The Myopic Eye of the Beholder

What really disturbs me is not so much the cultural stereotypes that beckon foreigners to the country as much as the internalising of such attitudes that sends Indians themselves to search for the “essence” of the country

“Saris, Swamis, and Maharanis”, read the catchy blurb on the cover of what had become the family’s travel bible, The Lonely Planet. The book had been the dependable recourse when we had to choose from among equally seedy hotels while on shoestring holidays with money-scrounging siblings, and for the basic low-down on history when sight seeing without the “government-approved” guides. The book had been an unfailing ally while mapping routes to places no one could offer addresses in or remember ever having visited, one that persuaded parents to slacken the leash every summer when, tired of each other, we went separate ways.

The book came to our rescue once again during our trip to the coffee plantations in Kodagu, when we had to while away a few hours in Mysore. We faithfully looked up the Lonely Planet’s section on Mysore and identified some more places we’d like to go to: among them was the charmingly described Devraja Fruit and Vegetable Market, advertised as “one of the most colourful in India and [one that] provides excellent material for photographers”. We all fell victim to the advertising blurb, and anticipated something of the flavour of the picturesque Turkish and Egyptian markets. So began our search for the picture postcard image of the vibrant, colourful essence of India to be found in the bustling marketplace.

We did eventually find the fruit and vegetable marketplace, and that’s all it was” A fruit and vegetable market that could have been anywhere: In Delhi's Azadpur Sabzi Mandi, in Patna’s Anta Ghat, in Agra’s Ghatia... in the slushy sprawl [or the paved, in more upmarket areas] of various shades of green, red, orange, brown, and purple found in every Indian city, where the voice of the haggling customer competes with the sing-song cries of the vendors, and where snotty-nosed children shuffle around, trailing tokris in their wake. The Devraja Market was a bit of a letdown after all the build-up, and to our greater disappointment, the Red Bananas that Mysore is famous for, weren’t available either.

My grandmother, however, remained unfazed as she concentrated on the sandalwood and incense available at a stall, and enjoyed a tumbler of steaming coffee with a Canadian who had begun his “romance” with India after landing in Mumbai, and having biked it across Karnataka and Tamilnad, was now considering driving to Delhi. My sister meanwhile, returned from her wanderings with a flute made from the hide of a jungle mango, which left her one hundred and fifty rupees poorer [the hollow mango skin has been shrinking ever since, the “ flute” produces no notes.]. And I was left contemplating the absurdity of the entire situation.

The Mysore Market episode reminds me of an article I read in Brand Equity about the need for a country to create an image that has international market value, like, for instance, the Brazilians who are synonymous with Samba, Pele, rainforests, and the carnival. A marketable brand image for India, framed for the Indophile’s eye, has to continue so that tourist hoards flock to the Tibetan Market in Janpath looking for antiques. The brand image needs to construct her identity within the discourse of a colonial legacy so that westerners come East for the quixotic mixture of ayurvedic massages, pashmina, and the Rajasthan Tourism Development’s popularised portrait of camels against the backdrop of the setting sun. Advertising should obviously mention sacred cows blocking narrow traffic congested roads, and if not the elephants and snake charmers, then certainly the sadhus, sanyasis, and yogis. There is of course the triad essential to the authentic experience of the magic of India---Khajurao, Kamasutra, and Nirvana [in most cases, pick-ups at the flesh-pots hotel discs have become, and charas through a hookah]! And though political correctness may forbid such an eroticising and orientalising of an Asian country, it is this brand image, created by the unofficial advertising by word of mouth, on which much of the Indian tourist industry survives.

What really disturbs me is not so much the cultural stereotypes that beckon foreigners to the country as much as the internalising of such attitudes that sends Indians themselves to search for the “essence” of the country, and the locating of it in very romantic notions of the mystical east, of rural simplicity and honesty, of spiritual and earthy mountain retreats, and other such ideas that ignore the lack of development, the poverty and filth around, and create instead, week-long Yoga camps in the Himalayas, Aurovilles and Osho Ashrams designed to get you connected with your roots.

But where does one locate a mystical essence--- amidst religious bigotry that consumes cities in flames? or amidst caste prejudices that cause blood baths and make examples of mutilated bodies of lovers lynched by the mob? Where does one locate the romantic spirit--- amidst conditions that necessitate travelling arid miles to get drinking water, and the habitual rape en-route? Or amidst the illiterate rural migrant labour subsisting on a diet of breaking stones by day, and sattu and water at night?

We fall for the travelogue variety of advertising jargon, trying to locate an India beyond the realities that shape our existence, desperate perhaps, to believe in the happy and sanitised, albeit myopic “Saris, Swamis, and Maharanis” version?