Wanderlust Heaven!

My final week in India (for now) was yin and yang, or whatever the Hindi equivalent of that is. Yin: Kolkata (Calcutta). As soon as I got off the train I was mobbed by taxi-wallahs, whose initial quote was 300 rupees. My hotel had told me 80-100 was fair. No surprise here. Got the driver down to 100, and off we went. We got good and lost, though – he didn’t know where my hotel was and seemed pretty clueless in general. I don’t think they make Kolkata cabbies learn ‘the Knowledge’ – they probably just pay a bribe and get their medallion.

It was only 7 a.m., and my room wouldn’t be ready till 11 or noon, so dropped off my bags and had a look around town. At some point I wanted to see the city’s famous spots – the Victoria Memorial, the Indian Museum – but I was much more interested in vestiges of ‘lost worlds,’ so to speak. Calcutta once had a thriving Chinatown and about 80,000 Chinese residents. After the 1962 war with China they were mistreated and many left – there are only about 2,000 left. I took a cab to Chinatown to walk around and see how Chinatown looks today.

But, of course, it wasn’t so easy. The cabbie drove for a while – I double-checked that he was taking me to Chinatown. Affirmative, sir. Got there – and there were a fair few Chinese restaurants and signs evident, so I got out and paid him. I tried to find a few landmarks – the 1924 Nanking Restaurant, now abandoned but perhaps still a grand sight. Chinese temples, too. Found nothing. Saw an old Chinese guy smoking outside a restaurant – asked him where I was. Turns out this is a newish Chinatown…the ‘old Chinatown’ is in the heart of the city, a ways off. Ugh. He walked me to a cab and told the driver where to take me. Funny hearing a Chinaman speaking Hindi/Bengali…anyway, he was very helpful, unlike, say, my guidebook, which mentioned nothing about old Chinatown and new Chinatown.

We drove for a good half-hour, got back into the city, and then the driver got lost. He asked around, not much help. Man, does time obscure the past. We finally asked some Chinese folks in front of a restaurant (an emerging theme) where the famous Nanking Restaurant was – they knew, and pointed it out. I was very happy to get out of the taxi. And very thankful that the local Chinese residents were 1) still around, and 2) so helpful.

I was sad that the ‘real Chinatown’ was so decrepit and hard to discern. There were just a few spots with kanji – I found a couple Chinese temples, now schools, and a few gateways of Chinese design too. But the highlight was the old restaurant, obviously abandoned and in sad shape, but still impressive. If Kolkata were a normal city, this place would be either refurbished/inhabited, or torn down and replaced. But Kolkata ain’t a normal city – it seems half the buildings are falling down and most are assuredly full of squatters. I could imagine the squalor within – hundreds of people huddled around little hot plates fueled by cooking oil, grinding and grilling chapattis. I won’t even mention the makeshift latrines…

But I really didn’t need my imagination, people, because right outside the restaurant , building there are huge piles of garbage – with people living inside. That’s right – people have burrowed holes and reinforced them with god knows what, and built tunnels/hovels within. And against the side of the building there’s an endless row of lean-to’s, makeshift housing for the poor. Needless to say, I was besieged by beggars as I walked down the path next to the building. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such a degree of hopelessness and squalor – at least not since arriving in the city of Pathankot at night back in ’92 and having our bus rushed by hundreds of beggars and lepers.

India is perhaps the most exasperating country on the planet. The experiences you have here are hard to replicate anywhere else. I’m not only talking about the negative…the word ‘exasperating’ has a flip side as well. But let’s start with what makes India so trying.

I’ve been to lots of other poor countries – Mozambique, Namibia, the Philippines, Vietnam, Nepal, and I’d put China in that category, still, too. None of them manages to revolt the senses quite like India. I’ve seen lots of people with deformities in my travels – many with heartbreaking cases. But I’d have to say that of the worst 100 cases I’ve seen with my own two eyes, India had 99 of them. Really. In Kolkata I came across beggars with legs twisted in nearly unbelievable ways…with stumps that resembled desert Joshua trees…it beggars (no pun intended) the imagination. Truth is stranger than fiction here.

Intertwined, of course, is the general poverty. I’ve never seen so many beggars and people sleeping rough as I have in Kolkata. I had people chasing me across the street, touching my shoulder, yelling to me as I walked. My first morning I changed a 20 rupee note into coins to hand out. They were gone within an hour.

