I’m sitting on an Air India plane, in a middle seat instead of the aisle seat I requested and should have received (but obviously didn’t). It’s late and I’m tired, and I’m trying not to think too much, but it’s impossible not to think because it’s my last night in India. Tomorrow I’ll be home again in Chicago, showering without bathroom sandals, drinking water from the tap, and eating fresh fruit (unwashed, just because I can without dying). I’ll be living life how I’ve always been living it, and I’m not quite sure how that makes me feel.
As of last night, it thrilled me. After a final day of reporting, Ashley and I were exhausted, and we agreed that it was time to say goodbye to India. I was still sick; Ashley had found a huge squirming bug on her plate at dinner; and a lizard was back again in our shower. The next time we do a reporting grant, we agreed, we’re doing it in Paris. There should not be wildlife in food or showers. In my book, dinner should not be moving when you try to eat it.
Then I opened an e-mail from my friend Anoop, and my perspective changed. The e-mail described his recent trip to Bihar, one of the poorest states in India. Anoop went there to evaluate whether it might be a good location for a new public health project he’s planning. What did he find? Teenage boys who weigh about 50 pounds, and malnourished children with no food to eat. Families who live without running water and electricity, and whole villages who survive without any sanitation system. People wake up in the morning to relieve themselves in fields, and they get polio because there is so much human waste around. I can’t even remember the other details, I think I’ve blocked them out because they were too sad.
After finishing the e-mail, I felt horrible for venting about my own inconveniences. What was the problem again? A lizard in my shower and a bug in Ashley’s food? I’ve been living a life of luxury compared to the people in Bihar. Families should have running water, electricity and toilets. Children should have food to eat so they can grow big and strong and happy. Somebody should do something to help them. It’s just not fair.
Now on this airplane home, I’m thinking about all of it again, even though I should be sleeping and I’m trying not to think. I’m remembering Anoop’s e-mail, I’m remembering the highs and lows of this trip, I’m trying to sort through images of slum children and monks with rainbow umbrellas. I’m trying to make sense of it all, trying to make sense of the way I felt when I saw them and the way I feel right now. Happy sad angry excited alive, all at once. And then it hits me.
In India, you’ve got to throw away your notions of what should and shouldn’t be.
Throughout my trip, there were times when I hated India (mostly when I was sick) and times when I Ioved it (mostly when I was healthy). During the bad times, I think I was unhappy because I was fighting against the way things were. I took two motion sickness pills, so I shouldn’t get sick on the bus (but I did). I’ve been drinking bottled water and avoiding fresh fruits/vegetables, so there shouldn’t be parasites in my intestines (but there are). The man on my flight should not have answered his phone during take-off (oh he did), and my rickshaw driver should not have tried speeding the wrong way down a one-way street (yes, that too). The poor slum boy selling coke should have had pants on his bum (so sad), and the beggar outside the Dalai Lama’s monastery should not have been blind or hungry (reality stings). I should have had running water (nope) and my food should have been bug-free (oh well). Life should not be so exhausting all the time. It just shouldn’t.
The thing is, should and shouldn’t are terribly tiring—especially when they’ve ordered your life forever but nobody else actually cares about them. In India, the rules I knew so well in the United States seemed to disappear. Prices changed depending upon the vendor’s mood and the buyer’s level of foreignness. Road rules changed depending upon god knows what, and everything seemed negotiable all the time. Nothing went the way I thought it should, no matter how hard I tried.
But looking back, that’s also what I love so much about this place. There is an amazing sense of liberation in the lawlessness, a real beauty that makes everything come alive. I probably shouldn’t have eaten two masla dosas in a row, but I did and it was wonderful. I probably shouldn’t have been out in Bangalore at eleven o’clock at night, but I was and it was a rush I won’t forget. I never imagined I’d be meeting influential Tibetan freedom fighters in little nondescript bookstores, because that’s not where influential freedom fighters should be hanging out. But sometimes they are, and sometimes you just get lucky.
When I learned to forget about how things are “supposed” to be, India gave me so much more than I ever could have bargained for. I was somehow able to traverse the country from north to south, visiting three cities and meeting the Tibetan communities who live there. I was able to speak with incredible college students, to hear their stories and learn a thing or two in the process. I was able to ride rickshaws and cook momos and haggle with funny shopkeepers. I was able to break some of my own rules (get fruits, vegetables, exercise and a shower in every day), and I was able to see that I’ll survive anyway.
It should. It shouldn’t. Who cares? After India, I’m resolved to remember that life is so beautiful simply because it is.
