The
longer I spend in India, the more I have grown accustomed and endeared towards
the unique charms of Indian life.
It certainly wasn’t love at first sight. Perhaps
this as due to our route from peaceful Nepal, through busy and stressful cities
like Varanasi, Agra and Delhi, a whistle-stop tour of Rajasthan, then a week in
rat race Mumbai before reaching the tranquility and welcoming generosity of the
beautiful South.
Whilst
I don’t think I’ll ever get past the shitty (arf arf) sanitation here, I feel
more able to separate the good from the bad and the ugly. More able to enjoy my
many good experiences and just to accept certain inconveniences.
Learning
to love India is as simple as opening a thesaurus. (Though my process of
gradual appreciation has taken far longer).
Instead
of over-crowded, try bustling.
For money-grabbing
hustlers, read opportunists.
I’ve
even grown to admire the entrepreneurial spirit of the desperate Delhi shoe
cleaner who planted a turd on my shoe (OK, no I haven’t, I’m still fuming about
that one!)
The
absolute determination to make money in any way possible has to be respected.
People here literally need to ‘make a living.’ Without cash, they’ll die.
True,
there are some over greedy bastards and I don’t like them, but I can spot them
a mile off now and wising up to these wiseguys’ antics has its own
self-satisfactory rewards.
Believe
me, I haven’t missed the irony that while I freely whine about being ripped off
r scammed by Indians. My uninvited British ancestors occupied the entire nation
or centuries. Relentlessly reaping resources at the expense of the indigenous
people.
Another
conclusion I’ve reached is that it I OK to be poor in India.
Because nearly everyone
else is.
As a
stoned Swede explained to me. The homeless, drop-outs and drug users are
marginalised in his society. Ignored and friendless. People cross the road to
avoid them.
Here
it’s different. The poor are the majority. In such a community of peers, it’s
impossible to be isolated.
A
case in point is the Dharvi slum in Mumbai where a million people live in a
square mile of shacks, tents and
crumbling buildings sandwiched between two railway lines.
It’s
not a comfortable existence, but they get by. And from my experience there,
despite the hardships, most people were happy. I certainly found more smiles
and laughter there than on my previous daily Norwood-Junction-to-London-Bridge
commute.
Indians
have a dogged determination. An admirable attitude and work ethic.
From
the beach seller who tried (unsuccessfully) to sell me a drum at least 30 times
in a week in Gokarna, to the city workers who have completed further education
and earned good jobs.
I
have met many Indians who take great pride in their jobs. Rightly so. Chances
are they’ve worked very hard to be there.
It’s
no coincidence that my local GPs in Croydon are Doctors Singh, Shah and Gengatharen.
Personally,
it gives me renewed gratitude for how fortunate I have been to have stumbled
into and forged a career in an industry I enjoy. Friends and family will attest
that my attitude towards education was never anything like first class.
Another
thing I am in awe of and very envious of, is the Indians’ ability to sleep
anywhere.
While
I’ve moaned about paper-thin straw mattresses, bed bugs and my feet always
hanging off the bed, I’ve seen locals sleeping absolutely everywhere.
On
the pavement, on a parked bicycle, in tuk-tuks, eight to a bed in sleeper train
carriages. Even in the middle of a very busy dual carriageway. Neither safe nor
quite, two of the foremost qualities I look for in a place to sleep.
As
I write this, beside me a smartly-dressed 40-year-old is curled up in the fetal
position catching some ZZZs in a stone floor corner of Hospet Junction’s
concourse. A newspaper for his pillow.
People
of India, I doff my turban to you.
Our
flight to Thailand is booked for January 3. I
don’t want to leave.
There
must be something in the curry.
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