And the dirt, and grime. Not just in this city, of course, but all over the country. If I didn’t remember to wash off my Tevas before going to bed, I was tormented the next day by the pong. One afternoon in Kolkata I was walking to see the Howrah Bridge, reputed to be the world’s busiest. Millions cross it every day. At one point, I looked down and noticed that my left big toe was completely red. I panicked – was my toenail gone and I hadn’t noticed? No – it was simply that someone had spit paan (betelnut/tobacco mixture, resulting in crimson streams of sputum) on the ground and nailed my foot. Wonderful. As I was looking at my toe, a bicycle-wagon came careering around the corner and nicked the front of my sandal – missing the red toe by a centimeter. Might have take off the toe, or at least crushed it. I took a deep breath, walked on for a minute, and was nearly dive-bombed by a bird coming to ground, looking for some food. Missed me by a couple inches. A couple minutes later, as I was looking at the bridge, a bug flew right in my eye, and stuck there – took me 5 minutes to clear my eye. Every minute here can be fraught with peril. Whenever I leave India I’m thankful I still have all my body parts…and my sanity.

But India has its rewards as well. After my Chinatown travails, I walked a few minutes to check out two old Jewish synagogues. As with the Chinese, there were once many Jews in Calcutta, and they built some opulent houses of worship. Now there are only about 35 Jews left in the city, and they only use one of the synagogues, and that one only for the high holidays, or so I was told. Who told me? The Muslim caretaker of one of the synagogues, who found the keys and let me know. The interior was beautiful, Baghdadi in design. There are still two Torahs inside, and various plaques commemorating the leaders and important temple members.

This is what I love about India. The Muslim caretaker of the Jewish synagogue, doing his job faithfully and without a drop of malice. The general tolerance of the country, despite occasional bursts of communal violence. And the tint of history, too – India has seen pretty much everyone and everything, and captured a piece of each in its crazy fabric.

I was a bit sad about both Chinatown (there’s barely such a thing in Kolkata now), and the synagogues. Both represent a world of the past – our world today is a place where most people live in their own ‘homeland,’ and the fabric is much more orderly. Europe went through the same thing – before World War 2, nationalities and ethnicities were all over the place. It’s a form of segregation, in my opinion, and I don’t like it. I dislike the fact that Kolkata no longer has a real Chinatown…I really enjoyed seeing the Chinese faces in the city, and the few remaining establishments. I find that so interesting and rich. Imagine the old days. And I wish there was a large Jewish community still here…I disagree with the movement, and associated organizations, which focus on bringing Jews from 3^rd-world countries to Israel. I believe I touched on this topic after my trip to Rangoon, which has one remaining synagogue. I’m sure it’s not easy being a Jew in Iran, for example; but there are drawbacks from having all the world’s Jews in a few Western(ized) countries. If there were no Jews in Iran, it would be even easier for that country’s leaders to demonize Jews. If we’re all mixed in this world, we learn about each other and learn to get along, for the most part. And if there are flare-ups from time to time, well, we’re just animals anyway.

Took a cab back to my hotel to check in. We drove by a small street, and I glimpsed a plaque which stated that William Thackeray, the author, was born there in 1811. Random. I hadn’t known Thackeray was born in Calcutta, and thought that was cool. Back to my point on ‘reverse Balkanization’ – it’s boring if every Brit is born in Britain. I’d rather have some born in India, in the States, in Africa, etc.

Some Kolkata yang: it has very good restaurants, and even a bit of nightlife. I found a great eatery called Peter Cat, which has large metal flagons of beer and chelo kebabs. After the heat of the morning, I needed beer and meat to revive me. Afterward, walking back in the heat, I realized I needed a couple hours’ sleep in my airconditioned room, so lay down and passed right out. Kolkata is brutally hot these days, it’s over 30 Celsius / 90 Fahrenheit every day, and the nights are hot too. On one hand, heat, beggars, and dirt – on the other, glimpses of history, good food, and aircon. Which wins in the end?

Found some nearby pubs that evening, the Park Hotel has a number of them. And Park Street itself (a far cry from Boston’s version) is quite good – perhaps the nearest thing in India I’ve seen to a high street, with posh shops and good restaurants lined up. That was good to see – only in Bangalore do you seem to get any concentration of decent establishments, in Mumbai and (to a lesser extent) Delhi you need to cover some ground to hit all the good spots.

