Disclaimer: As much as I detest disclaimers, I grudgingly supply one here. The post below is not a commentary on the sorry state of things in India. It is a commentary on the sorry state of things in my mind, which is the general theme of this blog.
Another year, another trip to India and the subsequent return to this city brings with it that familiar feeling of living in exile.
I took a train ride all the way from my hometown in the south up to the north eastern borders. Or At least I was supposed to. I got on to my compartment and found it to be packed with wage-labourers from West Bengal and Orissa, who can be found in increasing numbers, to be working on the roads and construction sites down south. Many of them were traveling on tickets without reservation, so there were twice the number of people as there were seats, hardly any place to sit and certainly no place to keep any of our luggage. The cramped space, the sounds, the smell, their uncouth appearance, the mewling, malnourished babies suckling their mothers dry, the soiled clothes- it was more than my senses could bear and much to my horror, I reacted in the most unthinkable way- I began to cry.
So this is what seven years of living abroad has done to me. Growing up in India means that one is regularly subjected to stomach churning experiences, surrounded by sights and sounds that assault the senses, up to the point that this becomes expected, acceptable, even the norm. Not even these experiences, however could soften the blow of revisiting the worst of it, in one condensed, totally unexpected experience, after a few short years of abroad in starkly contrasting conditions. In India, when faced with inhuman circumstances of 'other people', there are some who roll up the window panes of their air-conditioned cars, who can catch a plane and run away. And then there are some other people, who have no choice in the matter. I never counted myself amongst the latter, but here we were.
And what I am even more loathe to admit is that I did not cry tears of compassion that day. They were indignant tears of offense- some sort of entitled rage at having lost what was 'my space', 'my' holiday, 'my bubble' which was supposed to carry within it the glorious, beating heat of the Indian summer, stretches of open fields dotted with people easing themselves, cups of tea in quaint earthenware, the loud chant-like calls of the peanut peddlers, the idle of three days and two nights with my Jane Austen, much needed time for meaningful conversation with the family and pleasant yet poignant imagery for my camera. And now my bubble was being encroached upon by these... these people! There were twenty in people in a space meant for ten. So,to put it bluntly - I was throwing a classic, spoilt little rich girl hissy fit.
What did I expect them to do? Make room for my royal high-ass? Where were they supposed to go? If anyone was to go, it had to be me. So I got off at the next station, headed back to Chennai Central and in a few hours, was on a flight to Bagdogra, because I could afford to free up some space for those who needed it. Now a few more people would be able to use my berth. This is hardly a noble act, this was cowardly retreat.
Increasingly, there is so much so much that I see on my trips back home that is unforgettable, and so much of what is unforgettable is exactly what we (who’s us? Me? My brother? People like us? Oh what dubious classification) where taught to look away from, to ignore. How does one remain desensitized to the irony of living in high-rise buildings that look over slums? By systematically turning away from what is real and really sad and really terrible so that you can enjoy the fruits of your fortunate circumstance with a clear conscience.
I know from articles like this one that much of the prosperity, vitality and optimism that one sees everywhere in India these days, coexists with desperate, demeaning poverty that drives those who are able to somehow get away, to work for a pittance as unskilled workers in places alien to them. It's all very well to read about this, to watch it in the news and to sympathize; when squarely confronted with it, I volunteered to look away, literally bolted with my tail between my legs and I did it on purpose.
Anyway, what could I have done? Fix the apparatus that has dislodged my fellow travelers of that day from their homes and families? Yes, yes, I could have accepted it and endured it for three days and allowed it to make me a little more human, influence me and shape my future actions. But I couldn't find the gall to do so and I am ashamed for it, but to report this here is to hold myself accountable for my own thoughts.
Certainly this thread of thought and experience is to be continued...
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