A Little Love From Home, and a Reminder of the Present

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After traveling with my girlfriend for a while, someone who cares about a decent sleep, I became used to air conditioning and a comfortable bed. Not so back in Delhi. I woke up at least five times, picking bed bugs off of me and listening to the sound of firecrackers and drumming at three in the morning. Literally, firecrackers were going off outside of my front door. Why, I have no idea. There seems to always be a festival in full swing, and keeping up with which is which is futile.
But my last two weeks were exactly the kind of refreshment I needed. My girlfriend, Liz, and I did a fair amount of traveling, visiting Udaipur and Jodhpur in the first week of her arrival. Udaipur was a fairytale city, with a crystal blue lake, beautiful white palaces, and green mountains soaring up from the fertile valley. We could have stayed there another three days. Jodhpur was different but no less enchanting: a civilization on the fringes of the Thar Desert, with an enormous medieval fort overlooking the indigo washed buildings of the old walled city. Unfortunately, my camera and computer do not always get along, and all of our pictures, about 500 of them, were lost. So I guess those two cities will be a secret Liz and I share… and perhaps as they should be. They were the kind of cities that live better in the imagination than in India.
After our almost make-believe India experience, we returned to Delhi. Here I learned that there is no romantic India, because Indians killed it. Liz hated Delhi, despite her best efforts to see the positives. She couldn’t understand how anyone could live in a city so polluted, angry, deceitful, rude, hot, and ugly. I wondered how I had ever lived here. It is the most hostile place I have ever been to foreign tourists, or anyone foreign-looking. Venturing around by myself, I have become used to the stares and the constant cheating. But being with Liz, it all came back to the limelight, and I have never felt more disgusted with a city so barbaric in its hospitality. At every man’s push of a woman on a subway, at every mindless toss of garbage to the street, at every over-charge from a rickshaw, at every degrading sexual comment she received, Liz pointed it out to me, and I was reminded of how terrible Delhi is. Once again, I saw common police carrying automatic machine guns and beating rickshaw drivers with fat wooden sticks, and I wondered how much of a free democracy India really was. Once again, I saw cars running over dogs’ feet, and at the sound of their yelping, the driver would laugh. And as for tourism, tourists in India (and as far as I can tell, Indians, too) are treated as though they are merely bags of money, and regardless of what kind of opinions they formulate and spit back to their friends and family, al that matters is that India can suck as much money from them as possible. It may sound harsh, but such has become my vision of Delhi, if not India. My romantic image of India is dead, and Indians killed it.
The two of us had a good time commiserating, though. We spent our last day in Delhi hanging out in Paharganj, a backpacker enclave near Connaught Place. It is free from the stink of Delhi, and in fact has a lot of poverty clearly evident. But I can deal with poverty; in fact, my literature teacher informed me that many of the poorest nations on Earth report an overall level of happiness that exceeds that of Americans, regardless of wealth. I don’t condone poverty or forgive it by any means, but I have becomed used to seeing it. I will never become used to a lack of compassion for humanity, which is exactly what Delhi exudes. At least in Paharganj, there is some sense of “pleasing the customer” or “not harassing the customer,” as the area depends on foreign tourism. Plus, there were cheap bars and restaurants.
After Delhi, Liz and I went to Dharamsala, or more accurately, a little settlement called McLeod Ganj, which is the current residence of the Tibetan government in exile. McGleod Ganj is about a twelve-hour bus ride from Delhi, and seated high in the Himalayan foothills, near the border of Kashmir. The town is very Tibetan; or as Tibetan as I could imagine. There were frumpy Tibetan women selling momo’s (Tibetan dumplings) on many corners. There were handmade wool crafts being sold (not shoved in one’s face, but sold). There were friendly old Tibetan men on their morning walks, stroking their rosaries. We visited the Dalai Lama’s residence and a few Tibetan Buddhist temples. We walked and walked, soaking in the mountain scenery and peaceful atmosphere. We visited the Museum of Tibetan Exile, chronicling the plight of Tibet since it was invaded by China. The museum was a sobering and inspiring place, which seemed to return my lost sense of warmth and belonging, feelings that had been trampled in Delhi. But most of all, as much as I have become disillusioned with Indian society, I was inspired by the Tibetan culture I witnessed in McLeod Ganj, and the serene, accepting society that was evident. Liz and I loved the place, and even promised ourselves that we would someday visit Tibet.
I’m not sure what all of that means. I know that I needed a good visit from Liz, and I got one (not that I deserved anything, but I still needed some love). I know that I am quickly losing all sympathy for India, and the greatest challenge of all will be to not lose faith in the good of all people. I know that Tibetan culture provides a stark contrast to both Indian and American societies, and it is fascinating and welcoming. But most of all, I know that I have two and a half more months in India, or at least two months while I finish school, and that I must find a way to make the best of it.
I’m sure there are lovely people in Delhi. In fact I’ve met some. But I think they should all get out before the city explodes in its own evil. That’s too harsh. I should say that I don’t mind if I never meet another nice person in Delhi, because I don’t plan on sticking around to meet them. I’d rather move to McCleod Ganj.
The most difficult part, however, is telling people what I truly think of India. Often in dhabas (small roadside cafes) or on trains, Indians will ask me what I think of India. The first month, I nodded and said I loved it. The second month I nodded and said I liked it. Now I shrug and say it’s ok. When they ask for elaboration, I shrug again and say nothing. But from the comfort of my apartment, it is easy to spew my thoughts about India. After all, Delhi has had a profound impact on my opinion of the nation. Yet I hope no one takes what I say as fact: it’s merely what I’ve experienced in India. I’m awaiting my travels outside of India and my return to the U.S. with great anticipation, if only because they are not India. This is an advantage I have over those who live here: I know that I get to leave. A sense of humor is essential to living here; the other option is hostility. I’m vying for the former… most of the time.
Liz visiting gave me some real perspective. First of all, that this is not my home. America is my home. And I can only change America. More to the point, I can only change my community. I cannot come to India, shake my fist, and expect people to not cheat me. And secondly, that the truly important things in life are those that stay with you. I will always use Delhi as an example of how people should not behave. Also, that America is not perfect either. Living here, it is easy to become jaded and glorify America, when in fact, America has its own share of problems (though India seems to be the world leader in that resource). Finally, Liz and I had a great time. If anything, this shows that people can laugh wherever they are, including India.

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