The cliche is that Western people come to India to find a faith of one sort of another. Perhaps of the spiritual kind - in Gurus and the colourful pantheon of Hindu gods, in Buddhism and meditation. Or through the more modern notions of exploring ones own psychological landscape, distilling the truly fulfilling from the materialistic baggage of consumer society.
I certainly haven't achieved either as yet. But I have found a faith of another kind.
At dusty bus stations you wait surrounded by a wild mix of Indians some in shirts and trousers, others wrapped turbans and traditional dress, and spot small groups of white skinned folks offer up little prayers.
The driver approaches. His eyes are wild with blood vessels inflamed and red, he is agitated and shouting grabbing tickets and ushering and pushing. Many people end up on the wrong bus. The driver does not care, he is outraged that people complain. You turn to a fellow traveller and speculate glumly about what amphetamines the driver has been taking, how many hours it is since he last slept.
Bags are flung inside. A crush forms as bodies pile up rushing to grab seats - bookings have little currency you find. You sit, squeezing beside three locals who smile and nod accommodatingly in their appallingly carefree way, and then your gaze lifts trepidatiously to the mountain side far above. To the road you can see precariously tracing 500 ft drops onto rocks. With a jerk the bus sets off.
The first few times you run this high wire gauntlet it is a disconcerting and nauseating experience. Careering by at 50 miles per hour, honking and turning blindly round corners, needless overtaking on narrow cloud sprinkled highways. Each new corner brings fresh visions of the 5 ton 1952 Ashok Layland bus skimming gracefully out into the open air and descending so very fast.
For three hours white knuckle ride frays the nerves. The brakes are slammed all too often, the bus slewing to a standstill inches from the blinking eyes of an oncoming trucker. You wave at him, hoping that this show of cheeriness hides your grimace. The bus readjusts, a passing point is found, and you are off again.
Yet slowly the impetus to be afraid dulls. Your glands cannot offer anymore adrenaline. The beating of your heart settles. You start to find prettiness in those deep valleys below, in the endless undulating views. You learn that the only option is to trust the jittery devil behind the wheel. And soon you find you are drifting contentedly, as the dusk comes in and hazes the mountains now studded with village lamplights. You eat an apple your neighbour gives you.
Is that not faith? Attritionally acquired perhaps, environmentally induced, but oh so very real. These small paunchy men, with their moustaches and disjointed barking English, hardily surviving poor roads and poor judgement. These men are my gods. I pray to them all the time.
I certainly haven't achieved either as yet. But I have found a faith of another kind.
At dusty bus stations you wait surrounded by a wild mix of Indians some in shirts and trousers, others wrapped turbans and traditional dress, and spot small groups of white skinned folks offer up little prayers.
The driver approaches. His eyes are wild with blood vessels inflamed and red, he is agitated and shouting grabbing tickets and ushering and pushing. Many people end up on the wrong bus. The driver does not care, he is outraged that people complain. You turn to a fellow traveller and speculate glumly about what amphetamines the driver has been taking, how many hours it is since he last slept.
Bags are flung inside. A crush forms as bodies pile up rushing to grab seats - bookings have little currency you find. You sit, squeezing beside three locals who smile and nod accommodatingly in their appallingly carefree way, and then your gaze lifts trepidatiously to the mountain side far above. To the road you can see precariously tracing 500 ft drops onto rocks. With a jerk the bus sets off.
The first few times you run this high wire gauntlet it is a disconcerting and nauseating experience. Careering by at 50 miles per hour, honking and turning blindly round corners, needless overtaking on narrow cloud sprinkled highways. Each new corner brings fresh visions of the 5 ton 1952 Ashok Layland bus skimming gracefully out into the open air and descending so very fast.
For three hours white knuckle ride frays the nerves. The brakes are slammed all too often, the bus slewing to a standstill inches from the blinking eyes of an oncoming trucker. You wave at him, hoping that this show of cheeriness hides your grimace. The bus readjusts, a passing point is found, and you are off again.
Yet slowly the impetus to be afraid dulls. Your glands cannot offer anymore adrenaline. The beating of your heart settles. You start to find prettiness in those deep valleys below, in the endless undulating views. You learn that the only option is to trust the jittery devil behind the wheel. And soon you find you are drifting contentedly, as the dusk comes in and hazes the mountains now studded with village lamplights. You eat an apple your neighbour gives you.
Is that not faith? Attritionally acquired perhaps, environmentally induced, but oh so very real. These small paunchy men, with their moustaches and disjointed barking English, hardily surviving poor roads and poor judgement. These men are my gods. I pray to them all the time.
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