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Published: March 8th 2009
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Two Boys near Jaipur I have been remiss in my travel blogging, for this I do apologize. Having left the United Arab Emirates for the required 40-day visa run, I returned from my eight days in India, landing in Dubai to play in the city of gluttony, only just before the bacterial infection exploded into such a high fever that even the nurses in the emergency room worried at how I trembled with chills in the 80 degree sunlight of an Arabian March day.
India was not my favorite place; and two days in bed and a boss with a delayed deliverable didn't leave me a lot of time to wax on about how responsive were the smudged children in the streets of Delhi to my paltry offerings, but now on my way to Paris, surely I will have to let you know how I have been.
The Taj Mahal is not India. The silky, bright materials hanging everywhere are not India. The rickshaws and horns and motorbikes and tuk tuks are not India. India has a rhythm impossible to reproduce. India has a feeling like caught in your throat and makes you sing smoother. India is the viscous ink of henna art. India is the wiry, woody, plain, intricate beadwork worn by Rama. India is the wide toothed smile of an old woman with nothing. India is the beat of the earth drum that vibrates incessantly, reminding, reminding.
Community is everywhere in India, looking out and anticipating others is only natural. You are always on your own in India; taking advantage of what can be is the state of equilibrium in India.
"Did I pay too much?"
"This is India madam," Mr. Singh would answer beaming with commission.
"Do these children go to school?"
"This is India Madam." Mr Singh would reply, knowing my melting heart was to his good.
"Why are there three metal detectors into the leather shop but none into the bank?" "Madam, this is India Madam." Mr. Singh would shake his head, as mystified as I was.
If you have seen the brilliant perspective-altering, colored-rooftop-shanty revealing, cinematic lighting masterpiece "Slumdog", you have wafted in some runaway piece of India's heart. It won eight Oscars when I was in India. I heard it from the "chaiwhalla" elevator boy in the Lalita in Delhi. We won madam!" he exclaimed with his rail thin cut of India. "Won?" I inquired?
"Slumdog Madam! Eight Oscars Madam. We won eight!"
This is India.
This is the magic of hope that seems to impossibly, and don't kid yourself, not without break, keep India.... India.
I stepped into the five star hotel gym with my American tennis shoes and polyester jogging shorts and turned the channel to Bollywood Today. 24 hour Bollywood movies and Bollywood Fame updates the announcer beamed proudly.
Eight Oscars?
But Madam, this is India.
I had my own Chaiwhalla for an hour; he brought me lime water at the faintest suggestion that I may be slowing on the stair master. Beaming enthusiastically, one couldn't resist but to keep treading.
After an amazing reflexology treatment in my oh so insulated hotel spa, I slept like a baby. But lest I mislead you dear reader, slept like a baby in the west among down and safety. The majority of the 2 million babies here have a far simpler, firmer surface.
A visit to the Taj Majal and the Amber Palace, with all of the requisite photo ops proved - predictable. Plenty of people wanting my money. I left some for the man with the pillow cases that I found pleasing; some for the seller of carved camel bone with Kama Sutra images; some for the vendor with silver plated knives with dragon-head handles; some for the boy with a dance and a smile; some for the woman with prints so pretty; some for the waiter who showed me a photo of his one year old son; some for the plum colored stone carver who fashioned hearts....
But this is India, who better prepared to assist the economy?
I leave India complete. In truth I hadn't intended to go. My visa was expiring and with an outsourcing partner in Chennai I could make it business and write it off. I leave India impressed, these are people so resilient you might think they hadn't a memory for the crimes of yesterday they endure. I leave India a little brighter, for the business people I met there who are proud to earn $10 an hour are far, far, far brighter than many technology workers in the states who earn six times that. I leave India more philosophical, for there is something so rich in every step as plastic bag lined streets crowded with cyclists, horns, shouts and the scent of Nag Champra mixes with high pitched boys singing praise to Krishna and women so wrinkled with work and babies and heat and need smile and bless me for a ten rupee note. I leave India and it has entered me; as it has to, clutching at everything and anything that holds life.
The Doctor was certain it was malaria gives me the first injection of antibiotics shaking her head whilst giving me the news that I am lucky; Only a strong uncategorized bacteria.
My teeth clatter as I thank her and recall the oft cited phrase while daring a slight smile at the expansive community that is India thinking to myself. "Ah, that was India Madam... That was India."
Link to photos
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