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Travel

An American Conservative in India

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Warning: Longest post in Über Desi history.

I find humor in irony. Back in the middle part of 2004, when George W. Bush and John Kerry were going at it, me and my fiancee were shopping for wedding dresses and jewelery for her in desi stories in Atlanta, GA. Around that time the news item on TV was Bush’s campaign labeling Kerry a “flip flopper”. I remember watching this on CNN in a hotel room in Atlanta and thinking “big deal”. It was. This tag stuck with Kerry and ultimately resulted in a victory for Bush in the elections later that year, which was definitely not what I wanted, given my opposition to the Iraq war. Anyway, later that day during our Atlanta spending spree, we ran into this desi trader. What he sold or did not sell is not important but the statement he made that day, is something I’ll always remember because of the conviction and sincerity with which it was made. “The best thing to come out of India were her people”, he said. Now if you read this blog with any degree of regularity, you probably know I’d normally laugh this off as the rantings of a homesick desi uncle. But this one I always wondered about.

Ironically, I was googling some information on India travel last week and I stumbled upon the travel journal of a famous conservative writer. Jay Nordlinger, managing editor of National Review blogs his journey through the Western states of India. Where’s the irony in that? Jay was, once upon a time, the speech writer for George W Bush. As if that was not enough irony, reading through his travel journal only confirmed what the desi uncle in Atlanta told me 4 years back.

Jay’s travel diaries are split into 8 different editions and run through Mumbai, Gujarat and Rajasthan. (Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8)

We often see Westerners in India searching for Orientalism - Taj Mahal, temples, sadhus, yoga, poverty, and other assortments of eastern mysticism. Jay falls into the same trap but only occasionally. In fact there is but one reference to Taj Mahal in his entire 8 part journal. His observations are rather candid and he tries his best not to stereotype. Being part of the culture there are some things are not so apparent to people like me because I would be so used to it but would be to a foreigner in the country and he doesn’t hesitate to point them out. The trick is he is never overwhelmed by orientalism and mysticism, so he hardly misses the actual Indian experience. I think Jay does a great job at capturing the essence of life in the parts of the country he visits, through the eyes of an outsider. I would term his observations as that of a fairly open minded conservative (paradox much?) individual midwesterner transplant in New York.

In this post I’ll attempt to give some exceprts from each one of Jay’s 8 posts, sort of a “best of” if you will. I enjoyed Jay’s posts immensely over the past week or so and hope you will too.

Part 1: Jay in Mumbai (Bombay as he and even some locals call it to this day)
On being overwhelmed by sheer numbers

Bombay is swarming with people, which is not the most original statement on earth. But it’s true. By contrast, New York or Chicago is deserted. There are people everywhere here. They’re crammed into every nook and cranny. No spot seems people-less. They hang from buses, from trucks. This is not a city for the people-averse, and not much of a country for that, either.

On begging ……

A quick word on begging, early in these notes. Mainly, I see children beg — the only adults are young mothers with infants, and old, wretched people. I see no able-bodied men beg. And this is in sharp contrast with the city in which I live, New York.

On how constant honking seems to result in reduced road rage …

In fact, many trucks and other vehicles have these words on the back: “O.K. Horn Please.” That means, “Go ahead and honk — it’ll help me.” I’m not sure that people need an invitation. At times, along certain stretches, you can crawl on your hands and knees faster than you can drive. And, when you’re actually driving, there are many near misses — near collisions. Traffic is a noisy, gnarly, smelly mess. But an Indian-American friend of mine makes an observation: No road rage. There is no road rage here. People seem to take everything in stride, exhibiting a nonchalance that I not only admire: I almost envy it.

Unable to distinguish white khadi clad politicians from Muslims, at least he admits it …

I see some Bombay men in white outfits. And, looking quickly, I’m not quite sure whether they’re Muslims or Congressmen (that is, old-style members of the Congress party). In India, costumes can tell you a lot, along with names. And so it was in Britain, for many years. Is it still?

and finally, the Gateway of India.

