Familiar Stranger

Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India
May 20, 2007

WARNING: It's A LOOOONG ONE

Ironically, yet in the most advantageous way, Gujarat has become my toughest destination. From my last email, I am sure you have gathered as much. However, I'd like to offer a little bit more insight into these using, and delve a bit more into what it is that I find so taxing, rather than stick to the age old, "Geeze, but they're so backwards here!"

--- Do you ever find that the more "open-minded" and "liberal" that you become, the more judgemental you really are? Somehow, it is extremely simple to see it in others, like my brilliant friend who went to a small private college on the East Coast and who would let slip things like, "being lazy is a part of their culture." Or the free spirit who almost made me vomit in a fit of rage after she mentioned that her thoughts on those that wear headscarves in Turkey. Arrogantly, and so easily it seems, I thought I had exempted myself from such musings and lapse of superior behavior.

Oh, how wrong I am.

India -- my land, my culture, my people -- and yet, at the same time, I have never felt more distant from people. Let me say right now that it is a completely unique experience for those non-Indian foreigners; no parallel exists, really. In the same way that I am treated as a stranger, a complete goof of my traditions and values, I am somehow expected to maintain a cultural and social parallel. You, on the other hand, are just a foreigner. Plain and simple. At the same time though, when I don't feel like a competed wretched and like a failure, I am allowed insight into what it feels like to be a part of this sprawling territory, and it really does feel like I am able to find some inkling of family and compassion no matter which corner of this sub-continent that I travel.

A few weeks ago, I laid into my aunt about her subservient nature and the fact that she calls my uncle "saahib" (boss). We went back and forth for a few minutes until she held up her hand and said in one those wise manners that I really can't emulate, "Beta, to you, this seems like a terrible way to lead life, but to us, this is the only and correct way to live life. I am happy." Shoot, did I miss something? It wasn't until later, when we were driving back from one event or another, as I watched couples parked by the expressway in secret, veiled by the smog and the night, that I have become one judgemental son of a --well, you get the picture.

So this is their way of coping with what is handed to them. At that moment, I felt like such a Western snob, and so guilty. Yet, I can't help but feel resentful as I watch my friends order around a boy barely older than themselves to clean up a mess, as they have spilled some sauce on the table. Or as I watch my cousin's son stubbornly scream and yell in selfish fits of anger, while a boy that is probably his age comes in through the back door to help his mother wash and dry the dishes that we have just used in the evening. There are so many moments that I try no to judge, so many, but I can't help it.

--- My Mom's brother's best friends are all in Nadiad and Ahmedabad this week for one of their best friend's son's wedding. While my uncle isn't here, and I have never met most of them, and the few that i have I haven't seen since I was about two, they invited me to the five day fiesta. I really don't feel comfortable going to a wedding surrounded by 500 people for five days where I don't know a single person, but one of the uncles cajoled me with the bribe of a few cocktails and the huge party.

OK, well, at least the alcohol will numb the experience. From the moment that we arrived on D. Mama's (uncle's BFF # 1) farm -- which is really just a huge plot of land filled with palm trees, willow trees, and a huge cascading waterfall -- I knew I was in over my head. All of his best friends are like the Paris Hilton's of Gujarat. As we drove up along the stream, a 20 foot hookah stand welcomed us onto the farm and every thing else was covered in black and red. They had brought in Russian, Ukrainian, and Middle Eastern dancers from all over the world, the best DJ from Mumbai, and a trio of bartenders (believe me, this has a moral, I promise). Hemali Auntie (Wife of BFF # 2, R. Mama) and I went back to D. Mama's house to get ready before the huge cocktail party that night, and she told me to keep an eye out for the guys, and to have fun. Just relax and have fun. I really shouldn't have taken that too literally.

While there were 300 people at the part that night, hardly any of the women (openly) drank. Hemali Auntie told me it was OK; in fact, she brought me back my first martini (one of many, let me add) because I was refusing to make a fool of myself. In retrospect, I shouldn't have bothered because fate had already made me a fool. You see, three guys had come to drop us off at D. Mama's house, one being the groom (K. Uncle's nephew, BFF # 3), and his best friend decided that because I had smiled at him (to say thank you for dropping us off), he was in love. Fat chance. Also, to make it worse, no one thought I was Indian. R. Mama kept being asked why he kept speaking to one of the Russian dancers; turns out, they were talking about me. The bride thought I was Egyptian. Just because I am American, all the guys pretty much thought I was a slut, and kept coming up in cycles to talk to me, to see if they could "break me." The next day, one of them told me that he had heard I was married; barely 24 hours into Nadiad and the gossip is flying. I spent four days avoiding eye contact with any of the guys because I knew one wrong move would mean marriage proposals. I'll draw a veil over some of the more embarrassing parts, but let's just say I failed to manage that.

