The diversity of progress After 25 days and 24 nights, this is my last evening in India. But with each passing day, with each person I’ve met, with each place I’ve visited, and with each piece of information I’ve absorbed, it seems that my mental image of this fascinating country has become less and less coherent. If you asked me today what my most beautiful or memorable or scary or strange experience was, I’d be hard pressed to come up with an answer; nor could I put labels like “archaic,” “modern,” “anachronistic,” or “progressive” on many of the things I’ve seen. Maybe the range of experiences, the sharpness of the contrasts, the vastness of the country itself, its many quirks and contradictions, all the tastes, the sounds, the smells, the colors, … it is just too much for my narrow little mind to process. Maybe the fact that so many things here are changing, progressing, evolving all the time makes it impossible to pin down any one idea about this country with any degree of certainty.

The power of devotion On this bright, clear morning, I’m sitting on the banks of the Ganga River in Varanasi (Benares), one of humanity’s oldest continuously inhabited cities. But Varanasi is not only famous for its historical significance (“Benares was already ancient city when the Buddha walked its streets,” to paraphrase Salman Rushdie), it is also one of the holiest places for devout Hindus. Thousands of temples, shrines, and ashrams are scattered throughout this mesmerizing jumble of sandstone, concrete, and marble, but the most enigmatic of its many sacred sites is located right next to me: the public cremation grounds on the riverbank. Being cremated here, on the stone steps that lead down to the water, is said to guarantee the soul of the deceased the immediate attainment of moksha, liberation from the cycle of birth and death. And while I tried hard not to intrude on any such proceedings, it’s almost impossible to evade them. As you approach the river, the labyrinthine alleys become narrower and narrower, compressing a motley crowd of pilgrims, tourists, and mourners into a single sweating, weeping, praying mass. Struggling not to get crushed, alas, makes maintaining a respectful distance a completely hopeless endeavor.

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.

The widening of perspective As I write this, I’m sitting on a bus that’s rumbling across Uttar Pradesh, a federal state in northern India. My seat, the tiny fold-out table on which I’m resting my notebook, the floor, the window, the plastic curtains, … everything is covered in grime. Wherever I turn, it all looks filthy, worn, spent. And that’s pretty much how I feel right now—and presumably how my fellow passengers must feel as well. The forty or so young, dark-haired men on this trip weren’t exactly brimming with joy to begin with, and the fact that we’re already more than two hours late doesn’t help to lift anyone’s spirits. It goes without saying that I’m the only white person on board, and that I haven’t heard a word of English spoken since I checked out of my third-rate B&B this morning—except for the countless unsolicited invitations to hop in some stranger’s tuktuk, get my shoes shined or my hair cut.