लिखा निष्क्रियता

The cab, uncharacteristically, is right on time.  For a culture that admits that punctuality is not high on the agenda, this is a really punctual cab company.  We’re heading to Aksherdahm Temple, which is about a two hour drive, and the driver speaks no English.  While this is a fairly straight-forward trip, this doesn’t make things easy—we do a lot of hand-gesturing, and I’ve been instructed that if and when we get confused, I am to call Mr. Pal, Abhishek, or Shubhendu, tell them what I need, and then give the phone to whomever I’m interacting with and they will explain.  That’s pretty sad, pretty helpless, and pretty optimistic that someone who has a phone put in his hand by a foreigner doesn’t just bolt.  But what the hell.

We begin our drive and there isn’t much to speak about due to the language barrier, but the driver does occasionally point at things, mention something in heavily accented English, and then ask me to repeat when I’ve repeated what he has said several times as I myself try to decipher was has been said.  This happens with every interaction, and we actually get pretty good at starting our tet a tet of repetition a good 4 minutes before a decision needs to be made so that we can reach an understanding and a decision by the time it’s necessary.  We’re doing pretty well.

We drive through Delhi and I never stop being amazed at the number of people, the scope of business, and how much my cultural preconceptions have hindered my ability to understand this place.  I know that most Americans work, have a job, get some kind of paycheck, go back to a domicile of some kind in the evening, and live their lives in a fairly general pattern.  Here, I have no idea what’s going on.

Streets are covered with countless venders selling peanuts every hundred feet, or chunks of sugar, roots, roasted this and stewed that.  Does the average Indian have this much disposable income to support all these places?  Can you actually support your life on selling peanuts in a poor city?  What about where these people sleep?  I’ve seen people sleeping all over the place, and they don’t look homeless.  Can you just crash in a field somewhere?  Does this happen?  And even if there were such a field, how do they decide who has ownership?  With the litigiousness of American society, nothing happens without someone approving or disapproving it; we have vacant lots that are managed by landlords—what about the lots I see here?  People have built shacks and shanties on them—is this legal?  If it weren’t, what would be done?  Do you just set up camp wherever you feel like and just roll with it?  I guess I just have a hard time understanding the scope of humanity here—this place is packed with people, and I just don’t understand how they make it work.

The drive takes about 90 minutes as we had anticipated, and is punctuated halfway through by another exchange over the word ‘temple’. I think we are here early, but then I see what’s going on when the driver pulls over—Lotus temple.  You’ve seen Lotus temple before.  It’s an enormous white temple with angular pedals that reach up to the sky like a metal flower opening.  To describe it in nerd terms, I’d say it looks like a cross between elvin décor and Klingon architecture.  Yeah, enjoy that one.

I snap a picture and we press on; before long the driver starts pointing, which we both understand; Aksherdahm Temple is off in the distance, and we’ll be there soon.  We get to the carpark and I have to get out of the car, go through a bomb checkpoint, which has become beyond second nature, and meet the driver inside.  We exchange numbers, and I put off in my mind the ridiculous idea of us communicating over the phone without the help of hand gestures.  We’ll tackle that issue when we come to it.

I enter the pre-security checkpoint for Aksherdahm.  While a center for Indian culture and the peaceful religion of Hindu, Aksherdahm is not without a troubling past.  About 5 years ago it was seized by terrorists for about a week, and this has left everyone a bit jumpy, which is far from not understandable.  The security measures, however, and nothing if not extremely, extremely thorough.  It’s easier to fly than it is to get into Aksherdahm, and I’m really not joking.  As I am removing the batteries to my mobile and my camera (neither are allowed on the grounds), I catch sight of a prohibited items list.  It easily contains 50 or so items, and they get very specific.  There are the standard bans on flammable liquids, weapons, and drugs, but then things get a little more interesting.  Here are some of my favorites:

• Pen drives
• Flash lights
• Magnets
• Utensils
• Soap
• Shampoo
• Notebook
• Diary
• Umbrella
• Calculator
• Chocolate
• Newspapers
• And last but not least, Drunkards

I can understand the mobile phone and technology, but a great number of these seem a little too specific to be worth the effort of mentioning them.  Is smuggling shampoo into the compound that large of an epidemic?

