — a buzz — very much like New York. People are moving, creating start-ups, and working at major tech companies (Bangalore is considered the 2nd Silicon Valley).
Also like New York and Silicon Valley people are busy — everyone seemed to be on a mission; however no one was ever too busy to talk to, explain to, guide me — indulge my insatiable curiosity. When I went to a boutique to have my Sari made, I walked into a place more colorful than the grandest of gardens. Perfectly folded bolts of cottons and silks of any imaginable variation of every hue in countless patterns lined the walls from top to bottom of an expansive boutique; and I was given the task of choosing only one. Accordingly, I ended up spending hours touching and admiring fabrics, sometimes simply sitting and people watching, and talking to the boutique owners. I asked so many questions about the fabric that although the boutique was busy, one of the employees walked me around to the a small room around the corner where fabric is handmade. .
My sari was delivered to my hotel a day or two later — just in time for a dinner I was to attend. Before I left the boutique, the owner had taken great care to show me how to elegantly wrap myself in the fabric after putting on my choli, then how to tuck the fabric so that it would drape and pleat perfectly. The teacher was excellent; but, I, the student didn’t fully retain the lesson. I found myself alone in the middle of my hotel room frustrated because nothing was wrapping, tucking, pleating or draping correctly. Desperate, as I didn’t want to show up late and/or improperly dressed to the dinner, I shuffled downstairs to seek help. The expressions of the people at the front desk told me that I looked as ridiculous as I felt; but two women walked me to the lobby restroom and lovingly fussed over me — one adjusting the fabric, the other instructing and critiquing. The sari was unfamiliar, but that exchange between us wasn’t.
I approached India somewhat apprehensively— affected by the naysayers. India is indeed different in a lot of ways. It is overwhelming from the minute you leave the airport. It is Intoxicating while you are there, which leaves you at times feeling giddy and high and at other times feeling hungover. There is no in-between. But one doesn’t travel to India for in-between or comfortable. One travels to India to be awakened in some way: your senses, your sensibilities, or your sense of self. Before my trip, people warned by about all of the “differences” I would find; but more than with any other place, I left awakened to how similar we all are.
