Cows.
Colour.
Noise.
Smells.
Beggars.
Dirt.
Eagles.
Touts.
Temples.
Monks.
Flies.
Noise.
Noise.
INDIA?
INDIA.
INDIA!
The bus waves along central Tamil Nadu towards Kerala. Calling this metal box a bus is of course a grand promotion for the poor old thing. I can hardly see out of the murky muddy windows, enormous dust clouds escape the hard cushions of the seats as we take giant leaps at every pothole. It must hang on the god of perseverance, Vishnu, to hold this thing together. Yet here in India I am one with the grime and the germs, one with Life in all its forms.
How I love to watch the landscapes and peoplescapes of India! Nowhere in the world have I seen such beauty of variety. In a single glimpse of the eye one can catch the whole world it seems, there is beauty and ugliness, sadness and laughter, colour. So much colour exploding from the rice-paddies, the jungles of palm-trees, the multi-hued shoe-box houses, the stalls selling flowers, fruits, spices, but above all it is the women who paint this country a rainbow. Is there a sight more magical than the gentle flowing of the bright silk saris, they come in all possible patterns and colours and some in seemingly impossible ones. With their thick black shiny hair adorned with petals of aromatic flowers, their golden nose and earrings, Indian women represent the earth and the beauty of this land, there is no doubt about that.
At every moment I am trying to devour all that I can with my sight, there is so much life going on at such great speed. India is like a mini Universe to itself it seems. I dare not close my eyes though I haven't slept for four days, I don't want to miss anything.
The bus comes to a halt now in a little station. Before I can get out, I have to make way for all the salesmen rushing against me. They sell everything imaginable- from food and drinks to juice presses, irons, maps, head massagers. Out of the bus I am instantly approached by another sort of salespeople. They sell pity, compassion and a hope of improving ones karma. Some beggars also sell the beauty of their children, with a baby on their arm they smile at you with utmost charm. The older beggar ladies have lost all that sort of arsenal and grab you or poke you with a demanding rudeness. I give all of them my compassion. But there are a few, usually older gentlemen, who come at you with humility, with peaceful eyes and a genuine smile. They give you a gift of their presence and the gifts from the heart have to be returned. This hunched man here stands in a respectful distance from me. He is silent. He looks full of prayer. I approach him myself and give him all my change. I see from the look of surprise in his eyes that he cannot believe his luck, yet he changes nothing in his demeanor. He bows to me and smiles again, I smile back. It was a beautiful exchange of humanity, based on respect, nothing was demanded, and the gift was mutual. I have felt many times here that sometimes giving can be much trickier than receiving, and wrongful, selfish giving as harmful as stealing.
I return to the bus and sit back to my seat. Next to me is a new passenger- a middle aged man. He is wearing gray suit trousers, a khaki shirt, glasses and he is reading a newspaper. I give him a casual friendly smile even though I am very much aware of the dangers of such an innocent gesture. Plenty of times I too have fallen victim to a syndrome in India I call the Roaming Hands Syndrome. The Hands can come from anywhere, mostly in public transport which has to bare about double their intended passenger load, they can peek out unexpectedly from between seats or little cracks of windows, god bless you when you're standing. The Hands are not connected to the Brain, that I know for sure. Every time when I have caught the Hands and reproached them, the Face has looked dumbfounded, in complete shock, as though they had suddenly awoken from a dream. Sexual repression- in no other place in the world are the repercussions of that crime felt more than in the spiritual India. I turn my glance back to the Osho book I am reading at the moment and agree with him when he says that it is easy to be either a sinner or a saint, but both of these negate and try to escape the real challenge and the real gift of being a human being. Both of these are extremes, half-lives. A human being is meant to be in that conflict, in a pulling between the lower animal nature and the higher spiritual part. This condition cannot be run away from, because it is not a curse- it is an opportunity for transcendence.
In any other circumstance, in any other country, I would have a strong reaction to the all-too-tactile men. Yet here in India it seems I have more peace and composure, it is ironic that when the hassles are truly many, they cease to be so full of hassle. So I will give this gentleman and all the owners of the roaming hands the gift of faith in humanity and the compassion for the challenges they all have in the way to behave.
The older gentleman asks, "Country?" "Estonia", I reply, "It's a small country in Europe." To this I get the usual reply of wobbling the head from side to side. All Indian heads wobble, it is magical and very funny to watch people converse. To this day I haven't deciphered the meaning of this, it can be yes, no, maybe, I don't know. Usually it just seems an affirmation of having heard what the other has said.
"Married?" "No", I smile. Of course this would be the time to lie to be safe, yet I am an advocate of truth, almost an addict to it in fact.
"Job?" "No" I reply once again. Although sometimes I write a traveler on immigration cards and under pay scratched feet and tend to get into trouble for my little jokes with the bureaucrats at times. The biggest trouble you can get to comes through honesty though. In one airport I was just straight to the core. Basically I presented the lady behind the counter a blank sheet. Student- no. Working- no. Address in India- none. Phone number- none. This shocked her beyond belief and finally I had to give her a random business card from a place we were staying two months back, because to her a person like me, who did not fill any boxes at all, well that was just preposterous. A lie, a lie was much better than that.
"How old?" "29." A wobbling head.
Meeting an Indian person always makes me feel like I am having an exam or a job interview. A head-wobble and a smile lets me know that I have passed.
Of course twenty minutes later he fails my own little exam of him, which the universe has presented, his hands get disconnected and I stare at him with a piercing look that makes him leave seats, bowing, apologising, bowing, apologising. Oh well- it is still better to see the best in people I feel.
I used to say that I travelled because I was on the search to find myself. I cannot say this anymore. I am on the road, because I am the road. In India at least, I am not running. India dissolves time. In India all roads are one road and one road is all, India melts down feet. India is for flying. Precisely the fact that India gets you so close to the ground, and this also literally- expect black soles that you will scrub for months- it lifts you above it all. To surrender is to over-come. To over-come is to hold in endless fascination.
India is so fascinating precisely because of its extremes. Extremes must always meet and when the outer world is strung to the limit with noise, the inner world has the opportunity to be quiet. India gives any traveler a clear choice it seems- be frustrated and annoyed by it or find the acceptance and love that all of us do possess, thus seeing the beauty and incredible richness and power of this country one would otherwise miss.
Here the experiences from one end to another are always mixed together to a sparkling large cocktail. Nobody can tell you what the ingredients are but you know you are hooked to the taste. It is intoxicating and depressing yet it also gives you health and energy, joy and vitality. It is an elixir of the youth of spirit and of peace of the old. India is like a battery, it carries the highest charge I’ve ever felt in a country to fulfilling a human beings potential of being conscious. Landing on its soil is like a hand of a mother that shakes the sleeping child who is late for school. The energy of India is a powerful chanting- wake up, wake up, wake up!
Finally, the bus stops at a little crumbling bus-station on a dusty old square. I gently wake up the small boy who has been sleeping with his head on my shoulder. I give one more look, forgiving, to my fellow male passenger, still looking back at me as he exits the bus.
Another Indian city is ahead. I smile, take a breath and melt into the flow of the exiting crowd.
