INDIA Pt.3 (Jaipur, Agra, New Delhi)
The hostel’s outgoing receptionist, Shristi, gave me a quick orientation and left me to write in the common room while Bollywood music videos played on TV. Every so often, Shristi would give me a primer on which stars were dancing on screen.
I met a guy around my age named RJ on the outdoor patio during a smoke break. We found ourselves in an interesting conversation after getting the usual small talk out of the way, discussing (among other things) the ethics of working in technology, gun ownership, and having children. He confided in me that he was a democratic socialist (one of the very few I’d met on my travels!) from the Santa Cruz chapter. I confided I was part of the East Bay chapter and we continued to flow from there. RJ works as web developer for multiple Buddhist organizations, which has led to him dealing with Chinese hacking first hand. His websites have been sabotaged before; the Dali Lama’s spiritual doctrine was suddenly replaced with pornography. RJ has been Buddhist since he was 19, and is incredibly well read on the teachings of multiple gurus. Sensing that I was on my own spiritual path, he left me a book the next morning as he and his girlfriend took of for their next destination.
I visited India’s premiere cinema, Raj Mandir, the following afternoon to catch a Bollywood film. The interior was gorgeous, with ornate lighting and decorations that hearkened back to an era when films were still shot on film. Large chandeliers, a plaster bust of the theater’s founder, cards containing compliments from Indian celebrities and statesmen; what would be considered gaudy in any other context felt truly magical. The doors opened to the showroom and the mass of moviegoers I was floating in flooded inside, frantically searching for their assigned seat. A large velvet curtain hung from the front, concealing the theater’s expansive single screen. The ceiling glowed red through plaster gills, illuminating the packed seats below like a darkroom. The lights dimmed. The curtain lifted slowly, each fold finding shelter in the fold above until the heavy fabric was out of sight. A low resolution Indian flag consumed the screen, waving in the wind. Everyone in the theater rose to their feet, singing along as the national anthem played from the speakers.
The film was Tiger Zin Dai, a blockbuster action movie starring Bollywood’s most famous: Sal Khann. Sal is Tiger, a Rambo/James Bond character who gave up his high-octane lifestyle to start a family. He and his wife are pulled from their retirement from the Australian Mountains to rescue a group of nurses held hostage by ISIS. Tiger must complete his mission before the US government launches an indiscriminate air strike to take out some high-value terrorists. The entire audience would lose their shit, screaming, whistling, cheering whenever Tiger appeared on screen or did something violent and/or bad-ass. There were subtexts of Indian nationalism (a sniper reveals he’s carrying an Indian flag with him during a mission) and religious unity (a scientist reveals his Pakistani flag, before flying it alongside the sniper’s). The audience was talkative throughout,with some people answering phone calls in the middle of the movie. But when you’re seating 1000 people from all over one country during the holiday season, I imagine creating some consistent movie-going culture could be difficult.
The film was gratuitously violent despite being rate PG-13, with half of the killings being sold to the public as “female empowerment” since Tiger’s wife was doing the throat-slitting sometimes. Having finished bell hooks’ book on patriarchal masculinity and its connection with violence just two days prior, I felt uneasy throughout much of the movie as it bombastically prepared the next generation of Indian soldiers while simultaneously cultivating a culture that glorifies and reveres them. But I paid for this experience, and an experience I was getting. If anything, gratuitous violence is the U.S.’ bread and butter.
When I returned from the cinema, I grabbed lunch with a woman from South Africa who has been teaching in Myanmar for the past few years. We had a lighthearted discussion about balancing travel and relationships before she took off later that evening. I joined Shristi and another hostel guest and went out drinking at HOP (House of People). It was ladies night and we spent the evening dancing our asses off and people watching. Shristi’s a phenomenal dancer. It was fun watching her perform different choreographed moves to each of the popular Hindi songs that came on. Indian dancing feels very call and response: a move is introduced and everyone mimics it together until someone introduces a new one. More communal than competitive. Mayank also happened to be in town for a relative’s bachelor party, so we caught up for a bit before parting ways.
