“You go to India and everyone expects you’ll come back the fucking Maharishi”, I mutter half asleep to my roommate after her husband chides her via blackberry that she’s not acting “all Zen”.
But that is just the way India is; everything all at once like the everyday street smells of curry, excrement and jasmine that hit you in a left-right-left combination within five paces. It is where the big bang happens everyday, its own billion-population universe.
Most people I have talked to, travelers from the ‘70s, to the ‘90s, recount memories and experiences that mirror mine, even down to the minutest details. I was grateful to learn that I wasn’t alone in this opinion and even happy to forgo the hoped for epiphany or spiritual enlightenment, although arriving in the chaos of LAX’s International terminal was wholly reminiscent of the country I had just left behind.
Luggage from five different flights was strewn throughout the four carousels and travelers from Germany, India, Singapore, Tokyo and Ireland ran back and forth with large metal carts while airport employees tried to make sense of what was going on. It was as if the universal energy of India had followed me home and sequestered itself at Terminal 6.
And I now that I am home, I want to drive and drive and drive.
I’ve been dreaming of smooth five lane highways that are well lit and hug a pristine coastline.
Driving on roads that aren’t crowded with bikes, livestock, enormous flatbed carts pulled by water buffalo, slowed by makeshift mechanics who have removed the front ends of buses and then scratch their heads at broken axels and busted radiators. Roads that weren’t dirty, rocky, smoggy or riddled with bloody car accidents where fatality was certain. Driving myself instead of being dragged by taxi drivers hoping for a small commission to dozens of factories and bazaars from Pondicherry to Jaipur to Agra to Delhi to Rishikesh, where marble inlay tables, sandalwood boxes, statues of Ganesha, Buddha, and Gandhi, gems and pashminas, silk saris and incense, cotton shirts and kurtas, block print tablecloths are purveyed and displayed in the hundreds. “Looking doesn’t mean buying” the salesmen tell you, but they are hoping you’ll buy. Traveling as a single, white woman seems to signal that you are rich and on a serious consumer jag.
As I board the plane in Delhi, I can’t stop thinking of black boots, which I am convinced are an essential and crucially missing part of my wardrobe. I’m not sure why I am thinking about the black boots. Black shiny high pointy-toed boots, but suddenly I can’t live without them. I spend my layover at the Singapore Airport envisioning my boots and where I will look for them first. I almost settle on a pair of oversize red sunglasses.
On Washington Boulevard, we pass In and Out Burger and my craving suddenly takes a u-turn from black patent leather to meat. Remembering the chickens, pigs and sheep feeding from piles of roadside garbage, becoming strictly vegan was a piece of cake.
I’ve left clothes behind, fled an ashram, cleaned conspicuous wounds from children, hefted bricks in 80% humidity, and led a team of strangers in what I hope was a life changing experience for them. I’m spiritually, physically and emotionally spent. Or perhaps I am in reverse culture shock and filet mignon and retail therapy are my ideal solution.
I call Andy from the car to let him know I had landed who asks me thoughtfully if I want anything. “Ice cubes, hot water, and a steak, medium rare” roll off my tongue without a second thought.
And with that response, I ask the driver to stop at Starbucks for a Venti ice coffee.
