Reflections : Magnetism of India

If it is true, as Edward Lear has written, that the world can be divided into those who have seen the Taj Mahal and those who have not, then such sentiments can be applied equally to India itself.

Some adore India and long to return; others wait to touch the place for the first time. Some will never set foot on its hot and dusty shore. . .and will never feel the loss. There is no certainty about who is right; only that each pities the other.

India is not for everyone. It offers itself, warts and all, and doesn’t expect you to understand or to judge. You need a strong stomach and a sturdy heart, but your rewards will be infinite.

India is a paradox of staggering proportions. The country can put a man in space, but just try making a telephone call in Delhi. India boasts building and engineering achievements that can rank alongside any in the world, but has yet to produce toilet paper that tears properly.

Sounds and Smells

There’s an old cliche about the sights, sounds and smells of India. Like most cliches it’s distilled from truth, and it is what remains of India long after the photographs have faded.

The sights are incongruous, like the dignified city gent in business suit and tie, in 85-degree heat, who sits bolt upright on his moped while his partner, luscious silk sari flapping, rides pillion.

They are memorable, especially signs like the Ding Dong Bar and Restaurant, the Chit Chat Ice Cream Parlour where you can buy Disco Dream ices or Yummy lollies, and Panama cigarettes, which promise to be “good to the last puff.”

They are unbelievable, like the positioning of the counter of the Oriental Fire and General Insurance Co., which offers personal accident aviation policies . . . next to the check-in counter at Bangalore Airport.

Infinite Patience

They are thought-provoking, like the road-mender resting on his haunches, selecting a tiny stone from his wicker basket and with infinite patience and great concentration placing it next to its fellow like a jigsaw puzzle and who, in his way, is making his contribution.

They are everyday, like the hotel boy who would tightrope across my balcony each morning, in a battle against gravity, holding a bucket of water with which he would water my potted palms; or like the three men cutting the lawns with a hand mower--one pushing, two pulling.

They are inspiring, like the street urchin who, with enviable entrepreneurial skill and the speed of a wagonload of monkeys, darted between the feet of our assembled party, cleaning shoes before their occupants had time to object.

They are spectacular, like the Taj Mahal, whose beauty is enough to make you believe that buildings do have souls--and ludicrous, like the gaudy pink band decorating the base of a pillar in one of the Catholic world’s most famous and revered churches.

And they are unforgettable, like the parade of animals that share the roads with their two-legged companions . . . monkeys and mice and birds and elephants and pigs and dogs and squirrels.

Many Cows

And cows: sacred, omnipresent, revered, radiating inertia; all sizes and shapes; old, young, battle-scarred and pristine; gracing roads, streams, railway lines, front gardens and shops, even government buildings.

India is smells: the food, like a culinary rainbow, redolent with the tang of cloves and cardamom; the exhaust from cars, which would asphyxiate you if you stood still long enough; the sandalwood and jasmine at the bazaars; the incense at wayside shrines; the cow dung drying in the sun, and a hundred others whose source you dare not attempt to identify.

And India is sounds, like the car horns, a constant cacophony as road users enthusiastically obey notices on the rear of trucks that exhort them to “Sound horn, OK?”

Or the squeal of tires as every male Indian driver attempts the ultimate test of manhood . . . to pass every car, bus, truck, laden bullock cart or pedestrian, against oncoming traffic, around blind bends and uphill, preferably with five centimeters or less to spare.

Or the air conditioning, wheezing to a halt. No hotel is immune; the gremlins are everywhere. Even the most expensive hotel in India sports candles on its coffee tables.

Ceaseless Movement

India is color and noise and ceaseless movement. It is, as Salman Rushdie said, the divine intermingled with the everyday.

How to sum up the enigma? It’s impossible. I remember sitting in the garden of an opulent home that once belonged to a maharajah. On the lawn, two snake charmers were coaxing their rather bored charges from the depths of wicker baskets.

I watched, mesmerized. I felt a sense of fascination, awe, curiosity, revulsion . . . yet I couldn’t take my eyes away. It’s the sort of complex emotion that India itself evokes.

A native of Bombay who has seen the city swell thrice its size in the space of 20 years, put it this way: “India has a thread running through it. It binds us together, our different ways of life, in the north and the south, such diverse cultures and customs, so many religions and classes.

“And I don’t know why, but even when it’s stretched to the limit--as it often is--it never breaks. That’s just India.”

India will exhaust you and exasperate you; delight, shock and inspire you. It will annoy you, amuse you and seduce you.

But most of all, it will keep calling you back.