One pub, Someplace Else, had a band that played English classic. ‘Rocky Mountain High, Colorado’ sang the Indian vocalist. I had a couple Kingfishers, chatted with a local guy sitting at the bar, watched a stupid Western girl sweep in wearing a salwar kameez and dupatta (I hate foreigners who pretend they’re Indian – are they supposed to be enlightened?), and left around midnight. Apparently the bar stays open till 2 a.m. Incredible India, indeed…

Next day, hit the big sights, not my usual weird ones. The Indian Museum is a massive structure full of crusty exhibits and some decent paintings. I quite liked some of the fossils on exhibit – there was one of a stromatolite that’s supposedly 3.2 billion years old. Surely the oldest thing I’ve ever seen in my travels – older even then some of the paan spit stains on the Kolkatan streets!

Went over to the brilliant Victoria Memorial. Lonely Planet describes this place as a cross between the Taj Mahal and the US Capitol building, and they’re right. Impressive structure, and the interior galleries have some great paintings/photos and exhibits on the history of the Raj and the city. Well worth a visit.

Took a cab to BBD Bagh, fka Dalhousie Square. This square has many of the old British buildings, but many are crumbling and in general the place has an air of neglect. That saiud, it’s bustling – the General Post Office is right there, and thousands of folks congregate there. I walked in and saw some dudes sitting on the floor, wrapping parcels, writing letters (probably for the illiterate to send to their families in the villages). The GPO was built on top of the old Fort William, the site of the imfamous ‘Black Hole of Calcutta,’ where a bunch of British soldiers were imprisoned and died during the 1857 uprising.

After the GPO I walked to the nearby Postal Museum, which had a bit on the Black Hole, and lots on the history of the Indian postal system. Better than it sounds – the museum, not the Black Hole.

Walking down the street I saw a guy whose face was all made up – he looked a lot like the protagonist from the movie ‘V for Vendetta.’ Friend Alan likes that movie, hopefully he’ll see this post and then go to Kolkata himself to look for this fellow…

It was my final night in Kolkata…I was fried from the experience. So many beggars – so much heat – awful hygienic conditions. I was tempted to stay in my hotel all night, but finally decided to go out for dinner. Heard about a Begali place called Kewpie’s, figured it would be crowded but got in a can anyway. Cabbie got lost, naturally, and we had to stop and ask directions about five times. People were quite helpful, though – and bemused to see a foreigner sitting in the back seat. The cabbie was hating me – he thought he’d get an easy 80 rupees for a short ride, but it turned out to be a good half hour and I was actually happy to make him work for his rip-off fare.

Some of the ‘good Samaritans’ didn’t think much of the cabbie and his poor English, and I could see them shaking their heads as they walked off. What sort of impression was this cabbie giving foreigners, they must have been thinking. And I felt the same way in a sense…but also sympathized with my cranky, thieving cabbie too. What was his situation and who was I to judge him from a few minutes of observation?

Finally got to Kewpie’s – it was nearly empty. Depressingly so. Anyway, sat down and ordered some specialties – including a river prawn that was huge and tasty (usually shellfish taste is inverse to its size, perhaps it was the sauce in this case).

Had a beer at a pub, then back to my hotel. Read in the newspaper that there were some highway shootings in Virginia, where I’ll be in a few weeks for my 15^th business school reunion. One shooting was in the little town of Crozet, near Charlottesville. I used to go to Crozet all the time – Crozet Pizza, a tiny little restaurant, has some of the best pizza I’ve ever eaten. Gotta go back there in a few weeks – hopefully the shooter will be behind bars by that point!

Kolkata/West Bengal State is ruled by the Communist Party (Marxist), by the way. There’s a Ho Chi Minh Street and various other left-flavored places around town. It’s hard to say how much blame for the city’s condition can be apportioned to the Commies – it’s true that they spend most of their time bothering landlords and the upper castes, but at the same time no government could deal with the huge influxes of refugees that entered the city in 1947, during Partition, and 1971, when East Bengal became Bangladesh. Kolkata could probably comfortably accommodate 6-7 million people – but now has 15 million.

Finished the book ‘A Fine Balance,’ by Rohinton Mistry. Possibly the most shocking, depressing conclusion I’ve read. Not the usual sense of justice or fairness – no satisfaction rendered. Just the timelessness of the Indian village ways. Mistry has a real gift for weaving countless plot threads, then bringing them together and closing the circle. Perhaps the best aspect of coming back to India this time has been the discovery of writers like Rushdie and Mistry – I can’t think of better novelists these days (although David Mitchell from the UK gives them a run for their money, and I do like China Mieville on the sci-fi side).