You know about the Great Gate of Kiev, from Mussorgsky’s canonical piece (Pictures at an Exhibition). But what about the Great Gate of Bombay? It was built for a visit by King George V and Queen Mary, and is known as the Gateway to India. It was a hell of a greeting, that gate. But I wouldn’t trade my greeting — by my friends — for anything in the world. I must be one of the luckiest travelers there have ever been.

Part 2: In Baruch, Gujarat starts off with a hilarious experience of a foreigner in shorts in a conservative Indian town.

Anyway, on this walk, I’m stared at, as you can imagine — stared at wherever I go, by everyone. They are particularly staring at my legs, and not for their shapeliness, I regret to say. They’re simply amazed at this spectacle in shorts. They stare at me hard, and keep staring after I’ve passed. (I confirm this when I glance back.) One woman is open-mouthed — I mean, literally open-mouthed. Of course, she lives in a kind of shantytown, and I’m sure there’s not much foreign traffic through here in any case.

On how he finds Indian women more attractive because they’re more feminine (his words not mine) …

The girls are definitely pleasant, in their saris. This is true of richer ones and poorer ones, spiffier ones and scruffier ones. Are girls in India more attractive than elsewhere? You might think so, but I think they’re more attractive because they’re more feminine. (Are you allowed to say that today?) They seem to enjoy being female — carry themselves that way. They sort of sashay along. I doubt that softball here is much good. (Are you allowed to say that?)

On vendors and the lack of big business mentality among both businesspeople and customer….

Through the neighborhoods come vendors with handcarts. They are calling out the names of their products as they go: vegetables, fruit, milk. They have all developed leather lungs. And no one sells more than one thing: either vegetables or fruit — and even then merely some vegetables, and some fruits — not both. It occurs to me that this is an anti-Wal-Marter’s dream. There is no one-stop shopping. Everyone sells a tiny line, earning pennies. Charming, sweet, quaint — we’d all like to take a picture, as at Epcot. But good for humanity?

This particular comment by Jay’s Indian host caught me by surprise…

My host was a Communist — “All Indians are born Communists” — but shook it, while in America. He does not know what he would believe today without this formative experience.

Really? Are all of us born in India, communists? I’d like to think not.

And finally, watching the Giants win the Superbowl, a day late.

The Super Bowl is replayed here in Bharuch, the day after. I mean, broadcast on television, of course. The Giants still win.

Part3: starts with the clashing point of Indian and American cultures, ice in drinks. Most Indians who’ve lived in the US for longer periods of time still don’t like ice in their drinks….

I will give you an unusual fact about the drinking of water in India. Some people like their water refrigerated, “chilled.” But others cannot tolerate it that way. It must be room temperature. Foreigners are always aghast at the amount of ice in American drinks. And I must be very American. Because I likes me ice.

And just when you ask, where’s the stereotyping….

Sometimes, I see women and girls whipping around on motorcycles or scooters, and they have a scarf of some type over their faces. Looking quickly, I think, “Muslim or dust?” And I think the answer is: dust (protection from). But the men, I notice, don’t wear any such cover. Maybe very uncool, unmanly.

The liberal smattering of English words in any Indian language…

And here is something interesting about Indian languages — Hindi, Gujarati, Rajasthani, etc. English words pop up frequently — and most numbers seem to be given in English. Someone will be whipping along in an Indian language, and then you’ll hear “15,000,” or (the year) “1837” — all in English. You’ll also hear “75 percent” — both the “75” and the “percent” in English. Also, an Indian asks directions, and the man giving them will rattle them off — and the words “left” and “right” will be in English. Of course, there are perfectly good words in Hindi, etc., for “left” and “right.” But the English words are used. Curious, that.

More on language, apparently certain sections of people in India consider the word “natives”, a pejorative…

And, in the course of the meal, I ask them, “Does this restaurant cater mainly to tourists, or do natives come here too?” There is an awkward silence at the table. This is not like the group. Finally, one lady says, “What do you mean by ‘natives’?”
Uh-oh.
I say, “Well, you know — ‘natives.’ People born here, from here. Bombayers.”
More silence.
I say, “Is the word pejorative here?” The aforementioned lady says, “Well, it was under the British.” I say — defensive, maybe a little bristling — “Well, it isn’t in standard English. ‘Native’ is a perfectly good and innocent word. We’re all natives of somewhere.”