The line to check my electronics isn’t long, but it’s very slow moving and rather…Indian.  With the lack of personal space in the country, people’s line-standing etiquette is just different.  It’s not uncommon to push, keep your hands on the back of the guy in front of you, and shove and push your way in front.  And I’m alone now, and it really feels that way.  I don’t like acting meek but I am—I can only rely on the kindness and English skills of the officers working, and while they do an excellent job of taking care of me and getting me through the lines, it feels a little like I’m the teacher’s pet and all the other pupils look at me, annoyed at the privileges I get because of my nationality.

Security checking actually consists of looking through everything, including shoes, and patting me down with an explosive scanner.  There is also a good old-fashioned hand frisk which consists of a delightful yet unexpected juggle of the nuts.  That’s some customer service.

The monument itself is something to behold.  The first thing that stands out besides the size of the compound is the intricacy of the carving.  In the center is the temple itself, made of white stone that I would assume is marble, and every inch of it is ornately carved.  It looks like a mini figurine that someone has spent years perfecting.  At the base of the monument are symbolic carvings of elephants—often with multiple trunks, or with many elephants seemingly paying homage to one large central one.  Surrounding the temple on all sides is a shallow pool of water which is fed by 108 brass cow-head spigots that send water cascading from their mouths.  The number, I hear, is symbolic of the number of rivers that feed the region.

Unfortunately, the temple itself is closed, which is news to me.  But there are other things to see here, and I follow along the perimeter, which consists of carved sandstone and encompasses the entirety of the enclosure.  Eventually I come to a point where there is a momento picture being taken.  Normally, this would not be attractive to me in the least, but given that my camera and my shampoo have both been confiscated, I decide to go for it, and at the reasonable price of 100rps, what the hell.

As I am waiting my turn, two girls jump up in front of me, one of them wearing a yellow siri with a blue scarf.  The man taking the pictures tells her she has cut the meek western dude standing off to the side awkwardly, and she asks me if this is ok.  Never one to offend (which just means weak-willed and not in a real hurry to take a picture by myself) I tell her to go for it.  She thanks me, takes her picture with her friend, introduces herself to me, and as I am in the process of forgetting her name, the camera guy signals that it is my turn.  Ok, let’s do this.

After some positioning he gets ready to frame the shot and I stand there, good and uncomfortable.  Not only am I now taking a picture alone, but I’ve had to get off the step everyone else stands on because I’m too tall, and beyond that, I’m not quite sure what to do.  The last three families I’ve seen up here looked incredibly stern—not a smile in sight.  Should I smile?  Would that cheapen the reverence of this holy place?  Then again, we’re talking about a holy place that sells souvenir photos.  I go with the compromise that almost never works well; I will smile lightly with my mouth closed.  This never works because when I’m smiling politely my eyes give away the fact that I’m not really into it; I look bored or angry.  And my mouth always ends up looking a little lopsided and I exude a general air of discomfort.  It’s not pretty and it makes me—and I fully appreciate the offensiveness of this—look a little more special needs than I’d like.

Making things even better is the fact that the White Western guy who doesn’t like a lot of attention has attracted quite an audience.  Dwarfing my usual entourage of onlookers, I now have a solid 15 people wondering what the dopey American is doing having a picture taken by himself with such a “out without my walking helmet” look on his face.  And my new friend, let’s call her Bindaya (because that sounds something close to what she said) has now amassed a group of her girl friends who are watching intently and giggling.  Basically all I need is for a swami to come up behind me and pants me and we’re looking at my nightmare scenario for social awkwardness.  Click.  Thank fucking god.

As I leave the line and continue walking the perimeter I round a corner and run into Bindaya and her friends.  It would seem they’ve been waiting.  Bindaya introduces herself to me again and the other girls begin to chime in—about 8 in total.  Where am I from?  What’s my name?  What am I doing here?  They appear to be in college (Bindaya says she is a lecturer at a local college), and every response I give elicits a round of giggles.  The all introduce themselves, and since I don’t know if they’re really strict Hindu’s, I’m not sure if it would be inappropriate to offer my hand, particularly in a temple, so I just nod awkwardly as I meet each one.  It feels incredibly incomplete to meet someone and not seal the interaction with a handshake.

After a few more questions they say goodbye and walk on slowly, and I walk slower, linger behind a corner, and then find a lookout over the temple and contemplate life for a while to give them some distance.  I swear sometimes my social awkwardness is a disability.

Walking on I pass the Lotus Garden, which is 7 pedals sunken into the landscape with stone with each pedal inscribed with plaques in Hindu and English of peaceful quotes about man’s relationship with God.  I can’t think of anything else to do, so I walk down the steps from the bridge that crosses over the middle of the garden and begin reading.  I do this for about 3 minutes when I hear my name.

