The many faces of India
India. A journey of disorientation, confusion, vastness, and fascination. A country whose imprint perhaps only reveals itself later. I did not fall in love with India the way some people describe. At the time, I was too busy finding my way through its turns and constant changes.
What comes back to me now is a kind of heaviness. The hours spent in crowded trains, from Kerala to Assam. Or at the back of a small truck: the warm wind, the smell of earth and fuel, the dust sticking to the skin. The body and the eyes grow tired. But the mind stays alert. I keep myself awake on buses, taking in this constant flow of new colors and shapes. People laugh at my impatience. Why try to plan, they ask. You’ll always end up somewhere.
The journey begins in Kerala. Wet rice fields, green hills, fishermen’s beaches. The air so thick even two fans and the open windows can’t clear it.
I wander for a few days around the port of Kochi. I wave down rickshaws and let myself be carried from one place to another, keeping an eye on the road. The days pass between rice fields familiar to travelers and roads lined with restaurants and shops you would find anywhere. One morning, long and tiring negotiations with a bus driver who refuses to let me on. A woman alone has no place there, he says. I protest until he gives in. The next day, somehow wanting to blend in, I buy a tunic and loose trousers like the ones I often see women wearing.
The region is known for its cultural diversity. They say religions coexist here more peacefully than elsewhere. Colonial houses stand next to temples and mosques, One can see traces of ancient ages, as well as Portuguese, Dutch, and British presence, and of a long history of trade and exchange.
As the journey goes on, the landscapes change, and so do the languages. You have to keep adjusting, get used to every new taste. I begin to understand that this diversity can only be grasped by moving through it. Always trying to keep up, with the crowds, with time, I wonder when it will finally be time to rest.
I head north, from train to train, between goats and sleeping passengers, until I reach Guwahati, in Assam. I stay with the sister of a distant acquaintance. She gives me her room and takes me everywhere on the back of her scooter. Little by little, this city, at first opaque and mysterious, begins to open up. We walk through streets, alleys, and markets, stopping to eat at roadside stalls. One evening, she takes me to have my nose pierced at a local jeweler’s. At the back of a narrow lane, in a small workshop, men sit cross-legged working metal on low work tables set on the ground. I am made to sit, told not to move, and an old man pushes a rod through my nostril with a large pair of pliers. Behind the glass, a small group has gathered, watching with amusement. Later, as we drink tea in her room, she shows me her collection of earrings and gives me a pair.
The next day, after saying goodbye and leaving behind a box of chocolates, I head toward Meghalaya, near the border with Bangladesh. On the way, I pick up two young Israelis hitchhiking, just out of military service. I think back on their stories now with bitterness. We drop them at a crossroads, and I watch their tall silhouettes disappear in the rearview mirror.
By the end of the day, as the driver drops me at my guesthouse, I notice about ten motorbikes lined up in the yard. In the dining room, a group of riders watches me quietly over their bowls of soup. The next day, they will already be gone. That night, I lie down on a damp mattress, my bag at the foot of the bed, and fall asleep almost instantly.
In the morning, I will be taken to the start of trails leading into the jungle. And for the first time in a long while, the air will feel almost empty.
To be continued…
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