A Walk Through An Indian City

As I walk along your frantic streets, I watch as homeowners diligently sweep rubbish from their porches, meticulously cleaning their domain, and then, to my dismay, abandon the detritus over a wall at the side of their property.  Illiterate urchins, capable of speaking 5 languages, cheerfully tug at my clothes demanding rupees; to give, or not, a seemingly unresolvable attack upon my conscience.  The stench of human excrement wafts nauseatingly from open drains, but suddenly, the sweet aroma of jasmine perfumes the air from a flower weaved ponytail swished.  Sacred cows, swinging their dung encrusted tails, eat from open rubbish dumps, becoming slowly poisoned by the plastic they consume.  And smiling faces that greet my progress are turned into sneers of disgust as I light a cigarette; women are too pure to smoke.

I break from the exhaustion of the street to sit inside a restaurant.  While picking from the fragrant, spiced vegetarian food on offer, I watch through the window, my heart tightening, as children throw bricks at dogs.  The flicker of a TV distracts me, a Bollywood music video; bright, enthusiastic, scantily clad women thrust themselves happily at plump moustachioed men.  But beneath the TV sits a woman, covered neck to toe in a modest salwar, fearful of the perceived shame of displayed female flesh.  To pay, I slip a rupee note under a plate of aniseed, the benign face of Gandhi looks past me, a man who rejected wealth, chosen by India to grace all her currency.

Back on the street, a family approaches asking for ‘one photo’; their son drapes an arm around my shoulder.  If I was to develop a loving relationship with him, and ask to be accepted into their family, they would treat me with contempt, yet, he is soon to be told to marry a girl-child he has never met.   After negotiating, with tested patience, a rickshaw takes me to a temple of the most popular Goddess in Hinduism, Laskshmi, Goddess of wealth.  He drives, hooting relentlessly, never irked by other drivers.  He points out the state governor’s residence, a grand edifice built by the British raj and a plush house, owned by a beggar who feigns being crippled, scouring the tourist ghettos, guilt tripping rupees from them.  

Cautiously trying to cross the road, a beautifully decorated truck, spewing fumes, undertaking a bicycle beeps at me; it rumbles past, the sign on its bumper telling others to ‘obey the rules’.  Suddenly a hand reaches out and grabs my breast, I seize it and look into the petrified eyes of a struggling, regretful man.  People around pretend not to see, however, by shouting ‘pervert!’ I will see this man beaten bloody by those currently apathetic.  Quietly I let him go. 

Oh India.  Your frenetic intensity wears me down to exasperated tears.  But, with your noise, bustle, and chaos, you are teaching me patience from within.