Journey to India

Despite the impression I may have given hitherto on this blog, India does have many fine qualities and things, and people. It's not that I don't notice these things, but Internet time is short here, and I write about that which leaves the biggest impression on me. But I have been contemplating what may come across as my "negativity" to readers.

 

Which brings up the question of love/hate, and the right to, and privilege of, criticism. A relative of mine, in sales, and therefore predictably full of sales jingos, brought up the question of whether the glass was half full or half empty. He thinks that I was saying that the glass is half empty in my impression of Kolkata, rather than looking at all the beautiful things that Kolkata had to offer. He loves his city and that I do respect and admire. You really have to love Kolkata to see beyond the obvious. But this is true of anything. You cannot really understand something, anything, if you don't love it. The act of loving changes the knowledge of that thing or person being loved. And sometimes, as you get to know something, or someone, you start to love.

 

But to reduce an impression to a question of a half empty/full glass is absurd. Even as I am grateful and appreciative for the half full glass, it behooves me to look at why it is half empty. To only look at the full glass, and simply ignore the empty is a form of denial, one supported by easy jingos. If I wake up and bitterly regret the half empty glass every day, then it's a real problem of attitude. But to wake up, appreciate the half full glass, then work on how to fill the other half, is a problem of action.

 

I do have some rights, as a person of Bengali origin, to take a hard look at things. Bengalis have lots of problems in Kolkata. I have a right to have my impression. Aside from larger questions of economics, the environment etc. on a cultural level they, or should I say "we", have some serious problems. So far, I have had very few conversations in which there was a reasonable dialogue. I did not feel heard, as I am often cut off in mid-sentence, my thoughts wrongly guessed at, and then wrongly addressed, shouted at, in the name of love and enthusiasm, and last, but not least, ignored whenever I say something that is a bit unusual. When I say something ever so slightly unorthodox, the subject is usually changed.

 

On the other hand, I find myself defending Bengalis to insensitive American tourists, recently on a tiger sighting expedition. The utter insensitivity of suggesting that I throw a toffee in midair so that a tourist could be amused at the sight of little Indian kids scrambling for the one toffee was so utterly revolting, I had to hold myself back from engaging in a verbal diatribe which would have completely gone over her oafish head.