I’ve never heard of that but then again I live there no more.

And of course, no Indian experience is ever complete without the toilets.

Some toilets throughout India are terrifying. You will hold it until kingdom come, if you have to. Some toilets are benign, even inviting. Let me take you to one restaurant in Udaipur. There are two doors: One says “Indian Toilet,” the other says “Western Toilet.” You know the expression, “When in Rome, do as the Romans?” I do not — do as the Romans.
It was awfully nice of them to offer a choice, wasn’t it?
And the variety of showers and baths — just as wide, really. There is another book. And here’s something semi-cute: At one rest stop, there are two bathrooms, one for each sex. The first has a symbol of a man — a standard silhouette. The second shows a woman — in a sari. How Indian is that?

Part 4: begins with Jay being dazzled by the sheer diversity of the Indian populace …

There is a great, great variety of people in India. Seldom will you see a collection of people so diverse. You see people who look utterly primitive — like they could have been here 1,000 years ago. Two thousand years ago. Three thousand years ago. A simple wrap, a painted face — wizened, walking staff. And they may be waiting for the same bus as people who look like Wall Streeters. Remarkable.

Among other things he notices the presence of large number of animals on the streets and being the Conservative that he is, is unable to pass up this opportunity for a dig at the Democrats

But in India, even the cities are full of animals.
On the streets of villages, towns, and cities are both Democrats and Republicans — donkeys and elephants. But there are many more of the former. It’s sort of like the campus of an American university.

Of course, a trip to India is always incomplete without encounters with various species of animals and birds, particularly macacas ….err…. monkeys.

And later, in the Gujarati village of Dantali, I will see many more monkeys, also playing. I watch for a while a mother with her baby. I don’t think I could tire of watching monkeys monkeying around. One particular: I like the way they run along a ledge — loping gracefully, but determined. No-nonsense. Much as I may love monkeys, people who live here do not. They are nuisances, harming crops and other things.
I wish the monkeys could refrain from offending humans.
Oh, yeah: What do you do when you need to shoo off monkeys? I’m given a tip by experts: You lean down, as though to pick up a rock. You don’t have to do so — the mere act of leaning down will make the monkeys vamoose. There must be a term for this in psychology, or some other branch of learning.

Part 5:: involves a trip to a magnificient 15th century Jain temple. One of my pet peeves about Americans is what they consider to be ancient. Something built in the early half of 20th century is not ancient, early half of 15th century on the other hand, that is much older than the USA.

Previously, I mentioned the Jain temple at Ranakpur, Rajasthan. And this is a wondrous thing. Honestly, it is one of the best sights I have ever laid my eyes on. It is beautiful, majestic, and peaceful at the same time — a rare artistic and spiritual achievement. I see it at twilight, which must work to its advantage. (Not that it needs an advantage.) Seldom have I been to a place that breathes such a spirituality. It is heavenly, actually, this spot.
The temple was built in 1439. And that is a humbling thought, for the Eurocentrist (as we used to say). (Do we still?) What was Europe doing, of lasting impressiveness, in 1439? (I’m sure we could come up with a list, with thought.)

Jay then broaches one of my favorite topics, the bastardization of the Swastika symbol by the Nazis.

There is something that takes a little getting used to, if you’re a foreigner. I am speaking now about the presence of the swastika. Being a Hindu symbol, it is everywhere. For example, you’ll find it on the thresholds of homes — they are present in the gracious homes in which I stay. Also, there’s a hotel in Jaisalmer called the Hotel Swastika. I wonder whether European tourists are repelled by it — or, worse, attracted to it.

Indians of sensibility greatly resent that the swastika was taken by the Nazi party and twisted — literally, physically twisted. I say: At least the Germans did the Indians the favor of altering it, somewhat.

