Universal Dirt

The cold fell from the heavens overnight, and it held the dust to the ground as morning broke in Pune. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to dance through the frozen fog. My colleague and I had already been travelling for an hour through the city, and at this point we were beginning to feel those 7am hunger pains. Some steam was coming out of a kitchen on the side of the road, so we pulled over for breakfast.

The restaurant had only outdoor seating, but without any alternatives, we sat to eat in the cold. I ordered a masala dosa and a black coffee. Shivering in the cold and without warm clothes, Shipra and I started up a conversation to warm our mouths at least. Like most of my conversations, it started with where I wanted to go in India.

“You know, I’d really like to go to Ladakh.”

“Ohhh yes, that place is rrreally nice,” she curled her tongue back on the ‘r’, “you should take the Volvo sleeper,” referring to the overnight bus.

I appreciated the comment. In Mumbai, everyone assumes plane travel first, but out here that luxury is an afterthought – a last resort if the trip is really necessary. Bus and train travel were the assumptions, and I soaked up the change of pace.

“Yeah I’ve actually always wanted to do an overnight trip like that. By train too.”

“Oh yeah, it’s very nice. You leave Bombay in the evening, maybe around 8pm, and you can be in Delhi by the morning. With Ladakh it’s a little further, but…” she gave a slight Indian nod, and twisted her hand.

“I also want to see the Himalayas.”

This conversation continued, and eventually we discussed agricultural college programs in the U.S. and India. She had graduated from a state agricultural university in India, and explained the real world experience of the program, including a year of growing your own crop and selling to market – to better understand the farmer. I meekly mentioned Cornell had a class on tractors.

The dosas and coffee came, and we dug into the steaming crispy fried goodness. The conversation continued, our breaths freezing in the air, but our words weren’t. There were a few other customers huddled over warm food. Their words came to my ears, but not into my brain. Were they farmers talking about their crops? Truck drivers complaining about the traffic yesterday? Transients seeking nirvana? I’d never know, but it was nice at least hearing these words.

After washing our hands in the frigidly cold sink on the side of the building, we were back in the warm van, grumbling along the Pune-Solapur highway. The sun had entered the scene, and scared off some of the cold, freeing up the dust and clearing up the view. We were in the sugar belt of India, and the fields of sugarcane went off in the distance. Scattered in between and amongst the acres of sugarcane, there were other crops too. Rice, onions, corn, sorghum.

After turning off the Pune-Solapur highway, we bumped along a dirt road for a few miles. The dust leapt up behind the van, now completely free to rise to the heavens; it was nearly 85 degrees at this point. We passed two workers who were shucking corn. Behind them was a huge pile of golden yellow corn cobs, and in front was an even larger pile of dried, tan, un-shucked ears. They had obviously done this task in their sleep, because as we drove by, they both watched us pass, but their hands couldn’t be bothered. They continued with a mechanical efficiency. They didn’t smile as we passed. Their skin was dark and wrinkled from the sun, and the whites of their eyes had yellowed from a lifetime of hard, honest work. They were genuine.

The driver stopped after we hit a large rock. He refused to go any further because he didn’t want to damage anything. We obliged, and continued the last stretch on foot. A bullock cart piled high with a fresh harvest of sugarcane crawled past, with a farmer dressed in white riding high above, on top of the cart. We came up to another farmer’s house. It was modest, and the dealer accompanying us yelled something in Hindi as we approached. A young man, maybe 18, came out from the house, clothed in a dirty, loose, red tank top and boxer shorts. He had just showered. He relayed the yelling out to the field, scratched his hair, and went back to the house.

The first farmer approached. He was dressed in a white kurta, and had a shawl around his neck. His hair was black and short, but brushed in a very neat, deliberate way. His round stomach stretched the kurta at the mid-section. He smiled as he came, and my colleagues explained the situation. His eyes brightened, and he motioned for us to follow him. His monologue of Hindi continued, and he took us to his first plot: pomegranates.

“He says he just put in our drip irrigation lines about 5 months ago,” Shipra explained.

“Has he seen any improvements in the yield so far?”

She rattled off Hindi, and he looked down and kicked the dirt. His smile slightly faded, and he crossed his arms. Two minutes went by.

“He says he can’t tell because there has been really bad weather with the cold snap. Everyone has lower yields because of it, so he can’t tell if the irrigation is helping him.”

“Hmm ok. That makes sense…” my questions continued, as did his answers.

