The Unknown Land I Call Home.

by Eldon Dcruz (Indonesia)

A leap into the unknown India

The India we see on world maps does not exist. Because there is no one India, but a billion India’s. This truth is rarely understood, especially if you are, like me, born and raised in the most populous and diverse Indian city called Bombay. But a few kilometers outside the metropolis, the size of India hits you, the depth of culture - heard through dialects, seen through architecture, tasted through peasant dishes, making the awkward truth very obvious, that your homeland is actually an unknown land. This epiphany pushed me to discover my homeland first hand. My first backpacking trip was to Rajasthan, the ‘Abode of Kings’. It is a desert state and the wonder of this state lies in the fact that while the environment is dry, arid, with scarce vegetation; life is in full bloom. I camped at Udaipur, the erstwhile capital of ancient Rajasthan. And while the city is known for its palaces, what struck me were the bright garments, street musicians, noisy narrow alleys, filled with the voices of women shouting out recipes and colorfully painted homes all stacked one over the other. The geometry and the audio of this visual would send shudders down the spine of any respectable architect and yet leave them awestruck with the color, energy, and life in the visual. Tired of walking the alleys I sat down under a tree beside an old lady who was stitching garlands for the statues in the nearby temple. She asked me where I was from and before I could answer she had transformed from garland maker to Udaipur’s historian and tour guide. Her stories were mixed with geographical accuracies and spicy imagination. She explained how Udaipur lay at the foot of a mountain range called the Aravali, and while the mountain range has defended the rest of India, Udaipur had to bear the brunt of attacks from invaders and nature in the form of sandstorms, droughts and yet managed to conquer them all. Nowhere was this resilience seen better than in the Udaipuri cuisine. The cuisine is devoid of extravagant preparations, or rich ingredients and much of its culinary philosophy is shaped by war – food that can sustain your body, ingredients can be grown easily and taste that can compel your soul to put up one more fight. The old lady was very sure that it was the food that had ensured Udaipur fought off seventy-seven invasions, falling only twice, both times outnumbered but never outmanned. And while the old lady from Udaipur had shown me culture through culinary brilliance, it was tea seller that I met on the train journey to a small Rajasthani town called Chittorgarh, who showed me another perspective of culture. Even from twenty kilometers away, the Chittorgarh fort sitting on top of the mountain is domineering. It was at this moment when I saw staring at the fort awestruck, that a tea seller tapped my shoulder and promised me the most delicious tea for only five rupees. I was thirsty, I paid and hoped he’d leave as soon as he poured my cup. But in India, everybody has a story to tell, so as I sipped the tea he began his story of Chittorgarh. He explained that the fort was the last stand of Maharana Pratap Singh who held off an invading army that was twenty-three times the size of his army for two years before they broke in. And even in defeat, the Rajasthanis were victorious because the very reason for the war, the beautiful wife of Maharana Pratap, who the invading warlord wanted to marry forcibly, decided to walk into a pyre, so that the goal of the invasion which was she, would fail. Chittorgarh’s empty fort and brutal history is a reminder of the cost one must pay to uphold honor, an ironic lesson for a first jobber who was told by his seniors, ‘compromise’ is the name of the game. On my way back to Bombay I reflected on how much I had learned about this unknown land I call homeland. How every town and village has its language, values, and its own stories and to know India, one must know her stories.