Our India

by Daniel Norris (United States of America)

Making a local connection India

Manan’s father thinks that his son is bothering me, he tells him to let me rest. Manan – the young boy who directed me through the crush of the New Delhi station to join him and his father in this crowded train-car toward Jaipur – has been questioning me about ‘my America' for hours now. At his father’s words he quiets in indignation. As an apology Manan’s father, Aarjun, offers me a syrupy dough ball he calls a gulab jamun, I politely refuse. He politely insists, handing me one of the sweets and, in a natural gesture, doling them out to the nearby passengers in our car. In his father’s moment of distraction, Manan ventures another question about “my America”. “How much money do you make in your America?” Aarjun is a businessman. He was in Delhi on business, now he and his son are returning home to Rajasthan. He works in some technical profession and explains his business to me in detail. I nod attentively, understanding little. As he talks of his career, he also shares how India has changed. How his father was a tuk-tuk driver, ferrying passengers across the city paid in loose coins, reeking constantly of gasoline. Now Aarjun is wearing a fresh linen suit, crisply polished in our sweltering train-car as he expounds upon the fortunes to be made in the new modern cities of “our India”. Still, he says he prefers the second-class cars. “It’s cheaper.” He says with a smile. Aarjun hopes to send Manan to America, “my America”, for university. He explains that he hopes his business will succeed so that he can give his son the chance he was given in what he describes as the nation’s brief moment of opportunity. “Now things are harder” he says when I ask about the current economy in India “Our India has grown much, now there is much opportunity but, things are not perfect. We must improve much before there is opportunity for everyone like your America.” I counter that “my America” has problems too – the world is reeling from the results of the 2016 election: a national identity crisis is playing out on the world stage. My America, it seems, is not at all what it appeared. He nods knowingly and glances about the crowded train, at the passengers above us seated on the overhead luggage shelving – their legs dangling between our faces. He nods. “But they are not the same.” Out the window ‘their India’ scrolls by and in the evening light I see “this India” in a series of snapshots. A woman cooking over an open flame, no stove in sight. A fallen building brightly painted with the colors of the Indian flag. A shoeless boy and his dog running alongside the train, smiling brilliantly. These moments barely resemble the polished photo-ops from the India Gate, the sharp businessmen of Delhi. Surely, this India belongs to someone else. Perhaps this is the India of the 90 million people raised from poverty in the short spans of 6 years, raised bodily into an economy with fierce competition for a limited supply of jobs. The India of 1.36 billion “American Dreams” clambering to come true. The scrolling landscape offers no answer. Back inside our train-car Manan is explaining that he wants to study computers. His almond eyes light up when he talks about “my America” and its fabulous internet connectivity. “How many megabytes -per-second do you get in your America?” He marvels at my answer. When the train reaches the outskirts of Jaipur it is dark. Manan and Aarjun are getting off. I have another hour on the train before I reach Jaipur and from there on to Agra and the Taj Mahal, the curated highlights of India’s Golden Triangle of tourist destinations. Curated to show me a version of India that belongs to someone, I wonder exactly who. At the door Aarjun pauses to ensure that I have the name of my stop memorized and smiling – satisfied or amused with my pronunciation – he tells me to mind myself during my stay in “our India”. It feels inclusive as he says it this time. But, I am unsure if he meant it this way.