So, I know I have been a horrible blogger for the past two months. The good thing is I haven't stopped writing about my life here in India, and I have recently come up with the idea of having a podcast. It's to the left of these posts and will be updated quite regularly. I'll probably put up the writing as well. I've been doing a lot of interviewing lately so hopefully I'll be able to incorporate that as well. This past week was very difficult to be in India-all I wanted to do was celebrate Obama's win in the States! There's no doubt that his win has made it easier to be a foreigner abroad.
Life has been settling down here. The apartment gets more furnished with each week and is starting to feel like an actual home. I've also started cooking more which is something I never thought would happen. In the next two weeks I'll be taking two trips through southern India: one to Hampi and another to the BR Hills. The semester ends in early December, but I'll definitely be staying here throughout break. It will be nice to have some time off.
That's it for now, look for the podcast updates!
Friday, November 7, 2008
Diwali
This time last week firecrackers burst through the streets like raging rapids rushing downstream. I listened to the commotion for 72 hours straight, which was mainly led by small boys competing to see who was least afraid of fire but also by families who shot off fireworks from their rooftops late into the evening. The Indians around me were quite entertained by my loose nerves and the frantic yelps I would release immediately following the unexpected pop! of a firecracker. The boys would cover their mouths with their right hand and laugh at my responses, grabbing each other with mixed excitement and amusement. I would continue to walk on through the day which had given way to the battleground of Diwali. To Western ears, the noise placed me in a war zone, where the crackers were bombs and the fireworks missiles sailing past my window. I was used to an hour of fireworks on the fourth of July but nothing could have prepared me for this.
It began in the early hours of Monday, when I was awakened not by the light of the rising sun but by the harsh racket resonating from my neighborhood. I opened the door to the balcony and watched below as eager young children lit off dozens of tiny explosives. It had to be before seven in the morning. One went off after another and at first I nonchalantly shrugged off the action but after several hours of no break, irritation began to settle in and I shook my head side to side, baffled by the need to constantly make noise. But at nighttime the fireworks appeared and it seemed now, that they were truly celebrating the festival of lights. I calmed down a bit, hypnotized by the colors bursting across the night sky.
To Americans, Diwali is like a mix of fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, all rolled up into one nice package. Sweets are devoured, presents are often given, and of course, pyrotechnics are ubiquitously embraced. Indians describe Diwali as a time to celebrate the victory of good over evil and of light over darkness. Colorful candles sit outside the main door, greeting the visitor and welcoming them into the house. Rangoli, a form of art which uses sand and often has intricate designs, decorates the floor beside the candles. School children neglect their classes for a couple of days to bask in the excitement and even the adults seem to lose themselves in the holiday’s fun. Diwali is a time for family, to embark together in the New Year and for all Indians, regardless of religion, to rejoice and unite.
I think back to the second week I was in India, when the festival of Ganesh Chaturthi was taking place. I was quickly struck by the passionate regard for festivity in India and couldn’t believe that the same level of enthusiasm was exhibited quite regularly. Truly, only a few weeks later, Indians were celebrating Navaratri, a festival of dance that occurs for nine nights. Less than a month later, Diwali season was here in full force.
In the United States, not one of our holidays (besides perhaps Christmas) shares the same intensity of India’s festivals. On the last day of Diwali, after I was certain I was going deaf in both ears and had suffered from numerous sparkler burns, I regarded the Indian festival with astonishment. Here, in a country which has substantially lower standards of living than in the U.S., its’ people still manage to celebrate life on a more regular basis. We Americans race through our days searching for success and happiness and often forget how blessed we truly are. At what genuine times do we sit to reflect on what we do have? By our criteria, Indians have “much less” and yet they reflect constantly, they appreciate life continuously. Indian festivals have inspired me to think that we Americans are the ones who have “much less. “
It began in the early hours of Monday, when I was awakened not by the light of the rising sun but by the harsh racket resonating from my neighborhood. I opened the door to the balcony and watched below as eager young children lit off dozens of tiny explosives. It had to be before seven in the morning. One went off after another and at first I nonchalantly shrugged off the action but after several hours of no break, irritation began to settle in and I shook my head side to side, baffled by the need to constantly make noise. But at nighttime the fireworks appeared and it seemed now, that they were truly celebrating the festival of lights. I calmed down a bit, hypnotized by the colors bursting across the night sky.
