Holy Cow!

A friend recommended the book Holy Cow! to me, and I was able to pick it up here in India for literally a fraction of the price it would cost in the U.S. I only started reading it this afternoon but can already tell I'm going to like it.

It's written by a woman who visited India for the first time and hated it, but a palm reader told her she would come back for love. Eleven years later she does just that, which is where the book picks up. But her story of the first visit (albeit brief) had me rolling.

Once she boards her plane out of there she says "As we take off I give smog-swirled New Delhi the finger. 'Goodbye and good riddance, India, I hate you and I'm never, never, ever coming back.'"

Hey that sounds vaguely familiar...oh yes, that's right, that was ME on my first visit too!

Except it wasn't Delhi. No, I adored Delhi. Drivers obeyed traffic signals and acknowledged the existence of lanes, nobody bothered the foreigner because there were just too many foreigners to worry about it, monkeys sat cutely by the side of the road and never once tried to steal food out of my hand or exhibited any sign of rabies. If anything, I was sad to leave Delhi to return to Pune.

My "I hate India" breakdown happened at a train station in Mumbai. I'd been here for three weeks and survived two weddings and a debilitating illness (though I wasn't sure yet that I had survived that last one). It was our last day in India. We'd taken the morning train from Pune to Mumbai and spent the day sightseeing. That evening, we headed to the train station to take the local train to Thane, a suburb for lack of a better word, for dinner at an aunt's house before being dropped at the airport.

I had already learned there is no personal space in India and everyone thinks they are the most important person and everyone else should just get out of their way. It's the reason driving here is so...life threatening.

At the train station, there were only a few ticket windows open and lines were long. I had a few minutes to observe that, for every line that was formed, an additional line would form beside it so that people could cut in line at the window. Then a new window opened. I was tired, I was irritable, these people were on my last nerve. When the new window opened, I ran just like everyone else: kicking out in every direction with elbows flying, not caring who I hit just as long as they did not get in front of me. My much more relaxed hubby strolled up to join me at our new spot much closer to the window.

It soon became clear, however, that for each person who'd actually gotten in line that got served at the window, a person in the second, cheating line would also get served. Therefore making it take twice as long as it should have. After a few minutes of this, I stepped over into the second line thinking we'd see which line went faster and get our turn that way. Well when I got up to the front of this second line, there was only one guy in front of hubby. I just couldn't bring myself to break in front of him. I was raised with manners dammit!

So against the wishes of the surging crowd behind me, I gestured for the man to go ahead and get his tickets. This unleashed the fury of everyone in both lines and several people who already had their tickets. People began shoving and yelling (well, more so than they were already). I couldn't understand the words but I could understand there were insults being hurled against me. I singlehandedly formed a human blockade around the ticket window so know one could push past me, try as they might. And boy did they try. I had bruises to show for it.

I held my ground until the man, who didn't seem even a little thankful, completed his purchase and hubby bought our tickets. Then I ran like hell for the platform. As if I could hide there, being the big blonde-haired white chick. But all rationale had left me at this point because I was a little bit scared for my life. Not completely though, because I know that as worked up as Indians get about things, they also let them go super quick. Most likely as soon as I was away from the ticket counter, everyone promptly forgot about me.

I, of course, did not forgive and forget so quickly. After a few minutes of raving about the general assholeiness (that's a word, I swear) of these people, which I most likely generalized to all Indians instead of just those inside the train station, I broke into tears.

"I acted just like them. I'm becoming one of them!" I cried. "Get me the hell out of this godforsaken country RIGHT NOW!!!"

I faked my way through dinner, speaking as little as possible for fear I'd say something horrible. My in-laws, who had driven our luggage from Pune, drove us to the airport. At the Mumbai airport, people who don't have tickets aren't even allowed in the building, so all goodbyes are said outside. I did my best to look sad to be leaving my in-laws, but inside I was doing a happy dance. We finally pulled away and went into the airport. We were immediately faced with a departures screen that said our flight had been delayed. By 5 hours. I looked at my husband and said "don't you even think about going back outside this airport."

The wait for the flight consisted mostly of hubby trying to placate me with hot chocolate and the like, and him running back and forth to check on our flight while I "watched" the luggage, meaning I laid sleeping on top of a suitcase. We eventually found ourselves waiting in a stony silence. I directed all my anger and frustration of the past three weeks at him. And from his side, well I had just essentially rejected his home, his family, his upbringing...HIM. How could he not be upset with me?

When our plane finally took off, I watched out the window as we flew over the city. As soon as we were over the sea, I leaned back, closed my eyes and thought to myself "never again."

Now, less than two years later, not only am I back in India and staying with my in-laws again, but I'm doing it voluntarily and without my husband. Clearly there's been a shift. I'm not exactly sure how though.

To be fair, the first trip had a lot against it from the beginning. It was the first time I was meeting the parents. That's nervewracking for anyone, no matter the circumstances. It was my first time on such a long flight. It was my first time in India. I was in school and had to double up on the workload in preparation for missing three weeks of class. And most importantly, despite my protests that I wasn't ready for a big wedding, which my in-laws had seemed to understand in the beginning, I had somehow been talked into having a big fat Indian wedding during the trip. So I kinda went into it already hating them. Not the best start. But in my defense, they also played right into all of my worst fears.

But regardless of the reasons why it was such a bad trip, the point is that it was a very bad horrible trip. So why did I not even bat an eye at the thought of doing this again? Selective memory loss perhaps? Or maybe I've just grown up. Hey, stop laughing! But I guess what it really comes down to is just like the girl in the book. I did it for love.