Stray dogs roam the streets, chasing passing cars. I'm surprised I don't see more dead animals until later in the trip, considering we almost run a few over on the way to the hostel. Smog lingers heavy in the air, burning your eyes and drying out your throat. I imagine I'll get used to it. Trash lines the streets as we drive into the market district of new Delhi. The place is eerily devoid of people, but it is 3am after all.
Our bodies are in disarray after 20 hours of air travel, utterly confused by the light outside and exhausted from lack of sleep. The gentleman seated to my right during our first leg became frustrated when the flight attendant was too busy to answer his page. He was waiting for another beer to get him through that flight. It was uncomfortably tight and difficult to ignore it. Maybe this beer was just the little solace he needed. Already somewhat irritated and muttering curses under his breath between sips, he didn't appear to be enjoying it much.
How indignant, I remember thinking, that the woman sitting behind me on our second leg would tell me to move my seat up. I was already feeling sleep deprived and I just didn't want to be disturbed. I complied begrudgingly. The person in front of me reclined their seat. Why can't I? Why is this so unfair? Why am I the one that must give up my little shred of comfort? The woman behind me doesn't speak English. She couldn't verbally communicate that getting out of her seat is quite an ordeal for her. Asking for help through a language barrier can be quite difficult, but why did I immediately clench on to my desire for comfort over hers? This sentiment is better conveyed by David Foster Wallace, but I tend to regurgitate some bastardized form of it. He speaks of our inclination for unconscious action. The automatic default setting. This mode of thinking is easy because of course that is all we can possibly know as we drudge through life. Each moment is so vivdly about our individual self, indulging and giving in to that little voice that will not be sated by such thinking, but instead makes the thought patterns more consuming yet pointless Not only can this setting be automatic, but it seeks to get caught in an infinite loop. But of course we are not always like this.
There are many times, and I am sure you've felt them too, that helping others and elevating their needs above your own might bring you joy. We can debate how there is or isn't such a thing as true altruism, but this is more about your choice to think a certain way. You can easily feed that automatic cycle, because easy is so appealing. Constantly trying to guess how people might feel about any given situation is exhausting and often frustrating. But regardless of how much effort a choice makes, which might one day be measurable, we can acknowledge that choices are available in any of these instances. Not necessarily choosing how to act, but choosing what to think about. Feeding an angry voice in your mind just forces you to relive painful realities again and again. Those events may not ever change, but something mysterious doesn't want us to consider any alternatives to how we feel about those relative injustices. Offenses against my self. Me. Why me?
Wallace talks of the capital T truth in this way. A rigid, monolithic truth about who we are and how we feel about everything. This draws some interesting parallels, and universally I begin to see these patterns emerge in unexpected ways. Sometimes it is hard to clear that dissonance when such realities are presented to you. It shows you that ugly inner conflict. It is often growling and screaming and tearing into you, burrowing as deep as it can. Sometimes it wins, and we are consumed by rage or grief or frustration, which then spills over on those close to you.
Now more about India.
The first night of our arrival I was too oblivious to realize how many people sleep in the street. The wagons and market stalls of the daytime become the become beds at night. People sleep in the backseats of the numerous rickshaws, but the ground suffices for most. The people cover themselves entirely in blankets and don't stir until dawn. Even the dogs fashion little beds out of trash piles for a few short hours.
Standard "bedtime" seems to be from about 2 to 6am, then the marketplace slowly comes to life: pigeons cooing near the windows, a man ringing tiny, clinging bells asking for a daily pittance, the occasional motorcycle passing through the narrow alley, slow, shuffling footsteps preceding a feeble knock on some door (followed by shouts which surely mean please leave in the nicest way possible).
The morning prelude is pleasant. The streets are still sleepy, but a few nice young men have food carts set up for those who grab a bite to eat on their way to work. The chai is delicious and sweet. The larger food stalls are boiling milk and preparing all sorts of bready goodness. Nicole and I stop for chana masala with parantha one morning. Or perhaps this is becoming most mornings as I add to this journal each day. Without much warning, the gentle commotion outside gives way to the day's cacophony. An orchestra of horns, bells, and shouting accentuate the immense bustle of bodies that flows through the main bazaar, one of the many capillaries of the large, living organ that is Delhi.
