India

For me all of India was summarized in this one experience. I saw many things, such as the Taj Mahal (which was beyond amazing) and a beautiful hotel. But when people ask me about India this is the story I tell them.

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It was like a claw tapping on the bottom of my car window. His hand was darkened tan, rough, and wrinkled. His fingernails were long, chipped, and nasty. They looked like they hadn’t ever been cut and the dirt had become so ingrained that they were stained the color of mud. And there it was, tapping on the window of our rental car. That was all I could see of his body.

For a long time I had nursed a romantic version of India in my head. It was a place of seductive holiness, where gurus mediated all day, and men and women were always in search of enlightenment. I had often said that India seemed like a place where people truly believed in the religions they professed. It was birthplace Hinduism, Buddha, and Gandhi. Many of my favorite books and authors were deeply influenced by Eastern ideals. Emerson and Thoreau both revered the eastern aesthetic. Schopenhauer (and sequentially Nietzsche) used Eastern ideas to help move past the narrow constraints of pure rationalism, which even a 150 years ago was a mess. But more than that, it was the personal stories and novels of enlightenment that captured me. There was Kipling’s Kim, Hess’s Siddhartha, and my personal favorite, Maugham’s Larry from The Razor’s Edge. All of them featured isolated holy fools, who at any cost were searching for Truth. How could I not love a land with people like that?

Yet there I was, sitting in the back of a White Mercedes surrounded by a mob of vendors and beggars while our driver went to go pay the road tax. And still, the hand tapped on my window. I had seen him on the other side of the road. His legs were broken, crooked, and mangled, so he had to crawl on his hands, and the worn nubs that were his knees. His body was gaunt, tough, and his bones stuck out beneath his skin. His hair was a grayish tangle of dirt and grease. His face was weather-worn, with bulging eyes—to most children he would have been a monster.

I had seen him cross a four lane road, dodging camels, donkeys, speeding cars, mopeds, semi-trucks (with large graffiti letters saying to honk your horn when you pass them), and Tuc-tucs (which are three wheeled taxis, that are green and yellow and look like they have the motor of a lawnmower) packed with about 30 people crammed on top of each other’s sweaty bodies.

Where was my romanticized version of India? Where were the chanting ascetic monks? Where was the nation that had championed the non-violence movement? Where the booming economy, which I had read was surging along at over 9% growth? Where was the smell of spices and jasmine perfume?

All I could smell was sulfur, dust, burnt curry, and shit.
Welcome back to reality David.

There was a man tapping on my window, praying and hoping that I, dressed in my designer clothing and within my air conditioned car, would reach out and help him. It was like a faceless humanity, reaching out to me.

I then realized that I wouldn’t find the idealistic version of India I had constructed with my head. Instead, I found something more powerful and incredible. I realized that that faceless humanity was comprised of real, individual people with stories, names, and parents. And here he was, with mad bulging eyes, and dirty, dirty fingernails.

I wish I could say that I boldly reached back towards humanity, embracing it even in its grim and debased state. That would be a lie though. I panicked. My gut reaction was repulsion. My first response was to flee. My reply was so typical of a spoiled child of luxury. I averted my eyes, and pretended that the people tapping on my window didn’t exist.

People have asked if I liked India. I give them an ironic smile. I tell them it’s not that simple. They ask if I would go back. My answer is always a resounding yes. Only this time I would go differently. For I thought that simply going to India was the reason my heroes from the stories had gained enlightenment. I thought that I could waltz into India take a whiff of its air, and then speed away in my air conditioned car with a higher sense of Truth in my pocket. But I had gotten my heroes all wrong. It was only when they were able to embrace the crazy, chaotic, faceless humanity and walk among the people, hearing their names and stories, serving where they could, and trying to learn everything everyone had to offer that they truly experienced the land of great India. That is how I want to go back to India.