To Americans, Diwali is like a mix of fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, all rolled up into one nice package. Sweets are devoured, presents are often given, and of course, pyrotechnics are ubiquitously embraced. Indians describe Diwali as a time to celebrate the victory of good over evil and of light over darkness. Colorful candles sit outside the main door, greeting the visitor and welcoming them into the house. Rangoli, a form of art which uses sand and often has intricate designs, decorates the floor beside the candles. School children neglect their classes for a couple of days to bask in the excitement and even the adults seem to lose themselves in the holiday’s fun. Diwali is a time for family, to embark together in the New Year and for all Indians, regardless of religion, to rejoice and unite.
I think back to the second week I was in India, when the festival of Ganesh Chaturthi was taking place. I was quickly struck by the passionate regard for festivity in India and couldn’t believe that the same level of enthusiasm was exhibited quite regularly. Truly, only a few weeks later, Indians were celebrating Navaratri, a festival of dance that occurs for nine nights. Less than a month later, Diwali season was here in full force.
In the United States, not one of our holidays (besides perhaps Christmas) shares the same intensity of India’s festivals. On the last day of Diwali, after I was certain I was going deaf in both ears and had suffered from numerous sparkler burns, I regarded the Indian festival with astonishment. Here, in a country which has substantially lower standards of living than in the U.S., its’ people still manage to celebrate life on a more regular basis. We Americans race through our days searching for success and happiness and often forget how blessed we truly are. At what genuine times do we sit to reflect on what we do have? By our criteria, Indians have “much less” and yet they reflect constantly, they appreciate life continuously. Indian festivals have inspired me to think that we Americans are the ones who have “much less. “
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Back in Bangalore
This past month was nothing short of amazing! I was extremely busy, and so incapable of updating. I mainly traveled in northern India, first visiting the northwestern state of Rajasthan. We spent about four days each in Jaipur and then Jaisalmer, excluding travel days. Then, I headed to Agra to see the majestic Taj Mahal. Afterwards, a couple friends and I went to Rishikesh, in the state of Uttaranchal, at the foothills of the Himalayas. After so much traveling, I feel like I've experienced a totally different India from what I know in Bangalore. I fell in love with Rishikesh and plan on returning as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I was so busy I didn't have much time to write about what I was seeing, but in the next couple of weeks, I plan to produce numerous essays about my experiences. The only negative about the trip was I no longer have a camera, and so I won't be able to share the thousand of photos I took (I'll try to get some from friends who were with me).
Before I left, I wrote this about Dandiya, a dance that takes place at the festival of Navratri:
Red and green covered her tiny body. She stood motionless as we took pictures of her, no doubt uncomfortable at all the attention she was receiving. Bangles gently jingled up and down her tender arms like waves and a headdress fell down the course of her back which gracefully moved with the nightly wind. Her two piece garment was completely adorned with jewels and ornaments. Near her petite feet the skirt was green as a forest, with topaz, turquoise and magenta gems keeping the fabric company. Moving upwards, the hue changed to a deep cranberry red mingling with silver designs and tiny mirrors besides the precious stones. The belt returned to a green color, this time lighter in its shade. Over her upper body hung an equally extravagant and colorful garment, the same majestic red as before. At her elbows were what appeared to be bracelets made out of the same cranberry and silver fabric. Her neck showcased a cowrie shell necklace which her earrings matched. If one looked closely, they could notice the existence a tiny silver nose piercing. And of course, a bindi completed her attire, resting between her eyebrows.
