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Reflections, like a good cut of meat (or more romantically, like shooting stars), shine for only the most fleeting of moments. After the briefest window of opportunity, any thoughts back to a period are only memory, and that makes them both hazy and quixotic. So it is rather regretful then that I it is only now that I get around to continuing my contemplations about my (by now) rather memorable trip to India, about which I think I still talk, and think, a little too frequently.
People are always the main focus of any trip, even recreational ones. Between the twin attractions of sights and scenery and the locals, we possess different means by which to remember them. Old cathedrals and ancient mountains are best remembered wistfully while thumbing through a glossy photo album, shiny photos, in their jackets, of snow-capped mountains framing smiling faces, and the physical manifestation is the only part that we can remember because we cannot interact with scenery like we do with people. People, on the other hand, are always remembered by what we said to them and what they uttered back to us, more memorably in their broken variety of our language, as well as the unspoken gestures proffered by them. Photos of these people, with these people are superfluous, serving only the function like that of a security guard opening up the wondrous superstore of memories that we have about them.
That being said, I did take a few photos of the Indian village peoples and some with them, but only in a petit mal of touristic energy. Neither can I recall much about the few sentences of garbled English that transpired between me and the average shopkeep, or farmer, or housewife. Much of the store of memories lie in their actions, which can never be captured without marring their original intent and purpose.
Our intent however, was clear right from the start. At its very basis our aim was to help these people because, obviously, someone thought that they needed assistance and that we were equipped to provide such a service to them. This seemed like a straight-forward enough transaction, if we may dilute the meaning of that by introducing a financial term to it. However, early into our trip, the distinction between the benefactor and the beneficiary started to blur.
We made our foray into the village late morning, having heaped our dinner plates at the lavish buffet of urban pleasures that B-- had to offer - running water, electricity, Star World, and so on, in view of the "deprivation" that we would soon be suffering. As we ventured further from the city, the rural transformation accelerated until finally we were travelling on sandy, pot-holed roads. Naturally, this being all scenery that we would see again countless times, we tossed it to the back of our heads.
There had always been some sort of expectation that, being foreign and unique to these villagers whose worldview was so insular that they had never seen any non-Indians before (though some had colour televisions, which was surprising), we would receive a specialist, nearly super-star treatment, as if we were demi-gods and the like (this is a favourite analogy). And indeed we did, being mobbed by small children and wizened old men alike, clamouring to know our names (and indeed, only our names due to their limited grasp of English) and all wanting a piece of the action. Imagine what you would do if a god or deity (of your choice, or none at all), were to come to your neighbourhood - there is always a host of reactions; stunned awe or a frenzied dash to touch him (or her, for political correctness' sake) or perhaps something else. This was a whole gamut of emotional outpouring that we saw, a cross-section of the reactions of a whole peoples to a singular event and we could not help but to somehow be touched by such a plain, wholesome outpouring of emotion that simply could not have occurred in the urban settings we were accustomed to.
However, unlike us, who tire so rapidly of something novel in the face of a host of other, ever more inventive things to toy with, such a fountain of fascination never ceased to flow even in the rather long span of time that we spent there. In later days it proved to be somewhat of an annoyance, even a hindrance. But initially, it made us feel terribly good, that feeling of appreciation that we all crave, to feel 'special', particularly for those who are not naturally pre-disposed towards friends; a yearning for human interaction.
I felt a rush of joy upon encountering such a situation, naturally. I don't think that if anyone were to bring about Middle East Peace, international nuclear disarmament and a cure for AIDS would he shake as many hands as I did in that time. But at the back of this I was wondering about our roles being turned on their heads.
TBC