My last act in Kolkata was to go see ‘Motherhouse,’ Mother Teresa’s mission house/museum/residence. Good experience. Mother Teresa was certainly cut from a different cloth, no pun intended. The little museum is very cultish, though – and I had forgotten how fervently she fought against abortion rights. There’a a photo with her and the Reagans back in the 80s, when they campaigned together against Roe v. Wade. I suppose this stance was consistent with her overall philosophy – and I can appreciate her going against the grain and holding up human life, in whatever awful form, as the ultimate experience – but I certainly draw the opposite conclusion, i.e. it’s wrong to bring a child into the world if it isn’t wanted/can’t be cared for. I’m no Mother Teresa, just a cranky ex-businessman.

Kolkata – lots of yin, a bit of yang. Much like India herself. And so on to Delhi, my final stop in my 5+ months of hanging around in Hindustan…

Delhi, at least this time, was a far better mix – mostly yang, some yin. I was actually surprised by this. Read on…

I’d been to Delhi a few times previously, including a couple brief stops in late 2006. Both times, I hadn’t been able to revisit the major sights, which I’d seen back in ’92. I was keen to go back to these places and, in a sense, bring myself back in time as well. Delhi is not an easy city – it’s a mix of several old cities and the British-designed new city, and seems to attract the country’s worst touts and frauds. Other Indians warn against Delhiites, although I seem to see the same behavior spread across the entire country.

When I first came to India, in 1992, I was 24 years old. My mother was still alive. I had my whole life still in front of me, and was awed by the prospect of spending a few months in such an exotic place. Coming back this time, for my longest stretch ever in the country, gave me perspective that’s generally hard to acquire. And that’s probably the top reason for my strange attraction to India. I’m put off by many things here – the squalor and poverty, the lack of hygiene, the lack of culinary choices, the touts and rip-off artists…the yin. But the yang is just enough to keep me interested – there’s the thread of India throughout my life, from the age of 24 to my current age of 40, there’s the sheer range of destinations here, Himalaya to oceans, and the color of the country is hard to match. When I return here after some time away, I realize how much I’ve missed the smells in the air – sure, you get terrible sewer stench in some places, but the incense, flowers, and other random scents give the country a life that is missing in the West. Is that enough to keep me coming back here? I’m not sure, at least not right now.

Back to Delhi. My flight was fine. And Delhi’s Indira Gandhi Airport (yet another gripe – naming everything after the Nehru-Gandhi dynasty, particularly Indira, who was often a real monster) has gotten better. There’s a very orderly prepaid taxi rank, and the cost of going into town is less than 200 rupees. Hallelujah. I was cranky when I got to Delhi – a few minutes later, I was in a cleanish cab and hadn’t yet gotten a ridiculous proposal to part with my rupees. Maybe the air had shifted?

My hotel, the Godwin Delux, was near the infamous Paharganj area, near New Delhi train station. The hotel was pretty good – another surprise. Unpacked my stuff, then went out for a bite. Walked around Paharganj for an hour – the place is a warren of streets and vendors, one of the world’s great tourist ghettos. Well worth a visit. Then went to Nizam’s Roll House in Connaught Circle – this place has great kebab-style rolls and is hugely popular. Hadn’t been there in 16 years, it was still there and still has long lines. Devoured a chicken and egg roll and was happy. A real cross-section of India was inside the café – Muslims eating mutton, Hindus eating veg and chicken, a few foreigners…and ‘Oh, What a Night!’ was playing on the sound system. So far, Delhi was proving easy to take.

Spoke with my old girlfriend that night. My original plan was to meet her in Delhi – not in Nagaland, where she lives, as her work plans would bring her to the capital. But work again intruded, and she got stuck in Nagaland. Oh well. I had wanted to see her, it’s been 10+ years since we last met…but I’d have time to go see the sights and kick back a bit. There’s lots to do in Delhi and it had been a long time since I’d been around the place.

Walked by a TGI Friday’s restaurant in Connaught. Looked inside. The waiters were wearing Texan hats and ridiculous cowboy outfits; one watier was a Sikh so had his do-rag on instead of the hat. Only in India.

After walking off my Nizam’s dinner, took a rickshaw back to my hotel. For some reason we started talking about terrorist groups and intelligence agencies – I told him I was with al-Qaeda…no, Jemaai-i-Islamiya…no, Pakistani ISI, no, USA CIA. Must have been drunk. If this happened in the States the cabbie would probably have reported me to the police…but this is India, where such bizarre humor is second nature.

