Not Another Bollywood Love Story

As the only gori  on the flight from Calcutta to Bangalore, I stand out. Cal was an old friend; beautiful chaos marked by the familiarity of a place I’d never been before. Now, in line for airport security, the historic architecture is a distant memory, and the security line is just as robust as any city street. Throngs of color and, scents of jasmine push against one other and jostle to get towards a small curtained booth. There is no formed line. One must hope for the best and push through the herd, eventually finding order in the chaos. When I finally get behind the curtain, and stand upon the platform, the security woman’s tough eyes go soft. While scanning me with a metal detector she curiously asks curiously “You look so nice in this dress. You like Salwar Kameez?”

Being a foreigner in India is met with all; resistance, curiosity, and wonder. When I tell Aunties and Uncles my brief story, they are both overjoyed and dismayed. Forget my career as a journalist and professor — they seem to overlook that part of my life. Everyone wants to know about my family and where I am from. Once it is established, I am not extremely light skinned from Kashmir, we move forth to the heart of the story.

In India, there are two reactions received by the foreign partner of an Indian. The first is “How nice! It’s lovely! Best of luck to you both” but the eyes say, “Thank God it’s not my son!” The more common reaction is more cautious, “How do the parents feel about it — they emphasize the feel as if I am some contagion that might infect the family unit. And then there is the wonder and curiosity of it all. While waiting at a bus stand in Bangalore, my partner got the equivalent of a medal. A small man who helped throw luggage on the bus came up to us. Looked at me. Looked at my partner. Looked at me again, then shook my partners hand. In Telugu, he said “You’re doing very good for your country, son.”

My feminist side wants to argue with this, and say “This is not about foreign policy or heroics!” But I can’t, I am not on my home turf, and culture is different here. Besides, the man did not mean harm, he was happily taken aback.

I often get stared at with intrinsic curiosity in most countries, but India takes it to a level of penetrating gaze. During my more frustrated moments, I start doing a Miss America parade wave as I depart the bus. But during my best moments, I break the stare by talking to people, and using the moment for cross cultural exchange. In the villages, where language barriers ensure no one will listen to me anyway, all I say is “NRI. Kerala. Love.” to get the message across. But sometimes the genuine curiosity we often get is inspiring, and moving.

At a Jain temple, the small daughter of the Hindu priest, followed me with giant opal-colored eyes, until she poked her older sister enough to muster up the courage and say, “Do you LOVE him?” Later, their inquisitive aunties fed me an apple, pulled me inside the temple, and whispered “Is it love?”

When my partner was banished to some podunk village in the South of India for medical school, and I was living-it-up in Thailand, I never realised quite how far I’d go to support him. The school itself one of those for profit-medical junkets where families send their kids to live out a nostalgic dream, and to speed up the medical school process. No one really knows if their kids will actually be doctors. The amount of scandal at the school from suicide, to corruption, to a beheading at a local club was incredulous, but somehow on parents day, administrators made parents believe the kids get quality education when in fact, what they are learning is rote memorization, and perhaps how to pick up handfuls of hashish for five dollars. 

Balancing Tradition and Modernity in the New India.

As we traveled, we learned. We learned about public heath, economics, international development.  We learned how we were perceived, and how at the cusp of groundbreaking innovation, people were still in awe of outsiders.  We learned more than we could ever in a school. And we made connections with people, who we never thought we would.  It is our own small impact.  Like when we built sandcastles and Malpe beach, and local children had never seen it before. Once they understood it was ok to break the status quo—- to play in the sand, the kids engineered magnificent castles, adding creativity and spark to linear architectural techniques. Laughing in the sand,  we all built sandcastles until the sunset and tide washed the scuptures away.

We have learned many things, but the biggest lesson, is when travelling, you just have to be courageous and say yes. The waitress that brings you coke instead of orange juice, will look at you and smile, and instead of both of you losing face, decide you should be happy with what you have. You reluctantly agree. “Maybe I wanted coke all along” you think to yourself. It’s not settling, is earnest. In India, this pattern seems rational. “Yes, I want to be on a speeding metal tube on a cliff with three hundred people. I wanted this.” “Yes I will buy five meters of cloth of Kashmiri cotton. 300 rupees a meter? You betcha.” “Of course I will spend my day watching Khali Khabi Kushi Gham with you! It is indeed, the greatest film of all time.” Just keep saying “Yes,” and India will open up

Finally finding happiness in being who I am, no matter what soil I stand on.

its doors to your heart, creativity, and possibly, intestines.

NJ is a lecturer, reporter, and human rights activist. She is curious about the human condition, human rights ethics, and the ways we contextualize our experiences abroad. She serves as the Editor of Shatter the Looking Glass Magazine.