Loving India
I think a lot about why, exactly, I love India.
I've shooed away tiny, coal black children begging at my feet. I have ignored them, averted my eyes. I have denied pennies to a nearly blind man without fingers (leprosy). There are so many things I love here— the shy faces and smiles of the people I see on the street, the majestic temples, colorful markets, the exciting rail travel and generosity of strangers. I never know what a day will bring me. But if I let myself confront this, if I let my eyes open enough to the conditions around me so much of the time, will I be able to see anything else?
I see people on the side of the road constantly, sitting on burlap sacks with 20 small bananas or 200 lbs. of potatoes, or fresh bunches of coriander. I think about how hard they work, if they have ever owned shoes, and that, if they sell everything laid out on the sack or cart, they would not have enough to have the lunch I had. I see men with their cycle rickshaws and I know they often sleep on the small seats that barely fit two people, living with one set of clothes—a threadbare white t-shirt and longi (sarong) and sometimes a scarf.
Does it just make me feel good about my own comfortable life to see so much constant struggle and unrelenting hardship? Am I looking at Indians relatively (is that even possible?), or am I projecting and seeing them as beautiful in their dark-skinnedness, in their hard work. Are they noble savages, so pure in desire, so poor and dirty, the lines in their faces bottomless with meaning. Or are they just like all of us, doing what they can, with handfuls of sin, wanting more, never truly happy? Maybe I see them as good, as better, noble, because as I write this half of India lives on less in a year than I have in my wallet. Are they better in my eyes (but not so much that I would switch places—this is the essence of viewing the noble savage—so close to life, close to the earth, natural, so alive and real, but disgusting and raw, pitiful, sad, worth starting an NGO for to ease the guilt…)?
I had a couple of awful days. An ATM machine stole my card, and I have completed just ten percent of my travels—I need that card! The rain soaked my clothing as I tried, ultimately in vain, to have the bank retrieve and return my card.
As I originally wrote these notes on paper, I could see a woman that had just asked me for money walk away. She was begging, and probably belongs to an owner, who promises her flimsy shelter and regular meals of rice for the small coins she can take in. Her left arm is severely burned, so bad that it is permanently bent at the elbow. Her fingerless and thumbless hand is useless. A dirty toddler with hair that may have never been washed followed behind her, and when s/he was too slow, she stuck a finger in the child's dreaded hair and pulled. The begging woman carried a piece of paper showing proof of her HIV positive status as tested by the Orissa state government counseling and testing services.
I am not responsible for her, but my bad day felt like a joke. Was it really bad? I had cried about my day, about the frustration of dealing with a government-run bank in India. My clothes were mostly dry by the time I wrote about this, and I will arrange to have a new card sent (at Visa's expense) to an upcoming destination. This isn't a problem, it is an inconvenience.
Have I had real problems? The kind I see everyday here? Is this why I love India? Is it like an amusement park of extreme poverty and I get to go home at the end of the year and take a hot shower and drink clean tap water and order a pizza while a movie downloads on my computer, and sleep in a comfortable bed? I don't know, really. Of course I don't feel I'm patronizing Indians by visiting the country, but I catch myself, and this is embarrassing to admit, being grateful that I get to leave, that I can again go back to living as if these things don't happen in the world I live in. I'm only a visitor.
Am I doing anything for anyone? I guess I'm not obligated, but am I making it worse? Is it ridiculous for me to think I could do something to help? Is it pretentious to think some of the people I see need help? Are there ways to give that are genuine? Am I looking to feel like a saint, to relieve some of the stress I feel seeing people with so little? I have no idea.
I've shooed away tiny, coal black children begging at my feet. I have ignored them, averted my eyes. I have denied pennies to a nearly blind man without fingers (leprosy). There are so many things I love here— the shy faces and smiles of the people I see on the street, the majestic temples, colorful markets, the exciting rail travel and generosity of strangers. I never know what a day will bring me. But if I let myself confront this, if I let my eyes open enough to the conditions around me so much of the time, will I be able to see anything else?
I see people on the side of the road constantly, sitting on burlap sacks with 20 small bananas or 200 lbs. of potatoes, or fresh bunches of coriander. I think about how hard they work, if they have ever owned shoes, and that, if they sell everything laid out on the sack or cart, they would not have enough to have the lunch I had. I see men with their cycle rickshaws and I know they often sleep on the small seats that barely fit two people, living with one set of clothes—a threadbare white t-shirt and longi (sarong) and sometimes a scarf.
Does it just make me feel good about my own comfortable life to see so much constant struggle and unrelenting hardship? Am I looking at Indians relatively (is that even possible?), or am I projecting and seeing them as beautiful in their dark-skinnedness, in their hard work. Are they noble savages, so pure in desire, so poor and dirty, the lines in their faces bottomless with meaning. Or are they just like all of us, doing what they can, with handfuls of sin, wanting more, never truly happy? Maybe I see them as good, as better, noble, because as I write this half of India lives on less in a year than I have in my wallet. Are they better in my eyes (but not so much that I would switch places—this is the essence of viewing the noble savage—so close to life, close to the earth, natural, so alive and real, but disgusting and raw, pitiful, sad, worth starting an NGO for to ease the guilt…)?
I had a couple of awful days. An ATM machine stole my card, and I have completed just ten percent of my travels—I need that card! The rain soaked my clothing as I tried, ultimately in vain, to have the bank retrieve and return my card.
As I originally wrote these notes on paper, I could see a woman that had just asked me for money walk away. She was begging, and probably belongs to an owner, who promises her flimsy shelter and regular meals of rice for the small coins she can take in. Her left arm is severely burned, so bad that it is permanently bent at the elbow. Her fingerless and thumbless hand is useless. A dirty toddler with hair that may have never been washed followed behind her, and when s/he was too slow, she stuck a finger in the child's dreaded hair and pulled. The begging woman carried a piece of paper showing proof of her HIV positive status as tested by the Orissa state government counseling and testing services.
I am not responsible for her, but my bad day felt like a joke. Was it really bad? I had cried about my day, about the frustration of dealing with a government-run bank in India. My clothes were mostly dry by the time I wrote about this, and I will arrange to have a new card sent (at Visa's expense) to an upcoming destination. This isn't a problem, it is an inconvenience.
Have I had real problems? The kind I see everyday here? Is this why I love India? Is it like an amusement park of extreme poverty and I get to go home at the end of the year and take a hot shower and drink clean tap water and order a pizza while a movie downloads on my computer, and sleep in a comfortable bed? I don't know, really. Of course I don't feel I'm patronizing Indians by visiting the country, but I catch myself, and this is embarrassing to admit, being grateful that I get to leave, that I can again go back to living as if these things don't happen in the world I live in. I'm only a visitor.
Am I doing anything for anyone? I guess I'm not obligated, but am I making it worse? Is it ridiculous for me to think I could do something to help? Is it pretentious to think some of the people I see need help? Are there ways to give that are genuine? Am I looking to feel like a saint, to relieve some of the stress I feel seeing people with so little? I have no idea.
posted by Maya at 9:14 PM
1 Comments:
You're really taking it all in. Don't beat yourself up over the things you can't change in the world. You've made a difference and continue to do so everyday you're in this world. I'm so proud of you for being so brave exploring the world on your own the way you do. I could never do what you've done. Keep your chin up and keep these updates coming. I love them so much!! P.S. What ever happened to that wedding you talked about.
Sonia M Villarreal
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