The elusiveness of conceptions

The train car I’m in is supposed to be the most comfortable way to travel by rail in India: The Anubhuti Class coach on an Intercity Express. Needless to say that we’re running behind schedule; furthermore the air conditioning has given out, my seat back won’t go up, and there’s a shady looking guard at the end of the carriage, fondling a submachine gun. Maybe I’m more irritated by these things than others after having been spoiled by the paragon of railroad travel, Japan Rail, last year. Maybe a lack of sleep is making me more irritable than usual, as I’ve been woken countless times every night by the crackling sound of fireworks, Punjabi disco music, and people singing and dancing right outside my window. As it turns out, it’s wedding season in India, and the ceremonies are not confined to weekends or indoors. A wedding here can take place any day of the week, as long as the date is deemed auspicious by the family guru, and pretty much anywhere, from a formal wedding hall to a makeshift tent on a public sidewalk.

Nevertheless, I’m heading east. We’re slowly approaching a city called Lucknow, the capital of the state of Uttar Pradesh and home to more than 4 million people. We have just passed Kanpur, an equally populous but much less prominent metropolis. My foggy mind is still hung up on the thought that there are more people in these two cities combined than in all of Austria. And most Austrians—including myself, before I started planning this trip—have never heard of either of them. The state of Uttar Pradesh, India’s most populous, has a total population of 235 million. Add to that the people living in Maharashtra (126 million) and Bihar (another 126 million) and the tally already exceeds the European Union’s 450 million. And then, there’s still about 1 billion Indians who live in the rest of the country. How many interactions, I wonder, would a traveler like me need to have in order to form a somewhat representative picture of what “the Indians” are like? Is that even possible without repeating cheap platitudes, falling back on biased stereotypes, and perpetuating misguided prejudices? On the other hand, how can you not form such an opinion—however wrong, biased, and incomplete—based on how well the handful of people you actually meet resonate with you? My unenthusiastic mood this morning is probably further exacerbated by the less than positive interactions I’ve had with the locals here so far. Or maybe my mind is just struggling with the futile task of constantly updating, revising, and consolidating the impression it is trying to form of them.

Interestingly, toward the end of my stay in Agra, something began to change in my perception of the Indian people. Unfortunately, in Delhi, in Jaipur, and in the touristy areas south of the Taj Mahal and east of the Agra Fort, it became increasingly difficult not to develop a profound disdain for them. The thing is, as a white, solo traveler in these places, I constantly felt like prey. Every time I came into contact with an Indian, it seemed like they were trying to take advantage of me in some way. Take a step outside the confines of your hotel, for example, and a tuktuk will immediately slow down beside you, the driver yelling, “My friend! Where are you going? Tuktuk? Humayun’s Tomb! 100 rupees!” or something like that. Shake your head, say “No” or just walk away, and he’ll follow you down the street, honking more and more aggressively and sometimes cursing at you in a mix of English and Hindi before eventually taking off in search of a more pliable victim.

But it’s not just the tuktuk drivers. There are also the porters, the chai vendors, the would-be tour guides, the shoe shiners, the refrigerator magnet sellers, the barbers and, most disturbing of all, the ear cleaners. Of course, there are also the blind, the maimed, the poor, begging for money or food, as well as their children whose only English vocabulary is “Hello! Give me money!” and who won’t refrain from picking at your clothes or your backpack if you pretend not to notice them. Then there are the helpful strangers: Random men who approach you on the street and offer unsolicited advice on where to go, what to see, and what to do. Make the mistake of engaging in conversation with them and they will inform you that, sadly, the thing you wanted to do today is closed for some obscure reason; but come to think of it, they have a great idea of what you should do instead and how to get there—with a tuktuk driver friend of theirs, of course. Alas, after a few days of this endless barrage of irritation, I actually started to dread going outside; I wanted to plug my ears with wax, hang a “Leave me alone!” sign around my neck, or just punch someone in the face.

But as I said, somewhere in Agra things began to change for the better. One afternoon, I stumbled into a surprisingly quiet and clean residential neighborhood. Goats, chickens, and cows roamed the narrow alleys. Vendors hawked vegetables, eggs, and meat to other locals, but didn’t bother to talk to me. At one point, a group of boys, neatly dressed in their school uniforms, poured out of a side street. When they spotted me, some of them started to smile shyly. Then one of them—presumably the bravest—looked right at me and said, “Hello?” I smiled at him, formed my hands into a clumsy Namaste gesture, and suddenly found myself surrounded by a swirling mass of white shirts, blue ties, giggles, and questions. “Where are you from?” “What’s your name?” “Do you like cricket?” “India good?” “What’s your favorite food?” etc., etc. After a few such sentences exchanged in broken English, they moved on, I moved on, and we were all clearly a little happier than before.

It’s a truism that human beings, no matter where they live or where they come from, want to be happy. But what happiness means is profoundly different for each of us and depends substantially on our baseline of experiences as well as our expectations about the future. Here, in a country where hundreds of millions of people live on the bare minimum, happiness can be as simple as eating a hot meal or sleeping under a solid roof. While 100 rupees lost or gained doesn’t mean much to me, it could very well make all the difference to the tuktuk driver, the shoe shiner, or the ear cleaner (ugh!). That, of course, this is no excuse for harassing or abusing visitors from wealthier countries. But from the tourist’s point of view, acknowledging the harsh reality that many people here face can help put some of their more irritating behaviors into perspective. Sure, it’s annoying to be accosted by dubious strangers every time you step outside. But imagine for a moment if the tables were turned. How frustrating would it be to have to chat up hundreds of random people every day just to make a living?

The kids in Agra however made me realize something else: That there is a more universal aspect to happiness; one that exists outside the confines of materialistic concerns and that transcends the differences between tourist and resident, between white and black, between wealthy and poor. In hindsight, I’m happy to report I had many more of these beautiful moments of simple human-to-human connection throughout my trip. For example, with the elderly man washing his vintage Hindustan Ambassador in a back alley in Lucknow, who, when he saw me trying to sneak a photo of his magnificent car, stopped, came over, and proudly explained that this was indeed a 100% Indian car, made in Kolkata, West Bengal, and, of course, the best car in the world. Or with the owner of the small roadside eatery in Jaipur whose only customer I was for an early dinner; who blushed with happiness when I praised his Rajasthani cooking; and who theatrically refused to accept my (meager) tip until I finally handed the few crumbled notes to his young daughter instead. Or with the volunteers outside the temples in Varanasi who went above and beyond to explain exactly which deities were being worshipped where and for what reasons. Or with the policeman on his Royal Enfield motorcycle (also made in India!) who gave a sly thumbs-up when he saw me taking a picture of his ride. Or with the Uber driver in Mumbai who not only pointed out where all the Bollywood stars lived, but also gave me a crash course on the intricacies of Hindu-Muslim relations in this country.

Still, it’s a challenge for a tourist to strike a healthy balance between openness and suspicion when interacting with strangers in a country like this. But even when the wealth gap is as wide as it is between a European and an Indian, I’ve learned that not everyone necessarily sees you as a walking ATM. There can be moments of simple human connection—fleeting, of course—that brighten everyone’s day. As for the nightly wedding celebrations: They truly can be nerve-wracking. But these might also constitute the handful of carefree hours for someone whose daily life is otherwise much bleaker than my own. And in hindsight, I suppose I should just have gotten dressed and joined the party!