We were so hypnotized by the sight of such excessive color and jewels that I found myself envious of the night this little girl would have. At 10pm, it was already far past her bedtime but this was no matter. She had come to dance. In a city where dancing is officially banned, the Hindu festival of Navaratri not only brings to life the spellbinding colors of the Rajastani North but also allows for traditional dancing styles to be exhibited and embraced by the public. For nine nights and for only 150 rupees (less than $5), residents of Bangalore can meet at the Palace Grounds for an enchanting evening of music, dance, and festivity. As we walked past the main gate, a statue of the elephant god Ganesha greeted us. Seconds later, we approached the pavilion where the celebrations were to take place and quickly took notice of the stately building we were entering. The exterior displayed a pink flower design against a white and gold backdrop, subtly illuminated by the tinkling lights hanging close by. But below, it was the sight inside that enraptured us. We walked into a large, spacious room with a colorful green floor and bleachers filled with spectators lined up against the walls. It looked as if sporting events took place here on regular occasion, but right now, everyone could be a participant in the game of dance if they so wished. Like many Indian experiences, in the first few moments of entering the pavilion, our senses were overwhelmed. Hindi music sprang forth, attaching hold to our ears for the rest of the night. My eyes were immediately directed towards a group of Indians dancing in a circle. Some were dressed as beautifully as the little girl I saw earlier, and still, some Indians looked as if they had just came from work. But together they leaned and swayed with equal amounts of intensity. Western forms of dance are nowhere near comparable to the languid movements these dancers demonstrated, where the bodies were slaves to the melody. They looked like they were all in a trance, themselves mesmerized by the music. And there we were, mesmerized by them. Smiles fleeted across their faces and as they danced clockwise in the circle, their bodies bending and bowing and twisting and turning. It was a movement far beyond what I could hope to accomplish but watching them was thrilling enough. I decided to walk to the side and take a seat in the bleachers amongst other Indians to have a better look.
Most everyone had come for dandiya, a type of interactive stick dance which is specifically designated for this festival. But before that would commence, there would be a puja and various dance contests. As the night went on, more and more Indians arrived and we seemed to be the only foreigners in the room. My group and I had especially come to take part in dandiya, whose steps we had learned earlier in the month. So when a enormous circle gathered around 11:30pm all across the floor, my peers excitedly raced with their sticks to take part. Ailed with a stomach ache, I chose instead to be an observer. For the next couple hours, I watched as hundreds of Indians moved in a circle, dancing with friends and strangers alike, each individual exuding the same amount of exhilaration. The dance is fairly simple: each person holds a stick in both hands and faces opposite a partner. Every individual hits their own personal sticks together as well as the sticks of the other person in about a five step count. Two circles are therefore formed, and after the sequence is completed with the person facing them, they move on in opposite directions to meet the next dancer. In the course of an hour, a person would have interacted with a hundred different people, sharing mirth and sharing missteps. Dance was bringing together the sexes, connecting the young and the old, and bonding the native to the visitor in a way language fails to accomplish. In this environment, identities were stripped. The only label which existed was that of the dancer.
As we departed, the little girl who so enraptured our eyes earlier in the evening stood beside us, our lifestyles connecting like two hands shaking. She wasn’t a child and I wasn’t a foreigner. We were just human beings with legs and arms meant for movement’s sake.
Before I left, I wrote this about Dandiya, a dance that takes place at the festival of Navratri:
Red and green covered her tiny body. She stood motionless as we took pictures of her, no doubt uncomfortable at all the attention she was receiving. Bangles gently jingled up and down her tender arms like waves and a headdress fell down the course of her back which gracefully moved with the nightly wind. Her two piece garment was completely adorned with jewels and ornaments. Near her petite feet the skirt was green as a forest, with topaz, turquoise and magenta gems keeping the fabric company. Moving upwards, the hue changed to a deep cranberry red mingling with silver designs and tiny mirrors besides the precious stones. The belt returned to a green color, this time lighter in its shade. Over her upper body hung an equally extravagant and colorful garment, the same majestic red as before. At her elbows were what appeared to be bracelets made out of the same cranberry and silver fabric. Her neck showcased a cowrie shell necklace which her earrings matched. If one looked closely, they could notice the existence a tiny silver nose piercing. And of course, a bindi completed her attire, resting between her eyebrows.
