I am in the midst of the captivating tale "Shantaram", a classic used Indian book store reprint, the pages fall out constantly and the ink is smudged. The story however has re-immersed me within India with every line that I read and my own reflections and impressions often blur the words while my eyes continue to scan the pages. I find myself at the bottom of the page with no recollection of the content, only my own thoughts fresh in my mind. One scene I want to paint for myself more than anyone was our last night in India.
Walking through the narrow alleys with electric lines hanging only feet above - running together in an impossibly decipherable mass to the intersection of the cement walls where the slouch of the entangled wire hangs lowest and each takes its turn winding towards the buildings to unreliably deliver the valued current. We had just turned the corner - where the live chickens squawk and fiddle with the scent of their freshly slaughtered companions fill with air and the image of the raw butchered meat accosts their eyes - when the street darkens suddenly and the noise remains on the same decibel with no other response to the blackout then a light candle - placed in the middle of the fresh fruit and vegetable piles which men so rhythmically entice shoppers to with calls of the produce they have to sell. We wander down the crowed market street, stopping in spurts to let motorcycles, cows, children, carts, cycles pass. This street, this scene, this life - with no way to know, to compare, to aspire- to the life I come from - astounds me. My knowledge of another life - the life of an Indian, gratifies me. I feel blessed to have this vantage point. I came to India searching - as I'm told everyone comes to India to do, and I have found many things, most of which I am not aware of yet - and throughout the years to come I am sure little flashbacks will teach me the lessons I cannot begin to comprehend. That night in Delhi, where I walked through a movie set - where I was as invisible to those who glanced up, as a camera is to an actor - allowed me to witness a place, a time - 2007 - that only the written words of a history book could fashion an image of. And the ability to perceive that experience in such a manner stuns me - I hear, smell, taste, feel, and see - I am merely observing. To see all that I have witnessed on this trip as stealing a glimpse of history - of a time, a place that has never, will never exists in America - is honestly the only way a white English speaking female can.
The impossibility of such a culture in America is rooted in our diversity. The hope that stems from the opportunity we are surrounded with. The differences in my upbringing and those of the world’s inhabitants finds its roots in freedom. America truly values freedom above all else - maybe that is confused with money or power, but the basis is freedom. And when I call home and ask my father how he is doing, three weeks into the trip, and he replies with the expected non-challant - don't worry about me - that freedom is emphasized in those words more than any amount of education, occupation or situation. I am not tied or expected to repay the life my parents allowed me to live. An average Indian man pays his parents 25% of his annual income. The daughter is married off for a dowry and expected to uphold the family honor by her submission to her new family - this happens at an appallingly early ages. Ok time is up on the computer and this is my normal literary ramble that I decided to share and hope makes some sense.
Kendall
Walking through the narrow alleys with electric lines hanging only feet above - running together in an impossibly decipherable mass to the intersection of the cement walls where the slouch of the entangled wire hangs lowest and each takes its turn winding towards the buildings to unreliably deliver the valued current. We had just turned the corner - where the live chickens squawk and fiddle with the scent of their freshly slaughtered companions fill with air and the image of the raw butchered meat accosts their eyes - when the street darkens suddenly and the noise remains on the same decibel with no other response to the blackout then a light candle - placed in the middle of the fresh fruit and vegetable piles which men so rhythmically entice shoppers to with calls of the produce they have to sell. We wander down the crowed market street, stopping in spurts to let motorcycles, cows, children, carts, cycles pass. This street, this scene, this life - with no way to know, to compare, to aspire- to the life I come from - astounds me. My knowledge of another life - the life of an Indian, gratifies me. I feel blessed to have this vantage point. I came to India searching - as I'm told everyone comes to India to do, and I have found many things, most of which I am not aware of yet - and throughout the years to come I am sure little flashbacks will teach me the lessons I cannot begin to comprehend. That night in Delhi, where I walked through a movie set - where I was as invisible to those who glanced up, as a camera is to an actor - allowed me to witness a place, a time - 2007 - that only the written words of a history book could fashion an image of. And the ability to perceive that experience in such a manner stuns me - I hear, smell, taste, feel, and see - I am merely observing. To see all that I have witnessed on this trip as stealing a glimpse of history - of a time, a place that has never, will never exists in America - is honestly the only way a white English speaking female can.
The impossibility of such a culture in America is rooted in our diversity. The hope that stems from the opportunity we are surrounded with. The differences in my upbringing and those of the world’s inhabitants finds its roots in freedom. America truly values freedom above all else - maybe that is confused with money or power, but the basis is freedom. And when I call home and ask my father how he is doing, three weeks into the trip, and he replies with the expected non-challant - don't worry about me - that freedom is emphasized in those words more than any amount of education, occupation or situation. I am not tied or expected to repay the life my parents allowed me to live. An average Indian man pays his parents 25% of his annual income. The daughter is married off for a dowry and expected to uphold the family honor by her submission to her new family - this happens at an appallingly early ages. Ok time is up on the computer and this is my normal literary ramble that I decided to share and hope makes some sense.
Kendall
posted by thane at 4:37 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home