India Revisited

A funny thing happened this summer: I went to India. I'm not really sure why. When I asked a guru in Jaipur who inexplicably knew very mysterious details about my family, he responded immediately that I had chosen to visit India because I spent a great deal of time there in my past lives and so was drawn back to the country.  This differed slightly from my usual response of, "I want to bring my Religious Studies major to life," and that "I had read many wonderful books about the region and was fascinated by its religious, cultural, and geographical diversity." Whatever. Really I just thought it would be a crazy experience with a great exchange rate and colorful scarves so why the hell not? So off I went. With a backpack. And in my backpack was a swiss army knife that I never once used, an exhausted supply of moist towelettes, hiking boots that gave me blisters, impractically large novels, and North American clothing unsuitable for Indian heat waves and societal norms. And in my friend's backpack was a lot of great supplies that I had forgotten. The relative compactness of my bag likely earned me a level of street cred amongst travelers that she could have only dreamed of, but she was kind enough to let me use her vegetable peeler and facial sunscreen nonetheless.

Immediately upon my return to Canada, I fell ill to a bout of diarrhea that was clearly of foreign origins. I recovered about 5 days later, but had retained absolutely no memory of the 7-week trip. I didn't think about it. I didn't talk about it. I was too busy writing emails and trying to figure out what the f-bomb I was going to do now. My analysis, which by no means is necessarily accurate, is that the experience had so blown apart my comfort zone and was so unrelatable (at least on a superificial level) to everyday life in Toronto that I had simply compartmentalized the whole ordeal and put it away for a rainy day. A couple weeks later, I was walking home from the subway station and a construction worker whistled at me. Instinctively, without any conscious intent, I shot him a glare that had been cultivated and perfected on the streets of Northern India. With my eyebrows furrowed in that familiar look of disgusted-how-dare-you-objectify-me-I-am-woman-hear-me-roar-even-if-you-don't-let-your-wife, I realized that I should probably create some space in my mind for reflection upon the journey that transformed me into a ruthless bargainer who could tolerate spicy food and 14 hour bus rides on unpaved roads like it ain't no thing. Which brings me to today's downpour.

First things first, there are ALOT of people in India. The men are generally a lot more chatty than the women, at least they are to foreign girls they want to a) sell things to b) engage in sexual relations with or c) help out because they realize the intensity of our vulnerability. But every so often, one is fortunate enough to sit next to a woman on a 2nd class train ride who is writing her phd thesis on the plight of women in rural Indian villages, and after speaking passionately about social justice asks you giggling what it's like to kiss a boy and if it's true that you'll get bruises if you do so before your married. The streets of major cities are literally teeming with a chaotic montage of motorcycles, buses, cars, rickshaws, cycle rickshaws, cows, goats, camels, donkeys, all of which come to a screeching beeping mooing halt when one pedestrian extends his palm outwards and crosses to the other side. And no, I was not surprised that Delhi was inadequately prepared for the Commonwealth Games.

As I began attempts to reflect upon my "summer vacation," I could recall only instances of
severe physical discomfort- ie. 23 hour drive down the Himalayas where on a chai break my dear friend stepped in human poo while wearing sandals, 48 degree heat waves, pausing to breath every 10 steps while climbing a mountain 5000 m above sea level for 9 hours when we had politely requested an easy stroll
fear for personal safety- ie. rickshaw stalling on a bridge full of trucks during lightning storm in the middle of the night, being scammed on our very first day by a fraudulent government tourist agency into booking a flight to a terrorist zone, accidentally taking a general class train ride and nearly being trampled, skinning my knee and tearing new flowy pants in attempts to escape terrifying gang of street dogs at 5 AM.

Disconcerting, to say the least. I tried going out for Indian food, but quickly realized it was way too soon for another round of Aloo Gobhi. In a frenzy, I left a distraught message for my former travel partner begging her to, at her earliest convenience, remind me what else went down on our trip to India. HOW COULD I IMPOSE AN OVERARCHING THEME UPON THE TRIP AND RETROACTIVELY FIT IT INTO THE COOKIE CUTTER PROGRESSION OF MY LIFE, IF I DON'T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED?!?!?

Thankfully, she returned my call and for hours we reminisced about the absurdities, hilarities, turning points, breakthroughs and ridonkulusnous of our experience together. And we laughed and we laughed and we laughed and it was therepeutic in a way that nothing else possibly could be. And then she reminded me that on our first day (after realizing we had signed up for that terrorist adventure) we made the conscious decision to not take our "spiritual journey" to India too seriously, to just let it be what it will be, and to find beauty in however it unfolds. She reminded me that we learned it wasn't about controlling our thoughts or emotions as much as it was about watching them, becoming aware of them, even loving them, but at the end of the day laughing at them. Not out of superiority, some fabricated notion of transcendence or self-deprecation, but out of a sincere sense of awe and wonder at the beautiful absurdity of our existence.
I had gotten so caught up in trying to make sense of what I learned in India and what the point of going was, that I missed the point entirely, and somehow forgot that from beginning to end it was never linear, never goal-oriented, never regimented in that way. We had no plan or purpose or design for the trip. We just went, naive, overly trusting, and dangerously open-minded.  And it just was, as life is. It flowed, it was rich and hilarious, beautiful and emotional and scary, experiential and unpredictable.
Since coming home, when people ask whether I loved India I have never felt certain how to respond. I am now reminded of the many conversations had about the nature of love while overlooking Himalayan mountain ranges, misty monsoon rain clouds, intricate architecture and devastating poverty. And through it all, love emerged as pure in its independent nature, as prevailing regardless of inevitable transformation and changes in circumstance.
And so I feel now as though I can answer yes, I did and do love India. Not because it is perfect, and certainly not because it is a place I'd like to someday raise a family, but simply because it is- it pulsates with the very breath and breadth and depth of the human experience. And I know, to the extent that I can know anything, that that love is intimately intertwined with the awe inspired laughter of slowly letting go