Where is 'real' India?

After 2 months, I thought that I had a pretty good handle on what was India… a colorful place where nothing makes sense. Disorganized and chaotic, a striking contrast of very new, very fast with inflexible traditions and rituals. Life is lived publically in the street -- cooking fires, shaving, wild and stray animals, all types of excrement, and of course, a sweetshop nearly every block. And a lot of unpalatable food that makes you ill (like this morning - Valerie is being SOOO demanding!).

But I found myself in downtown Mumbai, strolling down a promenade along the waterfront, where beautiful colonial buildings touch long parks filled with cricket players and joggers lined by European-style cafes and I have to ask myself, “what? Is this India too?” Oh yes, a ferris wheel on the beach operated by six young men, manually turning it... Ah yes… it’s definitely India afterall.

Next, I happened to journey to Kolkata (Calcutta) again to discover another side of India; somewhere more organized than Delhi, but not as new world as Mumbai. A place where the Raj (the British rule in India) has left its mark, its kiss of order and a planned city.

How about Uttarranchal? Its a northern province of India, close to Nepal, where Himalayan mountain roads crisscross the peaks, taking hours upon hours to reach ANYWHERE. Where it is freezing cold and somehow the people survive without central heating and few fireplaces.

Or perhaps Jodhpur? A periwinkle blue painted city that still retains its desert “real India” flavor, with open doors and open hearts. A quiet place where the problems of the rest of the country (begging, pollution, trash heaps) have not infiltrated the backstreets.

Or Goa, a stretch of breezy sand and open water, palm trees, and western everything? The one place in India where the people are catholic, the women wear skirts to their knees (scandalous!) and you find more superbly fit westerners doing yoga on the beach than probably anywhere on earth.

But, I think I might settle on Varanasi as “real India”… where pilgrims come from all over to bathe in the holy Ganges (polluted beyond recognition), where the dead are ritualistically burned atop sandalwood funeral pyres by sons who shave their heads, and where the dreadlocked Hari Krishna from the developed world come to convert the tourists.

In Varanasi I placed a candle on the Ganges, watched it float away, and made a quiet wish to open myself, feel passion, be fully alive, and most importantly, not be afraid… of real India and what I might find here, come what may.