I loved telling people we were moving to India because their reactions were so funny. Many of them were similar. The conversation would usually go something like this:
Me: We are moving to India.
Person: (Short pause) India? India?!
Me: Yea, India. *chuckle*
Person: Okay...Wow. India.
That was the standard incredulous, italicized response we received. Even Martin and I fell into that category when we heard the news. We were both living abroad at the time, so it wasn't like we were new to the idea of living away from home. But ironically India was the one place on Earth we agreed we would never, ever live in. No way, no how. And there we were, repeating back and forth to each other, eyebrows furrowed, "India? I mean, India?"
Here are a few of the more original replies I remember:
My neighbor's response: You can't do that!
The manicurist's response: Bombay? Where is that, China?
My sister's response: Think of all the salmon tikka!
The bartender's response: Bombay? I hear that goes good with tonic.
My mother's response: Since when does India have sea ports?
So it was clear from the beginning- most people we knew thought moving to India sounded insane or remarkable, and most people had limited to no knowledge about the country. I am no different. I took a class in high school on Asian countries; I used to dine at Indian restaurants on Sundays with Heather; and I knew a few trivial bits of information about the subcontinent. However, I didn't (and still don't) know much.
It is now ten days until my flight to Mumbai. I read a few books, perused my trusty Lonely Planet, asked umpteen questions online, and dreamt many dreams about India. At this moment, if I close my eyes and think India this is what I envision:
Air heavy, hot, and moist; incessant honking, rumbling motors; seas of elbows and toes; bobbing heads of shiny black hair; dust, dirt, and prickly sweat. Busy, buzzing outdoor bazaars; beggars imploring bewildered tourists. Skinny kids scurrying past giant posters of Bollywood stars. Billions of sandals and sparkly bindis; people haggling, rupees exchanged. Mountains of powdered pigments in turquoise, chartreuse, indigo, magenta. A random cow.
Fresh, ripe mangoes and heaps of vegetables. Chanting street vendors frying snacks both sweet and savoury. Sticky chutney-covered fingers, spicy fragrances meeting salivating tongues. People shouting, mosquitos hovering. Sad skyscrapers towering over sadder slums. Sun beating on wet, glistening foreheads. Trains heavily fringed with limbs. Chai slurped from clay cups; clay cups smashed on pavement. Wheels on rickshaws motorbikes bicycles buses cars taxis trucks, all moving spinning whirring twirling all at once. Everything, all at once.
How dizzying! Of course what I wrote above is simply a small sliver, a fraction of a snapshot, of grand Mother India. Because it is such a vast and diverse country (a billion people, two dozen languages, countless cultures, religions and ways of life), I must remember and you must remember that what I write here is and will be shaped by who I am. My observations will be filtered through the eyes and ears of a young woman, a "westerner" (for a lack of a better term), a mom, a wife, an introvert, an American, living in Mumbai in this particular year, producing experiences as unique as the handmade Indian carpets I hope to find in one of my imaginary, bustling bazaars.
Image credit: Heather Murphy
