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.