The next day was my big sight-seeing blowout. I had carved out the entire day to see the major attractions. Started in Old Delhi’s main street, Chandni Chowk. Walked down the length towards the Red Fort. Stopped at Jalebiwallah’s for some jalebi – scrumptious. Syrup all over my face, I grinned like a little brat. Visited the massive Red Fort. A bit lonely, this place – the Army vacated in 2003. Back in ’92 it was bustling and had a sense of purpose. Still, the scale is impressive and it’s a good hour’s walk around.

At the entry gate the soldier-guards spoke to me in Hindi, I replied as best I could. That made them laugh. They had to inspect my bag – I told them I wasn’t a terrorist. Then they really laughed. We stood there and joked for a few minutes – I think they get bored frisking dour old Indian matrons all the time…

On that topic, another annoying bit about India. Why is it that so many older, middle-class women waddle around with their flesh dripping over the sides of her sari? And I do mean ‘waddles’ and ‘dripping.’ It’s off-putting, particularly when they strut by a starving beggar. I understand that showing some fat is a sign of affluence in India, but it’s so fucking primitive. I’m not proposing that they go and join a gym – that would be a bridge too far. But have a little respect for others – sometimes I feel ill when I see one of these ducks waddling by. I’d be perfectly happy to let the younger, cute ones show some flesh, but no – they’re swaddled head to toe in their sari. India.

Inside the Red Fort I saw an Indian guide speaking Japanese to a tour group from that country. Funny to hear an Indian speaking Japanese…even funnier than hearing a Chinese speaking Hindi. And this guide was doing all the usual Japanese mannerisms – bowing, murmurs of agreement, etc. Classic.

Walked to the brilliant Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India. This place is stunning, really – here’s a photo but it (and my poor photography skills) can’t do it justice:

In ’92 I’d gone up the tower with b-school friend Craig. It was during monsoon, so cloudy and rainy…and we were up there with a Muslim fellow who looked fierce. We thought he might push us infidels off the tower, to our deaths. Now, 16 years later, I climbed the tower again. Now it was sunny and crowded. And still superb.

Walked for a while and came to Raj Ghat, a park with cenotaphs/memorials to Nehru, Mahatma Gandhi, Indira Gandhi, and her sons. The Mahatma memorial was peaceful – took a walk around and thought about the man.

Visited other historic spots in the city. The Gandhi National Museum had tons of information on his life and teachings, and the clothing he wore when assassinated in 1948. Then went to Gandhi Smriti, the house where he was actually killed. His final steps are marked on a footpath. Finally, to Indira’s former house/office, full of memorabilia about her and her son Rajiv, a later PM. Both Indira and Rajiv were assassinated. Indira’s last steps, just outside, are marked – she was shot in 1984 by her own Sikh bodyguards. Rajiv was the victim of a suicide bomber in Tamil Nadu in 1991 – his kurta and shoes from that day are on display here. Seems Rajiv was wearing high-top sneakers that day – random. But actually, it’s quite interesting – so many Indian men walk by and look at my footwear, as if they’re checking my status or something. Usually I’m wearing Tevas, so I can’t imagine they conclude much…although the Tevas are probably far more costly than their chappal-sandals. Anyway, Rajiv’s sneaks were something that grabbed my eye.

Also visited Janpath, the road between India Gate and the President’s House, Rashtrapati Bhavan. A bit like Pennsylvania Avenue, or, more accurately, the line of sight between the US Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial. Walked the entire way and was worn out by the end. Near the President’s House are the Secretariat Buildings, and also the Parliament House, where in late 2001 a suicide bomber squad attacked. Lots of security these days, as you’d imagine. This area seems to have been designed along the lines of Washington, DC – or perhaps Canberra, Oz (which was inspired by Washington).

This was certainly a top 5 lifetime sight-seeing day – I was moving from 8 a.m. till 4 p.m. or so, with no real breaks. Still had a couple more things to visit next day, but I felt pretty happy I’d hit the high notes.

Read that Dith Pran died. He was a Cambodian photographer who survived the Khmer Rouge and went on to inspire the film ‘The Killing Fields.’ I’ve mentioned him in earlier posts. When I was at Tufts I saw him speak at the Fletcher School, and will always remember his story, which was only becoming clear at that very time. Moving stuff.