“Hi Bryan!”  It’s Bindaya and her friends, crossing the bridge, waving and giggling.  I give a sheepish wave and go back to reading the plaques, ignoring the other people on the bridge watching me now.  I make it to the 3^rd pedal when I see a flash of yellow and look up to the bridge and the same girls are walking back over, waving to me again.  This happens 2 more times.

I’m uncomfortable.  I mean, it’s flattering, and I would actually not mind talking with the girls and getting to know more about where we are and what they do, but I’m really not in that place, and the language barrier is really exhausting at times.  They speak very, very good English, but sometimes just decoding the accent is tiring enough.  And on top of that, I don’t want to make a faux pas at the temple, as I already feel like I stick out.  There are other tourists here, but our number is dwarfed by the hundreds and hundreds of school children.

I only have about an hour left so I buy a ticket for a ‘boat ride’, which is in a building just past an enormous fountain which is also closed for maintenance.  I wait in line with about 200 school children and practice balancing looking comfortable traveling alone, but not aloof.  It’s harder than you’d think.  After being led into several different rooms where we reform lines I meet up with two other Americans—Raj and Dana—and get into the large boat of the English speaking tour.  We’re the only ones on the boat.
The tour is about the advanced nature of the Vedic society that predated what we now know to be India.  I find the level of advancement of such societies to be incredibly interesting, but towards the end, this starts to sound more like an India pep rally than a historical presentation.  India was the first democracy.  India had the first colleges.  India beat Pythagoras to the theorem by 300 years.  Indian surgeons were performing plastic surgery and doing nose jobs 3000 years ago (seriously.  There were mannequins holding chisels up to the noses of other mannequins lying prostrate.  India had the first astronomers.  India had this. India had that.  And this always harkens back to my first question with most of these societies—why did it stop?  If the Vedic society was already one that would seem to be as advanced as ours, why did it stop some time ago?  Why didn’t it continue to advance us past the point where the west started if the western forces were busy herding sheep and mastering fire while this society was knocking out nosejobs and besting Pythagoras by three centuries?

I have to turn down Raj and Dana’s invitation to go on to the next show as it’s time for me to leave; I’m already going to be late by the time I collect my things from the security room, and I still have to pack for the weekend back in Gurgaon.  Security goes well, and I exit the complex, am only asked for money once, and call the driver.  He says something.  I say something back.  He hangs up.  I call back.

He says something more frantically.  I think he says ‘front’.  I have no idea.  He does say ak minat, and I know that means “one minute”.  So I wait out in front and pretend not to hear the guard with the assault rifle tell me to move along.  I smile at him and give the thumbs up, playing the stupid foreigner card to buy some time.  I don’t want to leave this place because it’s the best shot of finding the cab and I’m surely going to end up being harassed if I take a side street in such a tourist-popular area.

The cab then whips around the corner and the driver honks to me, motioning for me to get into the car before we are both lost in a hail of bullets.  I get in and we drive back to Gurgaon.

*                                                                        *                                                                        *

Due to laziness or a sense of irony I order Papa John’s for dinner tonight.  I’m in a flurry of packing, which is me being dramatic.  I pack jeans, a pair of shorts, and a couple of tshirts and call it a done deal.  But I have calls to make, and don’t feel like navigating another takeout place. I order a cheese pizza and am thankful that I’ve ordered a medium.  It has 6 pieces and is about the size of an American small.  But I’m not that hungry anyway.

Shubh calls at about 6 to confirm plans, and after a quick stop at the ATM to take out 10,000rps for the road (sounds impressive, doesn’t it?), we head out for the Pushkar Fair out in the desert state of Rajistan.  Because night driving is slower, the roads are worse, and the driver doesn’t really know the area, it’s going to take at least 6 hours of driving.  We should reach the camp at about 2am with stops.

To make the journey even more exciting, we don’t really have a place to stay, which seems to not bother Shubh.  The beautiful thing about traveling and having a marginal ability to write is that situations like this threaten to be horribly uncomfortable, but such hardships will pay off 10-fold when it comes to having a story to tell.  We could bed down with a herd of camels for all I care.

The actual plan is that we will stay in a canvas tent in Pushkar Fort, which have been specially resurrected for the camel fair.  The contact says he doesn’t have room, but Shubh is confident he can make room, and on top, we have a reference from a guy at work who was there this last weekend—a fact that Shubh will use in the negotiation.