We were so hypnotized by the sight of such excessive color and jewels that I found myself envious of the night this little girl would have. At 10pm, it was already far past her bedtime but this was no matter. She had come to dance. In a city where dancing is officially banned, the Hindu festival of Navaratri not only brings to life the spellbinding colors of the Rajastani North but also allows for traditional dancing styles to be exhibited and embraced by the public. For nine nights and for only 150 rupees (less than $5), residents of Bangalore can meet at the Palace Grounds for an enchanting evening of music, dance, and festivity. As we walked past the main gate, a statue of the elephant god Ganesha greeted us. Seconds later, we approached the pavilion where the celebrations were to take place and quickly took notice of the stately building we were entering. The exterior displayed a pink flower design against a white and gold backdrop, subtly illuminated by the tinkling lights hanging close by. But below, it was the sight inside that enraptured us. We walked into a large, spacious room with a colorful green floor and bleachers filled with spectators lined up against the walls. It looked as if sporting events took place here on regular occasion, but right now, everyone could be a participant in the game of dance if they so wished. Like many Indian experiences, in the first few moments of entering the pavilion, our senses were overwhelmed. Hindi music sprang forth, attaching hold to our ears for the rest of the night. My eyes were immediately directed towards a group of Indians dancing in a circle. Some were dressed as beautifully as the little girl I saw earlier, and still, some Indians looked as if they had just came from work. But together they leaned and swayed with equal amounts of intensity. Western forms of dance are nowhere near comparable to the languid movements these dancers demonstrated, where the bodies were slaves to the melody. They looked like they were all in a trance, themselves mesmerized by the music. And there we were, mesmerized by them. Smiles fleeted across their faces and as they danced clockwise in the circle, their bodies bending and bowing and twisting and turning. It was a movement far beyond what I could hope to accomplish but watching them was thrilling enough. I decided to walk to the side and take a seat in the bleachers amongst other Indians to have a better look.
Most everyone had come for dandiya, a type of interactive stick dance which is specifically designated for this festival. But before that would commence, there would be a puja and various dance contests. As the night went on, more and more Indians arrived and we seemed to be the only foreigners in the room. My group and I had especially come to take part in dandiya, whose steps we had learned earlier in the month. So when a enormous circle gathered around 11:30pm all across the floor, my peers excitedly raced with their sticks to take part. Ailed with a stomach ache, I chose instead to be an observer. For the next couple hours, I watched as hundreds of Indians moved in a circle, dancing with friends and strangers alike, each individual exuding the same amount of exhilaration. The dance is fairly simple: each person holds a stick in both hands and faces opposite a partner. Every individual hits their own personal sticks together as well as the sticks of the other person in about a five step count. Two circles are therefore formed, and after the sequence is completed with the person facing them, they move on in opposite directions to meet the next dancer. In the course of an hour, a person would have interacted with a hundred different people, sharing mirth and sharing missteps. Dance was bringing together the sexes, connecting the young and the old, and bonding the native to the visitor in a way language fails to accomplish. In this environment, identities were stripped. The only label which existed was that of the dancer.
As we departed, the little girl who so enraptured our eyes earlier in the evening stood beside us, our lifestyles connecting like two hands shaking. She wasn’t a child and I wasn’t a foreigner. We were just human beings with legs and arms meant for movement’s sake.
Friday, October 3, 2008
An Update
My life began at the age of eighteen. Two months shy of my nineteenth birthday, I left American soil and crossed the Atlantic ocean to see the world. A world I had prepared to embrace and longed to see through my own eyes, eyes which had seen life through tinted glasses, providing only a narrow and colorless view of human existence. For nineteen years I was pregnant with anticipation, awaiting the moment the glasses could be taken off, awaiting a new definition of perception to be realized. In my home I am almost an adult but here I have become a child once more, encountering senses that had only been previously imagined. I find myself tripping as I learn to walk on foreign land but am constantly inspired by the view standing offers. A view that did not exist in America but could only be visible in the territory of the unfamiliar. And I was immediately prompted to write of the sights to share what many of my fellow Americans can never see. They are stuck with the glasses glued to their faces, unable to take off what has been on for years. Through writing, I can offer a glimpse of the little I have seen. And slowly, through the discourse of culture, the glasses all humans wear can disappear. And then we shall see the world without the shadow of bias and the silhouette of stereotype.