Our bodies are in disarray after 20 hours of air travel, utterly confused by the light outside and exhausted from lack of sleep. The gentleman seated to my right during our first leg became frustrated when the flight attendant was too busy to answer his page. He was waiting for another beer to get him through that flight. It was uncomfortably tight and difficult to ignore it. Maybe this beer was just the little solace he needed. Already somewhat irritated and muttering curses under his breath between sips, he didn't appear to be enjoying it much.
How indignant, I remember thinking, that the woman sitting behind me on our second leg would tell me to move my seat up. I was already feeling sleep deprived and I just didn't want to be disturbed. I complied begrudgingly. The person in front of me reclined their seat. Why can't I? Why is this so unfair? Why am I the one that must give up my little shred of comfort? The woman behind me doesn't speak English. She couldn't verbally communicate that getting out of her seat is quite an ordeal for her. Asking for help through a language barrier can be quite difficult, but why did I immediately clench on to my desire for comfort over hers? This sentiment is better conveyed by David Foster Wallace, but I tend to regurgitate some bastardized form of it. He speaks of our inclination for unconscious action. The automatic default setting. This mode of thinking is easy because of course that is all we can possibly know as we drudge through life. Each moment is so vivdly about our individual self, indulging and giving in to that little voice that will not be sated by such thinking, but instead makes the thought patterns more consuming yet pointless Not only can this setting be automatic, but it seeks to get caught in an infinite loop. But of course we are not always like this.
There are many times, and I am sure you've felt them too, that helping others and elevating their needs above your own might bring you joy. We can debate how there is or isn't such a thing as true altruism, but this is more about your choice to think a certain way. You can easily feed that automatic cycle, because easy is so appealing. Constantly trying to guess how people might feel about any given situation is exhausting and often frustrating. But regardless of how much effort a choice makes, which might one day be measurable, we can acknowledge that choices are available in any of these instances. Not necessarily choosing how to act, but choosing what to think about. Feeding an angry voice in your mind just forces you to relive painful realities again and again. Those events may not ever change, but something mysterious doesn't want us to consider any alternatives to how we feel about those relative injustices. Offenses against my self. Me. Why me?
Wallace talks of the capital T truth in this way. A rigid, monolithic truth about who we are and how we feel about everything. This draws some interesting parallels, and universally I begin to see these patterns emerge in unexpected ways. Sometimes it is hard to clear that dissonance when such realities are presented to you. It shows you that ugly inner conflict. It is often growling and screaming and tearing into you, burrowing as deep as it can. Sometimes it wins, and we are consumed by rage or grief or frustration, which then spills over on those close to you.
Now more about India.
The first night of our arrival I was too oblivious to realize how many people sleep in the street. The wagons and market stalls of the daytime become the become beds at night. People sleep in the backseats of the numerous rickshaws, but the ground suffices for most. The people cover themselves entirely in blankets and don't stir until dawn. Even the dogs fashion little beds out of trash piles for a few short hours.
Standard "bedtime" seems to be from about 2 to 6am, then the marketplace slowly comes to life: pigeons cooing near the windows, a man ringing tiny, clinging bells asking for a daily pittance, the occasional motorcycle passing through the narrow alley, slow, shuffling footsteps preceding a feeble knock on some door (followed by shouts which surely mean please leave in the nicest way possible).
The morning prelude is pleasant. The streets are still sleepy, but a few nice young men have food carts set up for those who grab a bite to eat on their way to work. The chai is delicious and sweet. The larger food stalls are boiling milk and preparing all sorts of bready goodness. Nicole and I stop for chana masala with parantha one morning. Or perhaps this is becoming most mornings as I add to this journal each day. Without much warning, the gentle commotion outside gives way to the day's cacophony. An orchestra of horns, bells, and shouting accentuate the immense bustle of bodies that flows through the main bazaar, one of the many capillaries of the large, living organ that is Delhi.
No comments:
Post a Comment