The car we rent this weekend is a larger model by the region’s standards-about the size of a Ford Focus—and I am grateful for the extra legroom.  The initial driving goes well, or as well as can be expected for driving in India on a Friday night.  The driver is, in fact, a cab driver, though a slightly more conservative one, and he does not speak English either.  Shubh and I talk for a while, then stare out at the landscape whizzing by, and eventually nod off.  Before long the driver is tapping my leg—there’s a toll ahead, so I give him money.  Since the state of Haryana and Rajistan have different taxation and fees for commercial vehicles, I end up reaching in my pocket quite a bit over the course of the drive.

At the suggestion of the driver we stop for dinner at a roadside hotel just beyond the border of Rajistan.  The place makes me think of restaurants in the Indiana Jones movies.  The dining room is a barren place with white walls and dark wooden chairs and tables.  Locals sit around eating and talking beneath the slowly rotating ceiling fans and look up for a moment when I walk into the room.  Then they resume, uninterested.  I don’t think we’re the first tourists the cab driver has brought in here.

We order a dinner of chicken kabobs, a masala, and roti.  It’s very good, and we’re doing the best we can to hedge our bets and eat only the things least likely to get me sick.  The last thing I need on a 6-8hr car ride is Delhi Belly.  But the food appears good, is reasonably priced, and is filling.

Back in the cab it takes us a matter of 30 minutes of driving before Shubh and I both completely pass out, which is a difficult thing to do as a passenger here.  Driving in America, the people I’ve spoken to say, is funny to them.  The idea that one can space out is a completely foreign concept, as are the concepts of staying in your lane or smooth roads.  The driving here is hectic and loud.  Even on the highway there is a lot of swerving, and since it’s night in a more rural area, the usual incessant honking has actually gotten louder as most of the vehicles we’re moving between are large trucks carrying grain, marble, or gasoline.  Driving requires absolute attention and begets constant feedback.

As the night gets later I wake up to the sign of more noise than usual and am startled to see a number of large headlights moving towards us.  With about 15’ to spare, the driver slips next to another truck in our lane and shoots the gab between the two truck heading in opposite directions.  I decide it’s better if I sleep though this.  I also wish there were seatbelts in the back.

We stop at a truck stop and get out to stretch.  This is my first (of many) introduction to this type of structure.  Here there are numerous tables, cots, and snackfoods—it appears to be an Indian take on a truck stop, as there are several drivers parked there.  What’s most interesting to me is the fact that there is no real shelter from the elements here; storefronts lack a front wall.  Structures like this are comprised of the other three walls (with a small back wall) and a roof.  Men sit around a campfire in front, wrapped in blankets and sporting colorful turbans.

The look of the people here has changed.  What I think is just an instance of rural vs. city is actually a real change between the states.  Rajistani men, Shubh tells me, wear colorful turbans (where as Sikhs are the only habitual head wrap-wearers in the city), sport bushy curled mustaches (which I had been admiring), and have ear and top rings in both ears.  On top of that, this is a very Muslin state, so the conservative influences are stronger in this region, and restrictions on alcohol are almost absolute.

We drive on and Shubh continues sleeping, and I occasionally try to catch some shut eye myself, but there’s really no point.  Each time I drift off the horns wake me up, and when they don’t, the tapping on my leg signifying a toll does.  We eek along towards Pushkar and eventually reach the down around 2 in the morning.

The problem we now face is the fact that we don’t know where the fort we are staying at is, and no one seems to be able to tell us.  We drive around the streets, which are absolutely littered with sleeping people.  It looks like a college campout, if students wore turbans and traded camels.  We drive from building to building, and finally into the center of town where people are sleeping so packed together than their sleeping blankets look like carpeting.  To make things more difficult, there are cows all over the road, and our cab driver lays on the horn constantly.  I feel badly, but the lumps under the blankets don’t move.

Eventually we make it to the fort at about 3am.  Our contact guy leads us to our tent and bids us goodnight.  To call it a tent is a bit of a dressdown—it’s a house with canvas walls.  Covering an area of about 20’X30’, the tent has two twin beds, several sitting chairs, and indoor plumbing and a washroom behind a second canvas wall.  Behind the wall, I see, is a full porcelain western toilet.  This is hardly roughing it, but I’m too enamored with the idea of a tent with indoor plumbing.  With barely a thought left in my head, it hits the pillow and I am unconscious in less than a minute.