**
I have lived in India for about a month now. I’ve met countless of people, Indians and other foreigners alike, I have withstood daily power outages, countless mosquito bites, constant attention
(including random young Indian men whom I never gave my number to sending me borderline stalkerish text messages), overpowering noise and pollution, and innumerable misunderstandings. My apartment is home to not only myself and my roommate but also a lovely population of ants. The bottom of my feet have become so utterly disgusting from all the dirt that I can’t help but laugh as I shudder. And yet, I’ve come to love it all. Perhaps not the details, but the fact that they are occurring. That I am experiencing all of this. Here, every hour is reserved for education. School is twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. I’ve gradually become quite accustomed to the annoyances I initially had and they fail to bother me any longer. I’ve created a happy balance between living with what the familiar and the unknown. I still listen to NPR’s All Songs Considered Podcast, I download my favorite TV show from Itunes after it comes out each week, and I have grilled cheese for dinner every night. I go to bookstores and buy western classics but also novels by Indian authors. I wear my western skirts and Indian dress alike. Many of my peers are struggling with living in India but I’m happy to say that nothing could be further from the truth for me. I truly couldn’t choose to be in another place at this time in my life. I loved College Park with all my heart but what could I write of there? What information would I truly retain? So much of what I learned last year I have already forgotten. There was no choice between the 300 person lecture hall and the classroom of India. And to think, next year I have Japan and South Africa-how utterly unreal.
This Saturday I will be leaving for the northern state of Rajasthan. We will be spending ten days in both Jaipur and Jaisalmer (Jodhpur, where the recent stampede occurred is in Rajasthan but I won’t be going there). Rajasthan is located in the northwestern part of India, and borders Pakistan. It is primarily known for its desert landscape. On our trip, we will be taking a camel safari and sleeping on the sand dunes! In Egypt, I was only on the camel for ten minutes so this will be much better. If anyone reading enjoys Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations, I would highly recommend seeing the Rajasthan show. And recently, I saw a piece Tom Friedman did on Bangalore called “The Other Side of Outsourcing.” I imagine anyone who is reading this is already aware that whenever there is a problem with your computer or phone or whatever, you’re usually on the phone with some one from Bangalore. Most of the people working at the call centers have to work during nights to match the time difference.
Anyway, after Jaipur and Jaisalmer, I have a four day break which will be spent doing independent traveling with friends. The main priority is going to Agra to see the Taj. But there are a couple of other locations we’re going to try to see…ah, I don’t feel like a 9 months in India is enough to see everything! It’s so large!!! There’s so much in southern India that I wish to see….I want to go to Goa, to Kerala, to Chennai (Madras) and Kolkata (Calcutta) and Mumbai (Bombay). And then there’s the rest! I’m highly considering going to do my independent study next semester in Dharamsala…I always wanted to volunteer there. And how different it would be to live at the foot of the Himalayas!
**
I have lived in India for about a month now. I’ve met countless of people, Indians and other foreigners alike, I have withstood daily power outages, countless mosquito bites, constant attention
(including random young Indian men whom I never gave my number to sending me borderline stalkerish text messages), overpowering noise and pollution, and innumerable misunderstandings. My apartment is home to not only myself and my roommate but also a lovely population of ants. The bottom of my feet have become so utterly disgusting from all the dirt that I can’t help but laugh as I shudder. And yet, I’ve come to love it all. Perhaps not the details, but the fact that they are occurring. That I am experiencing all of this. Here, every hour is reserved for education. School is twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. I’ve gradually become quite accustomed to the annoyances I initially had and they fail to bother me any longer. I’ve created a happy balance between living with what the familiar and the unknown. I still listen to NPR’s All Songs Considered Podcast, I download my favorite TV show from Itunes after it comes out each week, and I have grilled cheese for dinner every night. I go to bookstores and buy western classics but also novels by Indian authors. I wear my western skirts and Indian dress alike. Many of my peers are struggling with living in India but I’m happy to say that nothing could be further from the truth for me. I truly couldn’t choose to be in another place at this time in my life. I loved College Park with all my heart but what could I write of there? What information would I truly retain? So much of what I learned last year I have already forgotten. There was no choice between the 300 person lecture hall and the classroom of India. And to think, next year I have Japan and South Africa-how utterly unreal.