By this time, two more farmers had joined. One had a cloudy grey eye. The other was an old man, with horribly crooked teeth stained black and red with the local tobacco product: paan. The young man, clothed this time, joined again. After asking all of them questions, it was time to go. On the way back to the van, we passed a field of okra.

“Oh!” I said, “Okra is my favorite!”

“What?” Shipra turned back.

“Okra,” I pointed, “It’s my favorite vegetable in the world. This crop looks ready, too!”

She laughed, and conveyed the message. The farmers laughed and smiled. The old man suddenly stopped laughing. He hit the young man on the back of the head, and yelled as he pointed to something. Soon the young man had a plastic bag, and was picking some okra for me to take back.

Before leaving, we sat with the farmers for a snack. They asked about America, and I asked about India. Hindi, Marathi, and English were sent as volleys back and forth. There was a small boy, maybe 4 years old, fast asleep on a concrete pad. His mouth was open and slober was flowing out. His sister jumped out of the house and sat with her father. She was about 5. Her hair was cut into a bowl cut, and she had the biggest, brightest smile I’ve ever seen on a child. We asked her name, and she grabbed her father’s arm as she buried her face into his chest. She never spoke a word. Eventually she became comfortable enough, and she sat cross-legged, throwing up a marigold bloom and catching as it came down.

It doesn’t matter if you are in Kansas or Karnataka. The pure honesty of the country is essentially human. We are most free and happy when we are a part of the land. The people out here were born in dirt, live in dirt, and they’ll be buried in dirt. There’s a timelessness in that; like the hills which have rose up and been worn down, the spirit of these people will see a million more sunsets, and feel a million more rains. And they will grow into the corn.

The Death of the Red-Blooded American

I’ve come to the conclusion that an American can survive with American blood in India for only so long. There are distinct phases in adjusting to India, and I’ve finally begun to enter the third.

Phase 1: Novelty

For more information on this phase, you can read any of my previous posts. In this phase, everything about India is new, and therefore wonderful. When you ask a rickshaw driver to go somewhere, he gives an Indian head nod somewhere between a yes and a no, and the ambiguity of his answer excites you. “Yeah?” you’ll repeat. He’ll perform the same motion, and you’ll get into the cab and go through all the other acts. “Bandra?” He’ll put his hand up and pretend to screw in a light-bulb (meaning “Ok, where in Bandra?”). “KFC on Linking Road?”. Then, one single nod, and he’ll switch into second gear and the cab will grumble its way along barely passable roads for two hours.

And you’ll love it.

You’ll go into a restaurant, and be bombarded by items you’ve never heard of. You’ll have no idea what most of the food is, and it’s an adventure. Chicken Shahi Korma? Tangdi Kebabs? Mutton Moughlai? Pav Bhaji? Vada Pav? Pani Puri? Eventually, you’ll try and ask the sever, and he’ll come over.

“What is Paa-v bah-ji?” you’ll butcher the name. He’ll stick his ear out to you. You’ll hold up the menu and point to it.

“Ah, ek pav bhaji,” he’ll say quickly, give the nod, and write it down.

“No, what is it?”

“Two?” he’ll add to your order.

“No. Nah-hin,” you’ll say, starting to get desperate. Then, you’ll resort to the only thing to do: point to a random item on the menu, and hope it turns out good.

And it will. Everything you eat will be amazing. The sheer adventure of trying food you’ve never heard of will turn you on. Then after ordering it a couple of times, saying casually that it’s no good, and suggesting other items on the menu to friends will send you to cloud nine.

And you’ll love it.

When you walk down the street, cars will zoom by just inches away, sometimes less. There will be a constant cacophony of horns – the loud ones from cars, the dying ones from old scooters, and the screeches from motorcycles. Dodging cars on your left, there will be people to swim through on your right. Dive too deep into the cars, obviously you will die. Dive too deep into the crowd, and you’ll be swallowed into a sea of sweaty, smelly bodies, and a lot of smiles. You might get a lot of stares, and people will randomly say, “Hello!” You’ll say hello in return, making their day, and their smile will make yours. Sales-men and –women will invite you into their stalls containing massive walls of t-shirts extending two stories high.

“Not right now,” you’ll say. Not knowing that any response is a hook for them.

“Sir/Madam. Good t-shirts! Good price! Here, take a look.”

“Maybe later,” you’ll say over your shoulder, “We’ll be coming back this way.”

“Ok sir/madam. Come back and see!”

