Author:
Vinay Bhat, Washington, Junior, UC Davis, CA
Lighting the Fire
The
night drags on, and as my fingers struggle to find the letters to string
together to make words that mean something, I look out of the window in
my room. Glancing back to the blank document in front of me, I realize
just how difficult it is, how difficult it is to write something about
India. Sitting in front of my computer in a comfortable Berkeley house,
I am disconnected from India, my parents' homeland. It is a situation I
have been stuck in for the great majority of the 19 years of my life.
I
have escaped this situation four times, the most recent and by far the
most successful being in January 2003.
Some
who have grown up like me in America seem to know practically everything
about India. I fall into the opposite category - I know very little. I
have taken classes that cover Indian history, read books originating
from the subcontinent, and seen a number of movies from the region. But
while this is all well and good, in reality, it is simply the proverbial
"tip of the iceberg." There are things in life that one cannot
gain just by reading and watching from the outside. For me, India is one
of those things - I have to be inside to truly understand.
During
that visit last January, I saw more of India than I had before, and was
old enough to gain substantial something from it. This time, I did not
spend all my time in my grandfather's house in Yethadka (which is fun in
itself). Instead, I made my way through novel and fascinating sides of
India. The neon lights, the Levi's outlet store, and the pubs and discos
lining M.G. Road in Bangalore shocked me - it was a part of India I had
thought a figment of some Bollywood movie director's imagination, but it
was in fact real. For the first time, the air (and not to forget,
pollution) whistled by my face as I rode on a scooter through city
streets. I sampled my first restaurant in India, eating authentic jola
rotis (corn chapattis) in Kamath's 5th floor restaurant in Bangalore.
Used to making the 60-mile (100 kilometers) trip from Berkeley to San
Jose in just over a hour, I had the unforgettable experience of bouncing
up and down for an hour in the back seat of an old Ambassador as we
drove the last 18 kilometers of the journey from Bangalore to N.R. Pura.
I was awestruck by the size and beauty of Sringeri, the first temple I
had been to in India. I had never before seen such intricate detail in
architecture, heard stories about the unique fish that inhabit the river
behind it, and seen the sheer number of people there during the
pilgrimage dedicated to Lord Ayyappa. I marveled at the size of a
gigantic statue of Gomateshwara, while having an unobstructed bird's-eye
view from Karkala of miles upon miles of breathtaking scenery. I
remember savoring the specialty coffee brought to us at a roadside stall
in a small town on a sweltering January day. I helped cut vegetables and
serve food during my younger cousin's Upanayanam, participating in the
celebrations in a way I would never have predicted. I traveled down the
narrow, essentially one-road town of Vittal, with buses barreling down,
kicking up plumes of dust and dirt. I visited Chamundi Hills in Mysore,
learning how Devi Chamundeshwari saved the people from the demon
Mahishasura. Nor will I forget visiting the Nanjanagud temple with its
various forms of Lord Shiva, and while leaving, seeing two monkeys fight
for a share of blessed bananas. I reveled in the lavish palaces of Tipu
Sultan in Srirangapatnam, reading blow-by-blow accounts of the lengthy
battles waged by the British against the Wodeyars and Tipu Sultan. I
soaked in the surrounding hustle and bustle as my relatives and I walked
throughout Mysore's city center.
That
is India. That is part of the foundation upon which those books I read
and movies I watched were built. Those are memories that will stick with
me.
I
will never be able to recreate my parent's India. I have grown up in
California while India has clearly undergone its own changes during the
past 30 years. But this last trip, I experienced the sights, sounds, and
smells of India. Without a doubt, learning about Indian history, reading
books, and watching movies have enriched my life; but while they are
part of the Indian culture, they are a part of Indian culture that is
built upon something else. That something else is what my eyes opened to
after getting off the Lufthansa flight to Bangalore.
Wonder
is the root of knowledge, and after January, I have begun to wonder. I
caught a brief glimpse of the marvels behind the door, a glimpse that
has sparked my curiosity. Reading and watching from afar can be useful,
but for me, there is no substitute for living.