This Saturday I will be leaving for the northern state of Rajasthan. We will be spending ten days in both Jaipur and Jaisalmer (Jodhpur, where the recent stampede occurred is in Rajasthan but I won’t be going there). Rajasthan is located in the northwestern part of India, and borders Pakistan. It is primarily known for its desert landscape. On our trip, we will be taking a camel safari and sleeping on the sand dunes! In Egypt, I was only on the camel for ten minutes so this will be much better. If anyone reading enjoys Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations, I would highly recommend seeing the Rajasthan show. And recently, I saw a piece Tom Friedman did on Bangalore called “The Other Side of Outsourcing.” I imagine anyone who is reading this is already aware that whenever there is a problem with your computer or phone or whatever, you’re usually on the phone with some one from Bangalore. Most of the people working at the call centers have to work during nights to match the time difference.
Anyway, after Jaipur and Jaisalmer, I have a four day break which will be spent doing independent traveling with friends. The main priority is going to Agra to see the Taj. But there are a couple of other locations we’re going to try to see…ah, I don’t feel like a 9 months in India is enough to see everything! It’s so large!!! There’s so much in southern India that I wish to see….I want to go to Goa, to Kerala, to Chennai (Madras) and Kolkata (Calcutta) and Mumbai (Bombay). And then there’s the rest! I’m highly considering going to do my independent study next semester in Dharamsala…I always wanted to volunteer there. And how different it would be to live at the foot of the Himalayas!
Monday, September 22, 2008
A Child's Happiness
The light in my candle flickers, startled by the sound of children cheering. I smile at the occurrence, grateful to hear a child’s excitement. Without checking, I imagine they are playing a game before dinner on the streets below my apartment building. A minute or so passes and another wave of enthusiasm reaches my ears. And another, and another. It becomes so regular that my interest is piqued and I take a moment to see the cause of commotion. I open the door to my balcony and my eyes immediately follow the echo of excitement which leads to a dozen or so children standing on the stairs of a nearby building. They are waving at what appears to be my direction, and I realize there must be a couple friends of mine on our outside terrace, waving back. Within a minute, I am joining these friends and upon my entering, the children applaud at the arrival of another. We raise our hands up and eagerly signal back to them. I notice that the children on the stairs are not alone in their willingness to make contact with us. There are a few children on the streets beneath us, and on the rooftops across, also waving. Together, they jump up and down, they laugh and yelp in innocent joy only a child possesses. It is only through a few hand gestures and giggles that our worlds are bridged. We are too far away to make out anyone’s individual features but it is enough that we just exist. That we stand, and that we are.
That night, they raced across the bridge with a present of delight. They sent me a surge of energy through the space between us, one that is safe within the memory and can be called upon at any moment. A memory that lasted but a couple minutes, but one that reminded me of the simplicity and purity of a child’s view. That a connection with others could be a reason alone for thrill and for indeed, fun. And when I think of the memory and feel the surge once again, I think children often have more logic than the rest of us. The human bond can be enough to obtain happiness.
That night, they raced across the bridge with a present of delight. They sent me a surge of energy through the space between us, one that is safe within the memory and can be called upon at any moment. A memory that lasted but a couple minutes, but one that reminded me of the simplicity and purity of a child’s view. That a connection with others could be a reason alone for thrill and for indeed, fun. And when I think of the memory and feel the surge once again, I think children often have more logic than the rest of us. The human bond can be enough to obtain happiness.
An Authentic Taste
It is 9:47pm as we walk down MG Road, searching for a bar we were supposed to find an hour ago. After a tiring week of school, my three peers and I are anxious to have a fun night out. But here, “fun” takes on a series of restrictions, including a dancing ban and the city shutting down before midnight. Our minds struggle to understand how the country of Bollywood, the culture of dance and music could restrict movement of the body. Regardless, as it is our first taste of Bangalore’s nightlife scene, we are curious to discover what awaits us. We have planned to meet up with some European friends at a hip bar, presumably located in a nearby hotel. “Nearby” turns into a considerable distance on foot but it gives us time to ponder. What is nightlife like in a third world country? What shall we expect? Just as we are asking ourselves these very questions, a beggar approaches. In the dark, I have trouble making out her features but she shares the same look of desperation that afflicts all the hungry. She is an older women, with tired skin and eyes of a person already dead. In her lonely state, she is a roaming skeleton of despair. Did she know we would walk right past her, ashamed at our inability to help? What would she be thinking just five minutes later, when we reached our luxurious destination?