Both you and the salesperson will be happy, and you keep walking. Maybe a skip will work itself in. All the while, whispers of gora/gori will float around the air. But you won’t know this word, so you won’t pick up on it.

And you’ll love it.

Until one day, you won’t.

Phase 2: Disillusionment

Eventually the novelty wears off, and you’ll come crashing down like an unexpected drop on a roller coaster. That moment where the only thing running through you’re mind is,  “Oh shit, this is worse than I thought it was going to be.” You’ll have to go somewhere, and find a taxi. You’ll hail a rickshaw, and tell him where you want to go, and you’ll know exactly where it is. The first will give no reaction, and just drive off. The second will give you a “are you kidding me?” look, and the third will finally give you the Indian nod. And you’ll hate that he can’t just give a freaking normal nod for once. “Bandra?” One nod. “KFC, Linking Road?” One nod. Second gear. All of this for the 1000^th time. You’ll wish that there were street names so you wouldn’t have to give detailed directions every time. Left at KFC. Seeda-hai. Seeda-hai. Seeda-hai. Seeda-hai. Right-lena. Bus. The two hour ride on the world’s worst roads will infuriate you. Every pot-hole will hit your spine like a professional wrestling match, and you’ll feel shell-shocked every time you finally get to step out of the rickety rickshaw.

And you’ll hate it.

You’ll go into a restaurant, but you only have an hour for lunch. The menu’s foreign nature long ago lost its novelty, and you’ll wish you could just ask questions to understand what all these things are. But no matter, you played the finger pointing game, so you have those two or three things you know, and you just stick to those. In fact, you won’t even open the menu. Depending on the restaurant, you know exactly what to order. Alankar’s? Palak Paneer Masala Dosa. Or cheese pav bhaji. Banjara? Schezwan Triple Chicken, or something like that. The waiter will finally come over.

“One cheese pow bhaji.”

“Pav bhaji?” he’ll scribble down.

“Yeah, CHEESE pav bhaji,” you’ll clarify, frustrated. He always makes that mistake.

“Ah, cheese pav bhaji.”

“Yeah.”

You’ll hand him the menu, and close the conversation. And you’ll hope he got it right this time. At this point, you stick to the items you know because you got to a point where everything seemed the same. There are hundreds of items on the menu, but you’ll be convinced they only are different in color. Everything has the same kind of spicy flavor and similar consistency. But they come in yellow, brown, green, red, and white sometimes. You’ll begin to hate those colors. Eating will become a chore, and you’ll sigh at yet another serving of goop in front of you. Disappointed, you’ll shovel the gravy into your mouth with some roti, and the flavor will do nothing to your soul.

And you’ll hate it.

Fed up with the stupid rickshaws, you’ll decide to walk, which means braving the roads again. By this time though, you’ll be a veteran. On your left, there will be cars again. They’ll pass by inches away from your arms, but it won’t phase you at all. It’s as normal as a fly buzzing around your head. Slightly annoying, but not dangerous at all. In fact, when you cross roads, you’ll have no fear, and you’ll walk when only lunatics would walk: as a car speeds directly at you. You’ll hold your hand out, indicating the driver must stop. He’ll honk loudly, and you will both stare each other in the eyes as you pass by. The symphony of horns has turned into a second grader learning to play the trumpet: you pray to God for it to please stop.

As you’re walking, to the right is the crowd of people. You tend to stay near the cars, but when you have to dive into the crowd, it’s awful. Every sweaty chest or arm you bump into will disgust you, and as people smile at you, you’ll doubt their sincerity. Random people will still say “Hello!” to you, but you’ll pretend like you never heard them, and keep walking. You’ll learn where the sales-people are in the crowds, and you’ll especially avoid eye contact with these people. When you make the mistake, though, they will say, “Hello sir/madam!” and again invite you into their stalls. Then, as crazy as it sounds, you will start to respond to “Hello!” with a simple “No.” How sad is that? People will say hello to you, and you will just say “No.” But you won’t care, because you can’t decline another sales pitch. A no will suffice, and you keep walking. You’ll learn that gora/gori is slang for “fair-skinned”, and you’ll hear it floating around all the crowds.

And you’ll hate it.

Until one day, you won’t.

Phase 3: Normalcy

I’ve just begun to enter this phase, so I can’t speak so much about it. At some point though, you’ll begin to realize the cesspool of hatred you’re living in. You’ll wake up one day and realize that most things in India are making you angry. You’ll realize that you harbor bad feelings for an entire country. Your American blood will run hot through your veins.