On a perhaps lighter note, also read that Al Copeland, the founder of Popeye’s Fried Chicken, passed away. I have a weakness for fried chicken, and Popeye’s is my favorite brand. There you have it – Dith Pran and Al Copeland, two important figures for very different reasons. Is that lowbrow enough?

One more day free in Delhi. Did some errands in the morning – first, stopped in the classic Imperial Hotel to get my onward flight confirmed, to take in the ambience, and to ask about a reputable chemist/pharmacist. Then, on the hotel’s recommendation, visited Apollo Pharmacy to stock up on various pharma products at super-cheap prices. Anything you want, no questions asked…although I did invoke the holy name of Harsh’s medico, Dr. Shetty in Bangalore.

Then tortured myself voluntarily by going to the States Shopping Emporium and buying a few gifts. Went into the Kashmir state store – sounded exotic enough. But I hate being in these places – obsequious sales reps, plus my own lack of knowledge about pashmina shawls and the like. Bought some small gifts and got out, sanity barely intact.

Had two more sights still to see, and decided to take the new-ish Delhi Metro (subway) to the first. Not easy finding the metro station. And when I entered, first impressions weren’t great. It was clean enough, I suppose – but the glass enclosures where the advertisements go were blank, and showed only the bulbs that serve to illuminate the usual ads. Tawdry. Walked on to get my ticket. Easy enough, not much queue-jumping. Got on my train – only one guy sitting on the floor, and no food or paan. Plus there was aircon. Getting better, much better. As I got off the broadcast reminded me to ‘mind the gap,’ as it does in London. Overall, surprisingly good metro system from what I saw. In India they can certainly build well – there’s lots of evidence of that over the centuries. The bigger issue is maintenance – a few years on, everything seems stale and degraded. I hope they keep up the metro, otherwise it will deteriorate into a scary shithole. I think they’ll devote resources to keep it tidy.

Was going to the Purana Qila, the ‘Old Fort’ built by Humayan and Sher Shad in the mid-1500’s. Huge place, quite nice. Not sure I’d been there in ’92. Spent an hour walking around, marveling at the scale and at the exquisite structures, some of which are still in good shape. Then took a taxi to Humayun’s tomb. Humayun was the second Mughal emperor, and his tomb served as the inspiration for the Taj Mahal, built about 100 years later. I had seen this in ’92, and it’s still stunning. Reminded me of the splendors of the Mughal Empire and its accomplishments. There really aren’t many places in the world quite as spectacular. Here’s the tomb:

That was it for sight-seeing. Went back to my hotel to kick back and check emails. Surprisingly, I can get wireless in my room for free – the hotel has a network. Not sure if I should be paying someone, but I think I can get away with it.

I’m leaving India late tonight. Five or so months here this time. Granted, 3+ months were spent in Goa, which is the easiest place in India – but still.  Another set of experiences, lots of yin, but also plenty of yang. Delhi served to refresh and revitalize me – didn’t expect that, but I certainly needed it after the shock of Kolkata. Leaving on a good note will make it easier for me to return someday. I have no idea when that will be…but I do think I’ll be back at some point.

India is a tough place. Everything seems to take place at the margin – people’s very existence and sustenance, that cycle that just misses your toe, the guy hanging out of the bus door. It’s certainly tiring, but sometimes energising too. Then there’s the juxtapositions – the fat lady waddling around in her sari, the skinny polio-ridden beggar on the ground. How can they allow scourges like polio to still exist in the 21^st century?

The smells – half sewer, half agarbati (incense). Everything exists on the margin here, and there are no vacuums; everything is full, and pushed to the margin. I’m happy to get out of India alive, and in one piece, given all my experiences here. But I might need to return, too, because for some strange reason this place is a critical link in my past, to my memories. It’s endlessly infuriating, but still, each evening as I wash the crap off my feet and shoes I feel some affection for the place.

Last night, as I sat in a rickshaw taking me back to my hotel, I saw a heart-shaped balloon bouncing around, down the street. It was a child’s toy, and had obviously lost a critical load of helium – or perhaps never had much to begin with. It kept bouncing, buffeted by vehicles and people, all moving around it in constant flux. I thought that made a perfect metaphor for India – always on the move, always busy, with an inscrutable mix of joy and sadness. I wish there were more joy, less sadness – but that’s a project far larger than any one of us. Over and out.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 1st, 2008 at 12:09 am and is filed under Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.