At first, we are so overtaken with the lavish atmosphere of the bar that guilt is a nonexistent emotion. In a moment we are sipping cocktails in Miami, we are on the Mediterranean with a glass of wine, we are in Belgium drinking beer . The moment the door opened, India became a location on a far away map, not a reality of where we truly were. And yet, as I scan the crowd comprised of wealthy foreigners, my mind is haunted by the woman we passed earlier. Had she ever had the cranberry and vodka that I was drinking? Did she even know of it? Could she even imagine such a place that I was in? A place of expensive taste and comfort? As the night goes on, it gets harder to brush her image aside. I watch as friends and strangers alike bathe in the alcohol they are served, alcohol which erases their knowledge of a life lived otherwise. In the morning, they will be too hungover to see the poverty outside their windows, and at nighttime, they will drink again, continuing the cycle of indifference.
I am not even tipsy and yet I feel dizzy as we make our way home. I’m not used to commuting back and forth between privilege and poverty, where my environments are flipped over like a cooking pancake. And yet if I stay in one place too long, I will burn. I need exposure to both for the perfect outcome, for the authentic taste of India.
At first, we are so overtaken with the lavish atmosphere of the bar that guilt is a nonexistent emotion. In a moment we are sipping cocktails in Miami, we are on the Mediterranean with a glass of wine, we are in Belgium drinking beer . The moment the door opened, India became a location on a far away map, not a reality of where we truly were. And yet, as I scan the crowd comprised of wealthy foreigners, my mind is haunted by the woman we passed earlier. Had she ever had the cranberry and vodka that I was drinking? Did she even know of it? Could she even imagine such a place that I was in? A place of expensive taste and comfort? As the night goes on, it gets harder to brush her image aside. I watch as friends and strangers alike bathe in the alcohol they are served, alcohol which erases their knowledge of a life lived otherwise. In the morning, they will be too hungover to see the poverty outside their windows, and at nighttime, they will drink again, continuing the cycle of indifference.
I am not even tipsy and yet I feel dizzy as we make our way home. I’m not used to commuting back and forth between privilege and poverty, where my environments are flipped over like a cooking pancake. And yet if I stay in one place too long, I will burn. I need exposure to both for the perfect outcome, for the authentic taste of India.
Deafening Silence
A couple of days ago, I watched with keen interest as a group of blind men attempted to cross a busy street. Together, they held each other’s hands and cautiously tested the flow of traffic. The lead man, whose bravery widened my eyes in admiration, placed his own front hand in the midst of passing rickshaws and motorcycles, endangering other parts of his body that he could not do without. But it is his ears which are now his most precious commodity. His ears are his compass, guiding him towards a destination less than fifty feet away. He must listen to the bustle of the road and appreciate the sounds as if they make up a symphony, for his existence relies on their own. Together, they intersect in his mind and as a skilled listener, he must separate them. There is the engine of a rickshaw, the dialogue of its passengers, the construction men working across the street, and a sole policeman directing traffic. Is he coming to help? Or will we be alone? He wonders.
I ask myself the same questions. Who will be the first driver to stop, creating a pathway for these men? How long will their journey take them? Even for someone blessed with 20/20 vision, crossing the street seems like a death wish and often takes five times the amount of time it would normally take to walk across the road. If I had to rely on my ears to maneuver my way around, I would be terrified to even leave the house. But apart from the hazards associated with blindness, how do these men deal with the ubiquitous noise?
Here in India, tourists may very well wish for deafness. Upon arrival, the noise seems as dangerous to the body as the water. Foreigners search for a quiet enclave and are often disappointed to find few exist. Privacy, like silence, is almost entirely absent from Indian society. As an overwhelming and unforgiving force, the racket resembles the intensity of a cricket bat hitting an oncoming ball. We, the foreigners, are flung to the far edge of the field, unable to recover from such a tumultuous smack. Secretly, we were hoping the batter would miss. But now, as we sail through the air, we can see India from a completely different view. During our flight, we come to realize that an escape from the sound would be an exit from the culture. For the volume of the landscape carries as much significance as the sights themselves. After all, India is home to Bollywood, the ever sacred “om,” and the mesmerizing sitar. And let us not forget that India is the true model of linguistic diversity, where there are almost twenty official languages and more than 1,600 dialects. If anything, the blind will never be alone in India. Sound is their faithful partner, loyal and consistently present.
