Jodhpur, India
After catching the Number 1 Bus, which is naturally the last route out of the four or so to visit my stop, I gracelessly topple onto a side bench nearly impaling my forehead on the safety railing running along the centre of the roof. The passenger area is inconveniently designed for a 6 foot 2 Westerner, let alone anyone taller than 5 foot 8. I slump forward clutching my backpack in an upright fetal position, protecting against both the notched backrest and the remnants of my lunch that are enjoying a raucous party in my stomach to which I have not been invited. Needless to say, my mind is solely occupied with the fantasies of a self-sacrificing and bountiful toilet, upon which to relocate the festivities.
The monotony of my end-of-the-day bus ride soon takes hold. Horn cacophony and the inefficient sputtering of engines tumble through the open windows and past my ears. The fair collector’s ceaseless destination chants, no longer chime with the resonance of something foreign. Breeze, the only luxury, temperamentally flees at every stop, leaving stale, trash-permeated air in its wake. Passengers come and go … some clearly shocked to find pale skin on their evening commute. Among the most bewildered, there is usually one bold enough to attempt a conversation in broken English. I am accustomed to the typical questions: name, country, destination and purpose. Nevertheless even at the end of a long day, I attempt to answer with as much feigned enthusiasm as I can muster.
Tonight is no different. As I approach my stop, an unsure voice from across the aisle interrupts my nebulous condition:
“What county you come from?”
Displacing my lavatory fantasies, I acquiescently raise my head to find a smartly-dressed, young Indian lady staring back at me, with nothing less than eager inquisitiveness. My jaw nearly hits the floor, as all I can manage in response is a perplexed stammer. It’s not as if I have been a social leper to the opposite sex for the first 23 years of my life, and am suddenly faced with the daunting proposition of “first contact;” rather, since my arrival in India, I have been socialized with the idea that unrelated men and women do not commingle, as it can be misconstrued as an advance. There are certainly areas in this country where such strict social norms have given way to more liberal practices; however in Rajasthan, this backwards custom still persists.
I momentarily regain my composure and adroitly point to the flag pasted near the bottom of my knapsack. Slightly embarrassed, she professes that she “does not know flags.” I inform her that I’m from Canada and working in Jodhpur with an NGO.
“What is your name?”
“Jack, and yours?”
“Punam.”
She asks if I have travelled within Rajasthan at all; I reply that I have only been around the city. She immediately delves into a list of key attractions: Jaisalmer, Jaipur, Agra, Udaipur ... She pauses briefly, “you must go to Udaipur, it has gardens so beautiful.” I ask if Jodhpur is where she grew up:
“Yes, my home.”
This shocks me further still, but then makes me smile, as I have just bore witness to a wonderful exception from the state’s inelastic social order. The bus closes in on my circle, and I am all too soon forced to exchange hurried pleasantries. I disembark and merrily commence my walk home, no longer feeling the full effects of the party in my stomach.
After catching the Number 1 Bus, which is naturally the last route out of the four or so to visit my stop, I gracelessly topple onto a side bench nearly impaling my forehead on the safety railing running along the centre of the roof. The passenger area is inconveniently designed for a 6 foot 2 Westerner, let alone anyone taller than 5 foot 8. I slump forward clutching my backpack in an upright fetal position, protecting against both the notched backrest and the remnants of my lunch that are enjoying a raucous party in my stomach to which I have not been invited. Needless to say, my mind is solely occupied with the fantasies of a self-sacrificing and bountiful toilet, upon which to relocate the festivities.
The monotony of my end-of-the-day bus ride soon takes hold. Horn cacophony and the inefficient sputtering of engines tumble through the open windows and past my ears. The fair collector’s ceaseless destination chants, no longer chime with the resonance of something foreign. Breeze, the only luxury, temperamentally flees at every stop, leaving stale, trash-permeated air in its wake. Passengers come and go … some clearly shocked to find pale skin on their evening commute. Among the most bewildered, there is usually one bold enough to attempt a conversation in broken English. I am accustomed to the typical questions: name, country, destination and purpose. Nevertheless even at the end of a long day, I attempt to answer with as much feigned enthusiasm as I can muster.
Tonight is no different. As I approach my stop, an unsure voice from across the aisle interrupts my nebulous condition:
“What county you come from?”
Displacing my lavatory fantasies, I acquiescently raise my head to find a smartly-dressed, young Indian lady staring back at me, with nothing less than eager inquisitiveness. My jaw nearly hits the floor, as all I can manage in response is a perplexed stammer. It’s not as if I have been a social leper to the opposite sex for the first 23 years of my life, and am suddenly faced with the daunting proposition of “first contact;” rather, since my arrival in India, I have been socialized with the idea that unrelated men and women do not commingle, as it can be misconstrued as an advance. There are certainly areas in this country where such strict social norms have given way to more liberal practices; however in Rajasthan, this backwards custom still persists.
I momentarily regain my composure and adroitly point to the flag pasted near the bottom of my knapsack. Slightly embarrassed, she professes that she “does not know flags.” I inform her that I’m from Canada and working in Jodhpur with an NGO.
“What is your name?”
“Jack, and yours?”
“Punam.”
She asks if I have travelled within Rajasthan at all; I reply that I have only been around the city. She immediately delves into a list of key attractions: Jaisalmer, Jaipur, Agra, Udaipur ... She pauses briefly, “you must go to Udaipur, it has gardens so beautiful.” I ask if Jodhpur is where she grew up:
“Yes, my home.”
This shocks me further still, but then makes me smile, as I have just bore witness to a wonderful exception from the state’s inelastic social order. The bus closes in on my circle, and I am all too soon forced to exchange hurried pleasantries. I disembark and merrily commence my walk home, no longer feeling the full effects of the party in my stomach.
