An India we have to address

I realize that I have already used two consecutive installments of this blog on "A midsummer nightmare" and I wondered if I should risk a third on a similar theme. This is, after all, a blog on a business school website.

But as things turned out, I came across an intense essay by a young friend who is of Indian origin but was born in the US and has lived there all her life. Her name is Meesha and she is a second year science undergrad. She visited India when she was 16, and wrote this essay when she was 19 for an English class. I was compelled by its elegant sadness to put it up here.

It talks of things about India that we all know but have to gloss over in order to stay sane. And it describes them through the innocent eyes of the very young who have never lived here.

It's worth reading, even as I look out of my Gurgaon window and see an entire horizon of skyscrapers twinkling with lights.

So here goes - an essay on a trip to the Taj Mahal.

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What constitutes the title “wonder of the world?” Is it a wall constructed perfectly to keep the enemy out, is it an ancient city on a mountain, is it a colossal theater, or is it a beautifully designed tomb for someone's long lost love? Furthermore, once titled, should everything surrounding the “wonder” be shrouded in a mask of majesty; can nothing other than the facade of it's name be perceived? Well, if that was the intent, I am witness to failure.

The Taj Mahal itself is the most impressive structure I have ever witnessed. As I crossed the threshold from the blindness of being behind the surrounding walls to a panoramic view of the Taj Mahal, the sheer size of the building and it's surroundings caught the breath short in my chest (opulence seems to have been one of Mumtaz's specialties). The reflection pool laid in front of the Taj is analogous to a red carpet; setting one up for the extravagance to come. While walking up the the steps, the sun reflecting off the marble and into my retinas provided the next transition of scenery: the inside. The tomb is embellished from top to bottom causing one's eye to dart frantically trying to absorb all of the information. Essentially, the ceiling is the inside of a giant onion dome that begs the question of how such a large structure remains suspended. After surveying the inside in it's entirety I left with a memory that will be forever have engraved in my mind.

With all this said, one may ask where the failure component occurred. The reason I suggest that I felt disappointed is not because of the experience of seeing the Taj Mahal itself, but rather the journey to get to it. When I think back on my experience, rather than feeling fond, I am immediately flooded with despair. The things that I witnessed on a five hour car ride changed my life forever.

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As I get into the car I hear my mother outside talking to her brother. She mutters in Hindi, “I don't know if I can handle this.” He reassures her and she gets into the vehicle. We start the journey in our air conditioned SUV that sticks out like a sore thumb on the winding dirt roads. As per usual we witness the occasional beggar or child selling corn on the side of the road. As the heat of the noon starts beating down on our metal case the air condition struggles to maintain equilibrium. We crack open a can of coke and drink it greedily. As the hours pass the scenery changes from the tranquil India I know to a very different world. I see nothing but shacks. Tiny “home” contraptions made of old car parts and scrap metal. People line the roads by the hundreds, so much so that we are not driving any longer, but rather, crawling.

The people are a whole new world too. Due to the lack of shelter their skin appears to be charred by the sun like burgers left on a grill too long. Their corneas and teeth are the same shade of unhealthy yellow. Their hair is matted to their head like a dog that hasn't been brushed in years. Actually, the longer I look at them the more they remind me of stray animals rather than people. The things they do start to strike me as beast-like. A naked man crudely blows his nose into his hand. A mother carries her child on her back while looking through a garbage heap with her hands. The air is thick with melancholy.

Then I see the most graphic image I have ever witnessed in my life. It is burned into my memory; vivid and brutally honest. When I close my eyes and think about this car ride I see a child wearing only a dirty loin cloth squatting on the roadside defecating exactly like my dog does in the back yard. I can see the discomfort of his severe diarrhea in his eyes. I can see him being reduced to less than a beast. He has been stripped of all humanity, he has lost what it means to be a homosapien; he is merely a mass. This is the brush that colored my world with an entirely different palate than I had ever imagined. Suddenly a stark reality set in that the world around me sucks.

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After this point the rest of the trip was cast in shadows. The trip that I had been looking forward to with a naïve sense of optimism, was now tainted with truth. Ever since this fated moment, whenever I see a homeless person, or someone being petty and materialistic, the image of that boy pops into my head and drapes me in a sheet of sorrow.

The reason that this trip had such a profound effect on me is largely because of the context I come from. I come from the world of middle-class America. Where I have privileges that only a fraction of the world has the luxury of enjoying. One such privilege is watching the trials of the world on the silver screen in the safety of an overly air-conditioned movie theater. I did just that when I saw the movie Slumdog Millionaire. I felt the same way the day I watched that movie that I did at the moment I witnessed that boy. I could not speak afterwards, and the rest of the day was cast in those same shadows.

I feel that I will revisit that boy many times in my life. Although, it hurts me, I am glad that I have him. He keeps me grounded. He reminds me of how incredibly blessed I am. He also drives me to help; to help him and everyone around him. Finally, I learned from him. I learned that India is a beautiful country rich with culture, but it is also a broken spirit. There are far too many little boys out there who don't know what it feels like to be comfortable and well. When I think of the Taj Mahal I taste a bittersweetness in my mouth. The structure itself is beautiful, but the journey to get to it is morbid. I find this to be a metaphor for all of India; the potential is there, but you need to go through a lot of hardships to reach perfection.