What do I know, really, of India?
That chefs, clad in sparkling white clothes and towering toques, came out often to greet us and ask how we found the food. That every driver who piloted our vans had the rapier-quick reflexes needed to navigate insane traffic. And the kindness to help me disembark. That the young boys and girls who wrestled our luggage and tidied our rooms were unstintingly polite and efficient. That every smile I shared elicited one in return—fulsome, clear-eyed, direct. That Johnny’s strong brown hands pulled me onto the rice boat and then, in goodbye, clasped my one hand in both of his and smiled his kindness. In other words, that I enjoyed warmth and welcome and gentleness throughout the two weeks we were there.
“We” were a group of five, all ladies of a certain age: Helen, who had lived in India, travels there often, and knows it as a source for her fair-trade shop and as a beloved second home. Pippa, who spent part of her childhood in Mumbai and a critical year as a young adult in an ashram. Davina, whose mother had been born in what was then Bombay. Jenny, our animal whisperer, for whom this was a new adventure—every part of which she embraced. All Brits. Then me. We all saw India through different experiences and expectations and we took to each other. Our easy friendship made the trip especially sweet.
Well, me. I was the oldest of the group by several years. Mostly tethered to my walking stick on uneven surfaces and to gracious and caring arms and hands in navigating steps and rocking boats. And maddeningly, mostly able to hear only part of our conversations and guides’ explanations with my one semi-functional ear. But, lord, did I want to be there—to see a world and people like nothing I’ve known in my life.
From the beginning, the trip was Helen’s baby. And along with travel agent Jo, Helen had scoped out our lodging, most of our experiences, and our guides. In other words, we could enjoy the trek without struggling over logistics. Our route—largely strung along India’s National Highway 66—took us through Mumbai, Panaji in Goa, Kochi, the backwaters of Kerala near Alappuzha, and then to Kovalam. And lest you underestimate the distances, our transportation included three flights, several long drives, and two days quietly motoring along in a converted rice boat on those backwaters.
But the question remains: what do I really know of India?
That I felt enlivened, animated, heartened being there. By the crazed, headlong intricacies of traffic. Especially by the daring and courage of motorcyclists who had to have nerves of steel and 360-degree eye range. By the shops and homes and huts and high rises and cows and temples and apartment buildings and markets that shared street fronts and land along every road. By the sheer numbers of people and their activities—shoppers and workers and boys gathered to play and girls huddled to visit and moms and babies crossing the roads and commuters making their way to work and by school children in uniforms and backpacks coming from school. By bus riders sleeping against open windows and boat bus riders skimming the backwaters toward home. By lines of laundry and cascades of bananas and strings of marigolds for Diwali and by yard-long green beans bursting out of market baskets. By all the many lives being lived around us.
What else do I know of India?
That I reveled in all the views and vistas and properties that were exotic to my eye. (An eye that’s been raised on landscaped grids–tidy town lots of grass, box houses, and mile-by-mile squares of midwestern farmland.) In India instead, I saw houses whose doorsteps ended in water—the lagoon another endless room. And houses with covered top floors open on all sides—that sheltered living and laundry during monsoons. And, situated beside high rise apartments or fadingly elegant Art Deco structures, dwelling after dwelling stitched together with blue tarps and black plastic and grit and hope.
In any setting, I am no botanist or zoologist.
But I could just celebrate the sheer exuberance of plants and animals. And a few species that caught my fancy. The banyan trees, for instance, giants with their upside-down hanging roots tethered to the sky even as they serve up figs and medicines and shelter. Ethereal herons on the backwaters. Rapacious vines that covered whole trees in Goa—becoming a crowd of armed monsters emerging from more greenery. Tropical profusion. And then, in our final days in Kovalam, the kites who swooped over and over above the Arabian Sea shoreline—sunlight turning the undersides of their wings to iridescent red-gold.
What do I actually know of Indian artistry?
I will remember the India of vibrant colors whose origins and use stretch back over time with story and symbolism. The bright lines of saris drying next to jeans and bed sheets at Mumbai’s historic Dhobi Ghat. The rainbow hues of temple and church statutes and paintings. All the Diwali decorations—sinfully elaborate at the Taj Hotel and beautifully simple in front of so many stores and homes. The sari pieces stitched together into scarves. Historical tapestries and intricate carvings in the museum. In Fort Kochi’s Mattanchery Palace, the 16th century Ramayana murals—telling India’s foundational story. And I will never forget the heart-beat stopping–the heart-beat driving–music and makeup and movement of the Kathakali dancers and singers.
I especially do not know the foods and tastes of India—being a spice sissy.
I just know that my traveling companions reveled in the many dishes and combinations that they could order. And even now, I would happily start each day with watermelon juice and banana pancakes and end each day with okra fried with onions.
As Helen reminded us, India—like any other place or culture—is an onion, that there are layers upon layers of history and religion and culture to learn. In fact, there are many Indias, many onions. Many questions. We touched on Indian history only tangentially. And didn’t explore current or historic politics. Technologically-sophisticated India remains a mystery. So do farming and industry—huge as well as homegrown microscopic. And I don’t know about education – for anyone at any level. Nor could we see what daily lives and settings are like for the wealthy and the desperately poor and those in between. Even though jewelry craftsman Amit and his wife Angelique shared their home and a lovely meal, we didn’t see the uncertainty and difficulties they face . And class and caste and religion surely haunt and divide and manifest in ways we did not explore at all. I could only wonder what the men who piloted our houseboat or the waiters in the Travancore Heritage resort or the shopkeepers at Bombay Bazaar all yearn for. Even with good jobs, what else might their hearts’ desire.
So, in other words, no, I do not KNOW India. At all.
Instead, I am awash in impressions. I know that I loved being there. That I was treated to a first taste, a first glimpse. The result of Helen’s love for the country, her impeccable planning, the welcoming hearts of four other fellow travelers, and the grace and unselfishness of so many Indians.
Throughout the trip, I’d timidly ask myself if I could live in India—given my excitement in those moments. Then and now, the honest answer is, “likely not.” We were treated to several rounds of monsoon-like rain storms—and my Oregon experiences make me gun shy of a climate dominated by months of rain. And, were I to settle there, I’d need to educate my palette to the spices that brought the world to India’s doorstep.
Still, on the edge of my seat with excitement and joy and disbelief, here IS what I wished for: another lifetime in which to start earlier, with young legs and keen hearing, to come to know, to come to terms with Mother India. ©
With a heart full of gratitude for Helen and Jenny and Pippa and Davina for their incomparably wonderful company–and for most of these photos!!!
