"It is after all so easy to shatter a story…to ruin a fragment of a dream being carried around carefully like a piece of porcelain. To let it be, to travel with it, is much the harder thing to do."
There is arguably no more exquisitely accurate description of the essence of India than these few words, tiny literary jewels made all the more poignant because they’re written by India’s own Arundhati Roy in The God of Small Things. Though not written specifically about India, they fit her beautiful form like a silken, hand-stitched gown, tailored to highlight the beauty and cleverly conceal the faults.
Millions come here annually, lured by the shake of India’s come-hither tail, carrying in their heart-luggage the timeworn images of a mystical and magic land they’ve seen in movies, read about in historical accounts, and dreamt of for years, desperate to find the magic in person.
What a brave thing to do, to forego the dream that lives in the heart, and to land on foreign soil in search of it, knowing that exposure to the elements might very well destroy its gossamer existence.
“To travel with it is much the harder thing to do.” Welcome to India….
Every day, tens of thousands of tourists drag their story-filled hearts towards India and its palaces, temples, sky-high snow-capped mountains, deep dark jungles, panoramic swelling rivers, and beautiful sunrises and sunsets…tourists, pilgrims, and visitors whose minds are stuffed with trinkets and memories, trudging through an often weather-weary country as heavy with promise as fat monsoon clouds stuffed tantalisingly full of rain like travellers’ suitcases rolling off the luggage belt.
Yet there are beautiful places all over the world, places so much easier than India, with less traffic, less chaos, less people, and more…well, order. India might appear to so many as a third-world country: a chaotic, loud, thumping, fast-moving hologram of modern hell that 99 per cent of the world can’t figure out. But its real personality is something else, something you can never read about, something that manages to draw millions from all over the globe and keep some of them permanently, never to return to their own shores.
The question is always the same: how does India do it?
I visited in the early 1990s, but within a few hours I realised I belonged in India. The first time I smelled it in Delhi airport at 1 am on a cold December morning, a torrid cocktail of scents that seeped in through my pores; the first time I slid into the backseat of an Ambassador taxi, sipped chai from a roadside stall, got gut-wrenching dysentery, laughed with a crazy local villager who insisted he was Krishna and dressed like him every day, put my back out on a rickshaw ride from hell, slid into the purifying waters of a holy pond at Govardhan Hill, and bent down and touched the soft, powder-like dust on the ground of the spiritual centre of the universe, Radha-kunda—all these things claimed me and made me their own. Those holy towns left images in my memory; as I paid my obeisance in temples, the ancient floors left impressions in my body that leaked into my heart and remain there still.
It wasn’t geographical, for me. I had never experienced a desire to see India, buy Indian, wear anything slightly Indian (not even in the seventies), or fill my home with incense, Buddhas, silk cushions, Madras throws, or any other westernised form of Indiandom that was trendy from the late sixties right through to London High Street, Tuesday this week.
India is the singular most sustainable fashion trend the 20th century ever saw, and it crossed centuries and rages on.
But I wasn’t interested. In truth, India would have been the last place I’d have chosen, but I returned several times, and then my husband and I decided to move here. We weren’t sure how long we might stay, but nearly 16 years later, we’re still here, and unlikely to ever leave. The reasons are many-layered. We live in Mayapur, West Bengal: a lush, peaceful, green village on the Ganges. It’s not like the tourist destinations that India is famous for: Rishikesh, Varanasi, Vrindavan, Udaipur, to name a few. All of them are busy, thumping, loud, vibrant, over-populated, over-noisy Meccas for the meditators, the chanters, the Om-wallah, the ganja-wallah, or the ordinary, curious tourist. The millions who visit India annually scratch their heads in bewilderment, wondering where all the elements are that they found on an ‘Incredible India’ ad on cable, in a magazine, at the travel agents. The cities that people flock to—Delhi, Jaipur, and the Kerala assortment— are often far removed from what those who brave the distance to come here are seeking.
But Mayapur bought and owns the ‘shanti factor’. It’s peaceful, it’s a spiritual land, a holy site, a meditational Mecca, a chanter’s dream, a peacelover’s heaven.
Om shanti, shanti, shanti? You’re in Mayapur.
As I write, there’s a slight chill in the weather; an unseasonal rain shower is falling softly, and a cool breeze is lifting the curtains. It’s fresh-smelling, picturesque, tranquil. Birds are singing, and that’s the only noise besides the gentle whirring of the fan and an occasional distant train horn from across Jalangi River, which intersects with the Ganges at the end of our street. I can’t believe anyone who comes here would not walk away with a stunningly beautiful impression forever embedded in their mind, in their heart. I’m from Australia, where white sandy beaches and turquoise water are the norm, especially in the northwest corner of the country, where the Indian Ocean rolls gently into remote, still-untouched coastal towns. So many places on this planet capture the mind, enchant the senses, bury themselves in the heart.
But India uniquely attracts not just the tourism bodies, but their hearts and souls. How many places can make that claim?
