For someone that can often times get lost swimming in his
thoughts, India is a place that yanks you right out of them. There is a lot to
think about in making this transition. But any stubborn attempt to overindulge
this tendency would require denying the clamoring and competing sensory
messages hitting your brain, alerting you to the risk of getting hit by a car,
or at the very least of missing the beauty of daily life in India. As soon as
you step outside and start navigating your way through the roadside stalls
lining the street on one side and the rickshaws, motorcycles and trucks on the
other (because sidewalks aren’t the norm), you are alert. Layer that with the
commotion of the business of the streets: conversations of a circle of men, smells
of frying fish at a corner stall, the blending colors of a spread of trinkets
and silk scarves, and lots and lots of honking. Even when your mind starts to
wander and take you miles away, getting clipped by a motorcycle brings you
right back. It took me a few seconds to realize what had hit my arm and by the
time I looked up, the guy was driving off without an acknowledgement. Yep, I
thought with a genuine smile, I am most certainly living in India.
Though living here, I am keenly aware I am a foreign
addition to this corner of the world and the daily business and rituals of life.
I am a participant but also an observer. I get to see intimate glimpses of the
extraordinary ordinary from my balcony of the families below, washing clothes,
talking over a smoke, and children playing. But when I am out walking, there isn’t
that barrier and I get to interact, many times reacting to what happens on each
different twist and turn. Though most everyone is in their own world, I catch
some stares and peculiar glances. Some immediately know I am a Westerner, where
still others mistake me as a Northern Indian. “Some of us first thought you
were from Kashmir or something” a coworker said, and so must in the streets when
I look blankly back at their inquiries in Kannada, the local language, so
instead they switch to Hindi and await a response. Still the same blank stare
and me pointing and ad-libbing “I want to try some dosas.”
I stay just off of a dirt road that connects to a main road
that circles the city. The neighborhood has a lot of older residential
developments, some in pastel color brick buildings, others fastened from tarps
and metal sheets, but also newer multilevel apartments that cater to the influx
of younger workers and their families that move to the city for work. Up till
recently this was considered the outskirts of town, and though the villages still
maintain their relative calm compared to the bustle of the main roads,
everything has been swept up into Big Bangalore. Still the neighborhood I stay remains
absent of all obvious encroachments of globalization that breed convenience and
consumerism nor the “serenity” lifestyle the modern apartments advertise; none of
the new malls and fast food. Everything here is served from street stalls and
local restaurants that blend regional cuisine with Southern Indian influences.
With one exception, a Papa John’s with their signature Tandoori chicken.
One my first day here, jetlagged and wanting a quick fix, I
went in and walked out with a pizza, before asking a worker to point me to a
liquor store, which he said was across the main road. I had to cross an
intersection where two side roads, the highways, on ramps, and underpasses all
came to merge, where water tankers, auto rickshaws, motorcycles, bicycles and
carts moved in organized chaos with no street lights or crosswalk. I waited till
I saw two men crossing and ran with them like an idiot carrying my pizza. As I
made my way there several men joined me speaking and motioning to my pizza, one
or two even attempting an air of friendliness as they reached to open the pizza
box. All the while I made my way through the gathering group to the liquor store
owner, motioning towards whiskey, paying with one hand and guarding my dinner
in the other. He jumped over the counter and with some exchanges and laughs, he
shooed the pizza cravers away from me, slapping one in the face. He turned to
me and told me to go, I was causing too much of a scene. As I made my way back
home replaying the event, I settled to eat my pizza on the balcony. I slid the
sliding door shut behind me to keep mosquitoes out of the apartment,
immediately realizing there was no handle on the outside and I was locked out on
the balcony, three stories up. I started yelling and waving to get the gardeners
attention below, one just waved his hands and walked away from me because he
did not understand what I wanted. Finally I managed to stop another staff that,
though he didn’t speak English, was able to understand me through my hand
motions and shouts that something was wrong. He motioned that he was going to
get help. I waited and waited, decided against kicking in the glass, and just
sat on the ground eating my pizza, and couldn’t help but laugh. This was the
first moment it sunk in. I am far from home. Day 1.
This past Sunday I woke up in the early morning to meet my
coworkers outside my apartment in a caravan of mopeds and motorcycles, on the
way to watch their cricket game. I hopped on the back of one of the motorcycles
and we weaved in and out of the Sunday morning traffic, until it opened up on
the outskirts of town and the cars became cattle and children playing. I
started drinking coffee for the first time last week since senior year finals,
I am not sure what exactly brought about that, but I decided to pass on a cup this
morning. I was still yawning when I got on the back of my friends bike. But I
woke up from all the morning air hitting me in the face and with my head on a
swivel and gripping the side bars in a death grip, I could do nothing but smile.
When I want to have my thought I can go out on the balcony (careful to keep the
door open) overlooking the cluster of homes below that circle a courtyard. But
on rides like this, I will save the daydreaming, over-thinking and processing
for later.
A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
...
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The Sound
Cattle in the martketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He Says Amen! and Hallelujah!
- Paul Simon, Call Me Al