Also, the next day Kam. Uncle (BFF # 4) sat me down and decided to lecture me about my "bad American habits" and my "ridiculous future." Ironically, as I mulled over how I was going to let the stinker have it, I counted to ten in my head, and reminded myself to be the good submissive Indian girl that I was supposed to portray. Apparently, Mr. Boozer and smoker did not like my drinking from a few nights before and the fact that I have this "obsessions" with the Middle East.

When I told Mom, she just laughed and explained how they all thought of me as a daughter, and it was only natural they don't want me going off to Jordan and Pakistan. As much as I complain about the constant nagging and nosy people, I have never felt so welcome within just four days. By the night of the reception, Keval Uncle and I were swapping stories, he told me to wait to have dinner with the bridal party, and all the uncle's and I were best friends.

By the end of four days, people were asking me where my Mom and Dad were. it took me a few times to realize they mean Rajiv Mama and Hemali Auntie (they have no kids, but man, would they be good at being parents). Even all their daughters were amazingly friendly and I never felt like I was a stranger. That's the thing about Indian culture. Once you're there, you're family. As tense as I was with all the guys circling like hawks around a dead body, the sense of family made up for it by a long shot. At the reception table, while I sat empty-handed because I had eaten already with some of the girls, Sunny and Sonu (Keval Uncle's kids) kept asking the waiter to send over some juice for me so by the end of dinner, there were fifteen cups placed in front of me. They thought they were hilarious. All the drunk uncle's would come around and shove sweets down the girls' throats and when I refused, they would yell, "Beta, you're our daughter, no way. Open up!"

And when the pan guy came around to offer post-dinner aperitifs and ghazals (a short poem for each lady), R. Mama shooed them away from me by saying, "No, no, don't embarrass my daughter."

At the same time, Datten (D. Mama's 16 year-old son) and i grew close in four days. It was great having an annoying little brother around, who was also watching out for me. After he had heard about the incidents of the cocktail party, he followed me around for three days whispering, "Khushbu, that guy is looking at you for way too long. Want me to beat him up?" or "Ooooh, is that the guy that told you you should dance professionally? He's ugly." Just like family.

What frustrated me the most was how everyone kept telling me how straight,simple, and pure their kids were. Ha, please, oh, please. While they are saying this, their kids are texting and secretly calling their secret significant others of four or five years, and only tell their parents when it is marrying age/when they get caught.Straight as jalaibees, more like it. Really, it seems to me that their kids and I are the same; there is no difference but they want to see a difference. All those Hrithik Roshan wannabes with their too-tight pants and Dolce and Gabana cell phones trying to hit on the new girl in secret. Puhhh-leaase. It's hard to explain; as much as I am bothered by the nonchalance that people treat others below them with, I can hardly complain. I didn't want to be the annoying superior American when the girls were laughing at the men who were offering the pan, because really, they are doing a job. Who cares how they make their money. I sighed with relief when one of the girls finally spoke up and said, "We shouldn't laugh at them. At least they are not begging for money; Who cares how they make it?" She was my saving grace.

---

It takes a lot of patience to be here because I don't know whether I feel like an outsider or one of them. Luckily for me, I have two more months. The only downside is that everyone wants me to "meet" their sons. I've warned them, and I am ready to play it rough. Actually, I already have, and it's been quite fun. For those of you that have been to India and think that it is no so, and that I am exaggerating, Gujarat is different. Believe me. It's stuck, it really is. I tell my uncle all the time that no matter how technologically advanced or monetarily stable India becomes, without an advancement in social norms, India is going to be it's own vice. They watch people being beaten by their peers on TV for stealing (good thing we believe in justice, I guess?) and the police never arrive. So while the person is bleeding to death, some fifty people have made it their own business to teach that person a lesson. What good is it? it all seems like a vicious cycle. And there I go again, the judgemental outsider. Don't worry, I'll learn.