In the safety of my apartment, far from the hectic streets below, I take a moment to be the blind person. I close my eyes without the bravery the lead man had no choice but to embrace, and listen to the tune my neighborhood in Bangalore emanates. I easily acknowledge that there are no empty spaces in time and every instant is filled. The constant honking becomes as steady as the tampura. Close by, the arrival of a train is accompanied with the shrill of its whistle. Work is being done in my building, and I focus on the sweeping of a broom, the faint conversations in Kannada, the thrashing of a nail being hammered, and the shock of doors being slammed without warning. Water leaks from a faucet in my bathroom, a travel clock continues its cycle of time, and a dog, like my own living in the States, barks his own lonely melody for anyone willing to listen. Bells ring as worshippers call out to their gods, boys play in the streets, and my own breath rises and falls. Without the noise, India’s landscape is a blank book, which no one can read. Sound adds a story. It adds life and purpose.
Without the noise, the blind man’s world ceases to exist. The street becomes a deathly plank, hovering over hungry sharks below. The sound that the traveler at first curses and ultimately accepts is the same sound that allows a man’s life to be lived. I never saw the blind men cross the street. My rickshaw passed them in a fleeting moment, only offering me a quick glimpse of their intention. But I think of them often in my new life that is painted, not plagued by the constant clamor. I close my eyes and I see India through sound. I feel India through her vibrations. It is not the noise that would cause deafness here, but rather the silence.
I ask myself the same questions. Who will be the first driver to stop, creating a pathway for these men? How long will their journey take them? Even for someone blessed with 20/20 vision, crossing the street seems like a death wish and often takes five times the amount of time it would normally take to walk across the road. If I had to rely on my ears to maneuver my way around, I would be terrified to even leave the house. But apart from the hazards associated with blindness, how do these men deal with the ubiquitous noise?
Here in India, tourists may very well wish for deafness. Upon arrival, the noise seems as dangerous to the body as the water. Foreigners search for a quiet enclave and are often disappointed to find few exist. Privacy, like silence, is almost entirely absent from Indian society. As an overwhelming and unforgiving force, the racket resembles the intensity of a cricket bat hitting an oncoming ball. We, the foreigners, are flung to the far edge of the field, unable to recover from such a tumultuous smack. Secretly, we were hoping the batter would miss. But now, as we sail through the air, we can see India from a completely different view. During our flight, we come to realize that an escape from the sound would be an exit from the culture. For the volume of the landscape carries as much significance as the sights themselves. After all, India is home to Bollywood, the ever sacred “om,” and the mesmerizing sitar. And let us not forget that India is the true model of linguistic diversity, where there are almost twenty official languages and more than 1,600 dialects. If anything, the blind will never be alone in India. Sound is their faithful partner, loyal and consistently present.
In the safety of my apartment, far from the hectic streets below, I take a moment to be the blind person. I close my eyes without the bravery the lead man had no choice but to embrace, and listen to the tune my neighborhood in Bangalore emanates. I easily acknowledge that there are no empty spaces in time and every instant is filled. The constant honking becomes as steady as the tampura. Close by, the arrival of a train is accompanied with the shrill of its whistle. Work is being done in my building, and I focus on the sweeping of a broom, the faint conversations in Kannada, the thrashing of a nail being hammered, and the shock of doors being slammed without warning. Water leaks from a faucet in my bathroom, a travel clock continues its cycle of time, and a dog, like my own living in the States, barks his own lonely melody for anyone willing to listen. Bells ring as worshippers call out to their gods, boys play in the streets, and my own breath rises and falls. Without the noise, India’s landscape is a blank book, which no one can read. Sound adds a story. It adds life and purpose.
Without the noise, the blind man’s world ceases to exist. The street becomes a deathly plank, hovering over hungry sharks below. The sound that the traveler at first curses and ultimately accepts is the same sound that allows a man’s life to be lived. I never saw the blind men cross the street. My rickshaw passed them in a fleeting moment, only offering me a quick glimpse of their intention. But I think of them often in my new life that is painted, not plagued by the constant clamor. I close my eyes and I see India through sound. I feel India through her vibrations. It is not the noise that would cause deafness here, but rather the silence.
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