It's the kind of thing they don't tell you about in USIT when you book your round the world ticket. I'm in India somewhere in a city called Chandigarrh and to make any changes to my ticket I have to physically travel to the nearest Quantas office. Doing it over the phone is not acceptable. And so I travel for a few hours to this place called Jullundhur. Its a huge city somewhere in the state of Punjab in Northern India. There was something so striking about this city far and above all the other ones. For starters there were no tourists anywhere, no white people, which is not unusual, but I had been in tourist centres up til that point.
Nothing remarkable happened, nor did I seen anything remarkable or out of the ordinary. But I felt like the day I went to Jullundhur was the day I saw India.
Going from the bus station to the Quantas office, it was quite near, yet I took a rickshaw. It meant I was less conspicuous, and easier to take an offer of a rickshaw than refuse the 20 or so rickshaw drivers who crowded round me when I alighted from the bus. So many cycle rickshaw drivers pedalling away, weaving in and out through the traffic. So many cars, so many motorbikes and mopeds. So much dust and heat and noise. So much gridlock and chaos. It felt like a heaving mass of humanity, all insanely attempting to get from A to B. Your head is exploding, your senses are being assaulted from all angles. The Hindi music is blaring from every street stall you pass and all mingling together in a crazy commotion of noise. You want escape, you want quiet, some kind of respite. But at the same time you are enthralled, and high. The very quick of life is there before you, the very essence of humanity, of the spinning wheel of people's lives, of the madness of cities. The insanity rises on the air, its a cacophony of moped horns, of workmen on building sites banging away, of the shouts of street vendors. In the mix is the smell of puppadoms being fried in huge vats of oil on the side of the streets, or the aroma of samosas all lined up like soldiers neatly in a basket under a vendor's canopy.
Life is rushing past; women in saris file gracefully past carrying loads on their heads. Scrawny men pull and pull huge loads on makeshift carts through the street.
I go into a sweet shop and I feel like a celebrity, I can't just be anonymous here. I am a novelty so I have to rise to it. So much attention from the men, I try to behave as modestly as possible.
You are dying to escape the madness, the insufferable din, but simultaneously you feel like you are living each crazy moment, like life itself won't allow you switch off. Its there in your face whether you want it or not. Life is all happening right there in front of you.
Nothing remarkable happened, nor did I seen anything remarkable or out of the ordinary. But I felt like the day I went to Jullundhur was the day I saw India.
Going from the bus station to the Quantas office, it was quite near, yet I took a rickshaw. It meant I was less conspicuous, and easier to take an offer of a rickshaw than refuse the 20 or so rickshaw drivers who crowded round me when I alighted from the bus. So many cycle rickshaw drivers pedalling away, weaving in and out through the traffic. So many cars, so many motorbikes and mopeds. So much dust and heat and noise. So much gridlock and chaos. It felt like a heaving mass of humanity, all insanely attempting to get from A to B. Your head is exploding, your senses are being assaulted from all angles. The Hindi music is blaring from every street stall you pass and all mingling together in a crazy commotion of noise. You want escape, you want quiet, some kind of respite. But at the same time you are enthralled, and high. The very quick of life is there before you, the very essence of humanity, of the spinning wheel of people's lives, of the madness of cities. The insanity rises on the air, its a cacophony of moped horns, of workmen on building sites banging away, of the shouts of street vendors. In the mix is the smell of puppadoms being fried in huge vats of oil on the side of the streets, or the aroma of samosas all lined up like soldiers neatly in a basket under a vendor's canopy.
Life is rushing past; women in saris file gracefully past carrying loads on their heads. Scrawny men pull and pull huge loads on makeshift carts through the street.
I go into a sweet shop and I feel like a celebrity, I can't just be anonymous here. I am a novelty so I have to rise to it. So much attention from the men, I try to behave as modestly as possible.
You are dying to escape the madness, the insufferable din, but simultaneously you feel like you are living each crazy moment, like life itself won't allow you switch off. Its there in your face whether you want it or not. Life is all happening right there in front of you.