Then, one deep drum will beat. You’ll be sitting in a cab, and you’ll say simply, “Bandra, Reclamation say jao.”

“Age left?”

“Hah-ji”

And you’ll give an Indian nod yourself. Someone will cut off your cab, and the driver will growl some foreign cuss-word. You’ll join in and give the American version of his word, and you’ll both make eye contact, connected in frustration of this ass-hole blasting Honey Singh from his radio. You’ll both smile and shake your heads, and drive on. You know where the potholes are in the road, and you know exactly when to brace for impact. Pass Lilavati, turn right, 20 yards, big speed bump…now. This is just the way roads are here, no use crying about their rough nature.

And it’ll be normal.

You’ll feel the deep drum beat again. In the restaurant, you begin to open the menu again. Mysore malasa rava dosa? Yeah, someone had that one time. It was pretty good. You’ll get one for the table, then a few more things to share between everybody. You’ll begin to stop ordering for yourself. The waiter will come over after about 10 mins, but you realize it could have been 20 mins. More likely, you don’t give it a second thought.

“Yes sir?”

“Ek mysore masala dosa, do palak paneer dosa, aur ek cheese pav bhaji.”

He’ll nod, write everything down, you’ll make corrections if necessary, and soon enough you’ll get your food. And by this time, you know how to switch up more than just the colors. There’s rice dishes, curry dishes, fried dishes, and a plethora of southern starchy dishes. When you get tired of one style, you change base and avoid the monotone trap.

And it’ll be normal.

When the cars pass by you, you know when to shift your arm to avoid the mirror of the passing cab. You know how to move your body with traffic, and swim through it like a salmon swimming upstream. It won’t anger you, it won’t scare you. It’s just crossing the road. You’ll put your hand up to stop cars, but it will be less of a command and more of a giving of thanks, and an apology. The horns will begin to disappear, and you’ll understand why they are honking. It’s fine. Then when you dive into the crowd of people, your feet will be so used to the dance that you won’t give it a second thought. Walk quickly here, pull back right shoulder now, then lean to the left, slow down slightly, pull right shoulder back to the front, dip your head, return to normal pace.

“Hello sir/madam!”

“Hi,” you’ll say. But at the same time, as they wind up their pitch, you’ll tilt your head slightly to the right, let your chin slip to the left, and close your eyes briefly. It’ll tell the salesperson that you aren’t interested, and that’s it. They might be insistent, but if they are, you say, “Nay, boss,” (or bhaia, for the Delhi-ites), and they’ll pull up on the reigns. Random people will want to start conversations, and you’ll know when to induldge, and when not to. A kid will come up and say “Hi!”

“Hey,” you’ll say back.

“What’s your name?”

“Michael, what’s yours?”

“Don.”

“Don?”

“Yeah, I’m the Don of Mumbai. You may use my roads. Go ahead.”

You’ll move on, and say, “Thank you, sir.”

And it’ll be normal.

And then one day, you’ll wake up, and realize that deep drum beat is the re-start of your heart. Your hot American blood has, whether you want it or not, been spiced with cardamom and fennel. There’s cilantro and green pepper in there, too. Each speck of masala spice flowing through your veins is an Indian experience. One speck for each honk. One speck for every salespitch. One speck for every rickshaw. You eat Indian food, but it never truly leaves you.

Then, you begin to crave India. You stop buying over-priced Fruity Pebbles. You buy local corn flakes, or Choco’s. You want a snack and you don’t go for plain Lays. You go for Lays Magic Masala. When you go to the movies, Dhoom 3 sounds like a better option than Captain Phillips. Restaurant doesn’t have AC? So what? Like you can’t handle this heat? The sweat that rolls down your back every morning on the way to work is just a part of your body waking up. So you sit in your office chair with a wet back. So what? It’ll dry eventually.

Before you know it, you’re heartbeat isn’t the dum-dum, dum-dum beat it’s always was. It’s more of a dum, dum-dum-dum. Dum, dum-dum-dum. There’s clapping too, and a sitar. And there’s some man singing in a smooth, nasaly hindi concerto.

All of this has been a long-winded way to say that you can’t be American in India forever. You’ll be reborn, and it’s a painful birthing process. But after the good, and after the bad, you’ll leave a part of your American behind, and you’ll pray that your masala-spiced blood will stay with you forever.

And you’ll love it.