I caught a bus to Agra around 10 the next morning. Standard issue, unlike the fancy sleeper carriage I took from Johdpur, with a mixed bag of people from various parts of India on holiday. A woman munching on chewing tobacco kept spitting out of the open door and missing her mark, causing her tarred saliva to land in the main aisle instead. I was unable to hide my physical repulsion at one point, reflexively jerking myself upright. She must’ve felt the disgust in my movement through her periphery, because she quickly turned and stared directly at me. I kept my eyes locked straight ahead, avoiding her piercing focus, feigning ignorance towards our silent confrontation. I was no match for her and I knew it. When she finally freed me from the prison of her gaze, I moved to the back of the bus and passed the time with some reading, sleeping, and a heavy dose of podcasts.
I arrived in Agra in the afternoon, smaller and more impoverished than the other cities I’ve visited so far, despite being home to India’s crown jewel: The Taj Mahal. The weather was incredibly smoggy throughout the day. The electricity, inconsistent. My lights went out 5 times while I wrote this post. I went to bed early since I’d be rising with the sun to see the Taj Mahal before the lines became a mile long.
This morning the fog was so dense I couldn’t see more than a few meters ahead of me. On the way to the ticket booth, I bumped into two travelers I met the previous night and we waited in line together, slowly inching towards the security checkpoint before being let into the main garden. The fog hadn’t let up, and we wandered the grounds aimlessly for nearly 5 hours before the fog finally lifted, giving way to one of the modern wonders of the world. The Taj was beautiful, helping us briefly forget the hunger that’d accumulated within us over the last few hours, but obscenely crowded with people aggressively competing for the best spots to flex for the gram. The interior of the mausoleum wasn’t mind-blowing, but the gates and the symmetrical, litter-free gardens were a joy to walk around.
We ate together at a restaurant called Sheros (She-rows) afterward, run by and dedicated to supporting victims of acid attacks. The menu was ‘pay as you please’ and the food was phenomenal, especially after starving ourselves for the past few hours waiting for the fog to lift. Exhausted by the early wake-up, I parted ways with the other travelers and slept until morning.
I was headed to New Delhi again for New Year’s Eve.
After enjoying the authentic Indian flavors of Pizza Hut, I bought some beer for a NYE barbecue party at the hostel. The first half of the night was filled with conversations both fun and exhausting. I met a Moroccan girl named Saimya and had yet another discussion about life, love, and traveling. The reoccurring topics reminded me a lot of the conversations I had with Roxanne back in Croatia. It seems like everyone our age is just trying to figure out how to love and connect, deprogramming and assessing and accepting past trauma so that we might be better for those we love in the present and future (and better capable of receiving their love). Saimya’s working on an app idea, so I gave her some informal consulting that lead to some cool breakthroughs.
On the flip side, there was a vaping American whose politics were pretty conservative. We had a measured, but intense, discussion about patriarchal capitalism’s impact on our society. Less than ideal party banter. It was difficult keeping the conversation on the rails as we got drunker, but we concluded our discussion respectfully. Anyway, the night concluded with a lot of merriment and dancing to Indian and western pop songs. Samiya was a lot of fun to dance with, unpretentious in her movements, both of us happy just moving with each other on the floor. We shared a New Years kiss before heading to sleep. I had an early flight to catch.
Delhi fog was in full force that morning, grounding flights for three or more hours and causing Gandhi International to grow more congested with each passing hour. People circled the seating areas like vultures, looking for somewhere to park themselves before resigning to one of the many staircases instead. I arrived in Dehradun five hours later than expected, my delay exacerbated by an unexpected crew swap and random luggage inspection. I watched five entitled men crowd around stewardesses at the front of the plane, voicing their frustrations and demanding recompense, genuinely believing their harassment would get the plane off the ground faster rather than stalling takeoff for everyone. The men belittled them in Hindi, constantly requested to see the pilot, and asked for extra perks and drinks while the employees did their best to prep the plane while keeping their cool. I eventually spoke up, pointing out that they were being rude, and we were finally airborne soon after.
The flight was over in a blink of an eye. I exited the modest airport in the hills of northern India, and caught a cab higher up into Rishikesh. Cows and monkeys strolled along and across the roads as the roads themselves began to bend more. It was 6p.m. by the time I arrived at the front gates of the ashram.