“the Germans did the Indians the favor of altering it, somewhat”??? I’m thinking, not!

And then he visits an all-you-can-eat buffet for my household felines, if they could get visas to visit there.

So very true. The pilgrims around me are very moved to be in this temple, with the rats running riot. (There are nets strung above our heads, to keep predatory birds from picking off the rats.) The pilgrims are filled with fervor. And it is a strange, strange experience, to be in a temple overrun by rats — to feel the little things tripping over your toes.

On the lack of smokers, which is more than offset by the abundance of spitters.

Everywhere else I’ve been in the Third World (if you’ll pardon the expression), people have smoked like fiends. Same in many parts of Europe. Plus, smoking has always been called the pleasure of the poor. But in two weeks in India, traveling hither and yon, I see very few people who smoke. Why does this come to my notice? Because, every now and again, I see someone smoke — and I’m struck by how rare it is.

But you know what there’s a lot of? Spitting. This is very much a spitting nation. Spitting, spitting. Hocking, hocking. When I walk through a city, town, or village in the morning, as people are preparing for the day, I hear loads of hocking — thunderous choruses of hocking. This is particularly bad one morning in Jaisalmer. That and the open sewage make the walk — not the pleasantest.

On music being played in public

India is a musical country, and there is music everywhere — from TVs and radios, from loudspeakers on trucks. I hear it in village squares, especially when marriages are celebrated — and they are very frequently celebrated. This is a populous country, and one to which marriage is central.

Anyway, I don’t believe I hear gazals and ragas and other forms of music I expect. But do you know what I hear a lot? “Frère Jacques.” I hear it in three different cities, played by three different ensembles. It must be a thing here — a fad, a fixture.

Part 6: starts with a bumpy camel ride filled with constant demands for tips and then moves onto another age old Indian tradition - matrimonials, personals, as they call them in the US.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned, in this journal, the touchy subject of race. And race is a considerably touchy subject in India — where skin colors are sliced very thin. I check out the “personals” section — though they don’t call it that — of the Hindustan Times. Lots and lots of chicks are advertised as “fair and slim.” Funny, but I don’t see dark and chunky, at all.
The ads go on to give height and weight — I wonder how accurate those are. Also academic credentials (“MBA!”) and other data.
Talk about a meat market — though most of these fillies are advertised as vegetarian.

And these days, I even hear my fellow NRI friends complain about ringtones.

The variety of cellphone rings in India is incredible. The variety of cellphone rings in the world is incredible. In Udaipur, our guide’s ring is “Jingle Bells.” I ask whether he knows it’s a Christmas carol. He didn’t know that, no. But, funnily enough, the friend who recommended the ring to him is Christian.

A little bit of religious indoctrination via cell phone rings. Perhaps, but most likely just a friendly recommendation.

The prevalence of American clothing among Indians.

Along the road in Bharuch, I see a laborer wearing a Harvard sweatshirt. Harvardwear gets around, doesn’t it?

The good old desi ritual of burping, by elderly ladies comes as a shock to Jay.

I’ll tell you what takes some getting used to: open belching, particularly by distinguished older ladies. In fact, get used to it I don’t — I don’t have the time. Two weeks is not enough. Maybe two years?

Part 7: by now Jay has gotten used to the pampering nature of Indian hospitality - “atithi devo bhava” or something like that.

And in Dantali I am in the arms of yet another family, and all their associates: There’s no hospitality like Indian hospitality, at least in my experience. One is simply bathed in warmth and solicitude.

Then he visits an idyllic village full of Patels.

In my eyes, Dantali is almost a Walt Disney version of an Indian village — ideal. I arrive in late afternoon, when women are milking the cows, then taking the milk to the dairy collective. Men gather near the clock tower, playing cards (rummy). The pond is very peaceful, hosting interesting and — to me — unknown waterfowl. Temples ring the pond. And worshipers ring the bells, as they step in to pray.
At 5:20 in the morning, I hear more bells — and singing. People are going through the streets, praising God. And here is something small to praise: the milk over my cereal. It has come straight from a cow. It’s not like at the Safeway.

