People, Places, and Things

My writings on India, like my thoughts, remained unfinished for a long time. I spent a month running around Rajasthan by myself, having an abundance of experiences that probably could have been wrapped up nicely into anecdote form, complete with unusual spacing and self-conscious commentary. But I couldn’t write about them because I hated India too much. When my MSID amigos went away – to South India, to Nepal, to Thailand, to Bhutan, to anywhere but Rajasthan – I lost that critical layer of perspective that had helped me laugh instead of cry about all the weirdness everywhere.

And it, well, sucked.

My body craved human contact and comfort, but any touch (especially from someone of the opposite sex) was wrong and invasive and degrading. Normal gestures like a friendly pat on the shoulder or head had become mutated by the social and religious moors of the country. I started to involuntarily shudder whenever anyone brushed against me. And I felt strangely dirty, as if I had done something, I must have done something to deserve being subjected to the touches and brushes and gropes.

As my body wilted, my mind desperately needed someone I could connect with, but whenever I tried to find even a hint of normalcy the conversation would suddenly shift towards something alien and/or inappropriate and/or wrong and I’d be crushed. And there’d be no one to laugh about it with, no one to tell me it was ok when they’re Indian and repressed and not worse just different. There was no escape and nothing I could tell myself to make it all go away.

And I couldn’t write about it because that made it true, sealed the deal. I had failed. I just hated, I mean reaaaaally hated the whole damn country that I had tried so hard to love.

It’s now been ten months since I was there. Time has almost totally healed what hours and hours spent trying to rationalize couldn’t even staunch. When I close my eyes and imagine India now, I don’t relive all the stuff that sickened me. I drink mango shakes on a hot day. I eat boiled eggs with spices from the eggwalla on the street. I watch creamy sunsets over lakes and specked stars as I lie in the desert. I play rugby with the street children and jacks with the village children. I stumble around and look foolish and people laugh and feed me and ask me about my life. I get invited to weddings. I experience hospitality and generosity as complete and pure as anything I’ve ever felt from people who have nothing and want nothing.

When I think of India now, I think of people full of hope and happiness and anger and despair. I think of places sometimes beautiful, sometimes hideous, often seemingly contradictory but always quintessentially Indian. I think things I want to forget, but a lot of things I wouldn't change for anything.

I miss India. Perhaps someday I'll go back.