"So what is India really like?" I always get this question. It's like I have the secret truth, hidden somewhere. I don't have the answer, but after surviving for four months there, I do have a few things to say. And yes, I said survive. Because India is a place to be survived. Lonely Planet likes to convince you otherwise, with glossy photos of temples and shrines, crumbling old forts and soaring palaces that the Mughals liked to erect at every corner of their empire. There are the token photos of women wrapped in brightly colored fabrics and of grinning street urchins. Pictures of far and exotic hill tribes where people still wear traditional dress, and wrinkled faces stare out from the photos with old, wise-seeming eyes.
Yes, I saw all those things. But after traipsing around the entire subcontinent for four months, I can tell you that India is not found in those exotic images. So where did I find it? I found it in the relentless hassling from street vendors who try to sell you everything from samosas to bootleg DVDs to hashish to men's underwear. Yes, they tried to convince me that I needed men's underwear. ("I give you good price, cheap price, best price just for you!") It's in the endless haggling and bargaining with every rickshaw driver, hotel attendant, street food seller, newspaper man, chai seller, train ticketer...on and on. There is no such thing as a fixed price in India, so don't believe it if anyone tries to convince you of such. Many Indians warned me repeatedly to never trust another Indian, because they will surely rip me off. And they did, even though I got the knack of it after a while, I still knew I was being taken for a ride. My only consolation was the hope that I was a little tougher, a little wiser than the next tourist to come along.
I found India in the surprisingly catchy Bollywood film music and movie industry. The bollywood star is the modern day Raj. People love to blast Hindi pop music at ear-splitting levels, out of shops on street corners, through the open windows of cars on the street - and especially during long overnight bus rides when you're extremely tired and cranky.
I found India in the smells. The good: frying samosas, egg roll-ups, every combination of curry and tandori cooking imaginable. The spicy and woodsy, pungent aroma of incense that wafts up from shrines and out through the doorways of temples. And of course, even more memorable were the bad smells: human and animal waste along the paths and roads down which you walk, piles and piles of rotting garbage that line the streets and any open ground space. Open sewer systems (I mean, raw sewage that runs down open channels dug into the sides of roads and alleyways.) The sickly sweet stench of the rivers and streams that they dump any and all trash and sewage into. The exhaust and diesel fumes and air pollution that are a result of a lack of government-managed auto emissions regulations. I will never again complain about having to take my car into to get inspected every year, because I've seen what the alternative is.
But I think the place where you can really find India, in every sensory and experiential way imaginable is through one activity: riding in the sleeper class on an Indian train. The Indian railway system is a miracle of efficiency and organization (considering the state of the rest of the country). There are numerous classes (and prices) at which you can ride the train. Many trips take 12 hours or longer because such long distances have to be covered, so many journeys are overnight and most often your seat is actually a berth, a pull-out bed to sleep on. Most tourists opt for the spacious and clean(er) air conditioned cars. But not Ryan and I. Out of sheer brass, bravery, stupidity, or maybe just plain cheapness, we always rode the lower class of the reserved sleeper car. This put us in with all the average middle-class Indians and families, with a small handful of a very few budget backpackers thrown in. And while we felt pretty tough and hardcore and culturally sensitive, there was also a dash of insecurity over our own white privilege that played a factor (shhh.) Yes, we saved money, but most importantly we got the chance to experience traveling through India as real Indians do.
So what's it like in a sleeper car on a long train journey? We made many considering how friggin huge the subcontinent is. (Our longest ride was a 36-hour marathon from Kolkata to Chennai.) Everyone scrambles onto the train and busies themselves with securing their bags and luggage to their seats with locks and chains (remember, never trust another Indian). People settle in and get to know each other, strangers become friends within minutes. Ryan and I are usually left performing creative hand gestures and charades to try to explain where we're from and why the hell we're not with all the other tourists in the AC car. Books and newspapers and the occasional ipod emerge. And, never fail, there is always at least one or two jovial men who pull out a bottle of rum or whiskey. These guys, understandably, make more friends faster than anyone else. The rum drinkers usually get an upper berth - people like to keep them tucked up and out of the way, as they tend to get a little noisy, laughing and drinking above our heads most of the night. And yes, one time, after much cajoling, I took a swig of rum myself with the men in the upper berth. Ryan thought I was insane, but the Indian guys slapped their knees and howled in laughter at the fact that they got to share a drink with a white girl in a sleeper car.
Throughout the day, every time the train slows down to a stop at a station, different vendors jump on and walk briskly down the aisles selling everything you could imagine. Roasted peanuts, biscuits and cookies, channa massala, egg-and-bread omelets, fried vegetable patties and samosas, water, beer, tobacco, betel nut, paan leaf, bananas, and of course, chai and coffee (which they spell, 'kofi'.) I swear I will never forget the sound of the Chai wallahs yelling out, "Chai, chai, kofi kofi, masala chai, garaam chai, garaam kofi chai." (garaam = hot, masala = spicy) The fun doesn't stop there. People come through selling decks of playing cards, belts, pens, cellphones, cigarettes, collared shirts, newspapers, magazines, little wooden children's toys. One guy even came through selling pens with flashlights built onto their caps - and people actually bought them. Gypsy kids come through with drums and dance and sing folk songs, and then beg for money. Indian drag queens sashay down the aisles and flirt with the straight men until they fork over a few rupees to get them to move on to the next car. It was incredible. This is the real India.
On a different note, India is also the harshest country I have ever experienced. It hardens you. Especially for a white woman with light-colored hair and blue eyes. I couldn't have stuck out more. For four months I was stared at, gawked at, leered at. I had to walk down crowded streets with my head held high through cat calls and whistles, through disgusting sexual advances, both verbal and physical. It has to be said. I won't dwell on it, but India is notoriously one of the most difficult places for a white woman to travel. I felt like i had to grow invisible armor around me, to shield me and protect me. It was by far the most challenging aspect of this entire trip. Women in these countries wear veils and burkhas for very good reasons. I know there were many times I wish I had one.
But finally, the strongest impression that I left India with was the extraordinarily complex and invasive impact of colonialism. Today's India is a product of hundreds of years of British colonial rule. And a colonial power brings in much more than an organized railway system and English-medium private schools. The West has colonized Indian internal identity like no where else I have ever seen. Nearly every Indian I spoke to glorified everything that is western - clothes, music, television, literature, schooling, language. They all dream of someday making it to Europe or, even more so, America. And too many Indians look upon their own culture and history with disdain; as lesser and undeveloped, especially in regards to rural village culture. The greatest sources of pride are the modern (ie; western) aspects of India. The booming technological industry, the emphasis on science and engineering, and places that garner international attention such as Bombay and New Delhi. Globalization, increased access to communication and an overwhelming focus and preference towards western media...it's all changing the world. And it's definitely changing India. I am in no place to judge a country, a culture, a people for what they aspire to be. I just hope that what emerges is not a hasty, desperate imitation of the west, but perhaps, instead, a hybridization. Something that manages to protect and sustain the beautiful, rich tapestry of Indic culture and history, while simultaneously incorporating useful and progressive aspects of western culture. That possible eventuality would be a treasure; for Indians, westerners, and the world as a whole.
-FIN-
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