Even though I grew up in a Hindu household, there was not as much feet touching. On special occasions, elders’, teachers’, priests’ and godmen’/women’ feet were fair game but normally w. Perhaps its something within my family, maybe its the Iyer community or Tamil/South Indian culture, touching the feet of people to seek their blessings was limited. But I did notice more of it among my friends from the Northern states and Gujarat. Even though I’ve touched the feet of numerous people, I would never imagine touching the feet of someone who touched mine. Perhaps, a programmed prejudice? That is why this particular entry struck me as particularly poignant to point of innocence.

At some point in the morning, a woman, a housecleaner, bends down to touch my feet. I later ask my friends, “Why?” The answer: She is asking for my blessing, and signaling her respect. I would like to do the same to her — but I don’t get the opportunity.

Jay finds the contrast between Indian kids and American kids striking, especially when it comes to being open with strangers, to the point that he calls American kids bratty.

And encounters with Indian children are almost invariably delightful. Show them a little attention or kindness, and you’ll have it returned, with interest. Kids are open, curious, laughy, grateful, fun-loving — just plain loving. (I generalize, heaven knows. But you can’t write without that.)
This has happened to me before: When I’m abroad — especially in a developing country — I can’t help contrasting the local kids with American children. We don’t come out so well, by some measures. Have American kids seemed to you extraordinarily bratty — like premature adults, brimming with attitude? That’s part of what I’m trying to say: The Indian kids — no attitude.

Wait a minute, an Indian experience without kids playing cricket on the street?

At home, we used to have streetball; in India, they have streetcricket — I see it played everywhere, with great vigor. I can’t help thinking they’d like baseball better, if they only knew it. But surely that is my cultural bias . . .

Sit around all day to watch two teams score a combined 10 runs or less? I think we’ll pass, Jay.

Part 8: In his concluding journal entry, Jay seems to be awe struck by the contended life and nonchalant attitude that Indians seem to display, even the poor ones.

It’s amazing how happy and content people seem; how much serenity is about. I notice it, and other members of my party notice it. There are dogs not barking: an absence of harshness, an absence of chilliness, an absence of bite. Even the people who have basically nothing — who live in squalor — seem happy. At peace. They are smiling. All over, people are smiling.

The difference in the two cultures when it comes to social and personal obligations seem to fascinate him…

The Indians I meet tend to be very, very admiring of America — even idealizing of it. And yet they have their reservations, as they should. Do parents really kick their kids out at the age of 18? And when your parents or grandparents are too ill to care for themselves, you park them in these foul institutions?

Oh, yes we do. It is barbaric.

He meets tourists from European countries and some of them express a disdain for Lonely Planet…

They have an interesting complaint — one I would not have thought of. They resent the Lonely Planet guidebook (which for Rajasthan, as for other places, I’m sure, is superb). Or rather, it’s not that they resent it; they resent the use that tourists make of it. They make beelines for all the recommended places; and others that are just as good are ignored.

Finally, on his way out of India, he notices …. gasp…. white people in the Mumbai airport….

In the Bombay airport, something strange occurs to me: There is a sprinkling of white people. Just a sprinkling. Maybe 10 percent of the people in the airport. But it seems like a lot. Why am I noticing this? I realize: It’s because I really haven’t seen white faces — almost none — in two weeks. It’s been that “inside” a tour.

Replace the white faces with brown and he could very well be talking about desis in America, especially the smaller towns.

Overall, Jay seems to concur with what the desi uncle told me year ago…

In my Indian travels, I have found people extraordinarily kind — gentle in their manners, ready with a smile, very willing to help. A pleasure to engage with. And, frankly, being around such people makes you kinder. Or rather, it frees up your natural kindness. At home, you may have to be hard, or unwarm, because everyone around you is. It’s in the air. People blend in. Here, in India, you can be as nice as you want. People won’t think you’re a freak or a sap.

Thus concludes one of the longest posts in UD history - the 8 part journal of An American Conservative in India.
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