The state of the world is another factor contributing to India’s attractiveness, despite her external chaos. The world, in general, is struggling—it’s hell out there. I haven’t always lived in a peaceful village. London, Sydney, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Stockholm, the Gold Coast, you name it: I may not have seen it all, but I’ve certainly seen enough, at least. None of those cities have the answers. They may be cool places; they may even temporarily satisfy, be exciting, exotic, picturesque. But they don’t exactly contribute to the eternal benefit of mankind.
Yet India has that unique element: it exists to reinforce the genuine identity of the soul amid a world intent on borders, boundaries and bodily designations.
Everyone is searching for peace— within themselves and their environment. As a stone thrown into the middle of a pool creates concentric circles, so a rock-solid centre, with its attention focussed on the spiritual, can create an international environment of harmony. That centre is the essence of spirituality. And that is India: because that’s its heritage. Not its ‘religion’. That comes in many flavours, but the culture and heritage in India are shared. And I found it in Mayapur: it’s that simple.
Everyone has a place that calls to them, that bestows its own mantra, but unless we’re consciously aware of life, most of us don’t ever speak that mantra, don’t even hear it. Some do and don’t know it’s their mantra: it’s the inner dialogue, the voice of our conscience, our heart speaking, whatever you want to call it. Some will find it in India. Some will find it in Jerusalem, Rome, Tibet or Mecca.
But we all need to find it. It’s not an option: it’s the call of the soul. And it’s where our mantra is driving us. All of us.
When I stopped to listen to my mantra, it was the heart and voice of India that were speaking: it was ancient spiritual dialogue, timeless transcendence, poetry in prayer, the meaning of life, the soul’s home. Ask anyone in India: they have it. But the secret of India is something only revealed to those who love it, and whom it loves in return; to those who serve it, and whom it serves in return; to those who want it, and whom it wants in return.
Like any relationship. Like any person.
Millions come here annually, lured by the shake of India’s come-hither tail, carrying in their heart-luggage the timeworn images of a mystical and magic land they’ve seen in movies, read about in historical accounts, and dreamt of for years, desperate to find the magic in person.
What a brave thing to do, to forego the dream that lives in the heart, and to land on foreign soil in search of it, knowing that exposure to the elements might very well destroy its gossamer existence.
“To travel with it is much the harder thing to do.” Welcome to India….
Every day, tens of thousands of tourists drag their story-filled hearts towards India and its palaces, temples, sky-high snow-capped mountains, deep dark jungles, panoramic swelling rivers, and beautiful sunrises and sunsets…tourists, pilgrims, and visitors whose minds are stuffed with trinkets and memories, trudging through an often weather-weary country as heavy with promise as fat monsoon clouds stuffed tantalisingly full of rain like travellers’ suitcases rolling off the luggage belt.
Yet there are beautiful places all over the world, places so much easier than India, with less traffic, less chaos, less people, and more…well, order. India might appear to so many as a third-world country: a chaotic, loud, thumping, fast-moving hologram of modern hell that 99 per cent of the world can’t figure out. But its real personality is something else, something you can never read about, something that manages to draw millions from all over the globe and keep some of them permanently, never to return to their own shores.
The question is always the same: how does India do it?
I visited in the early 1990s, but within a few hours I realised I belonged in India. The first time I smelled it in Delhi airport at 1 am on a cold December morning, a torrid cocktail of scents that seeped in through my pores; the first time I slid into the backseat of an Ambassador taxi, sipped chai from a roadside stall, got gut-wrenching dysentery, laughed with a crazy local villager who insisted he was Krishna and dressed like him every day, put my back out on a rickshaw ride from hell, slid into the purifying waters of a holy pond at Govardhan Hill, and bent down and touched the soft, powder-like dust on the ground of the spiritual centre of the universe, Radha-kunda—all these things claimed me and made me their own. Those holy towns left images in my memory; as I paid my obeisance in temples, the ancient floors left impressions in my body that leaked into my heart and remain there still.
It wasn’t geographical, for me. I had never experienced a desire to see India, buy Indian, wear anything slightly Indian (not even in the seventies), or fill my home with incense, Buddhas, silk cushions, Madras throws, or any other westernised form of Indiandom that was trendy from the late sixties right through to London High Street, Tuesday this week.
India is the singular most sustainable fashion trend the 20th century ever saw, and it crossed centuries and rages on.
But I wasn’t interested. In truth, India would have been the last place I’d have chosen, but I returned several times, and then my husband and I decided to move here. We weren’t sure how long we might stay, but nearly 16 years later, we’re still here, and unlikely to ever leave. The reasons are many-layered. We live in Mayapur, West Bengal: a lush, peaceful, green village on the Ganges. It’s not like the tourist destinations that India is famous for: Rishikesh, Varanasi, Vrindavan, Udaipur, to name a few. All of them are busy, thumping, loud, vibrant, over-populated, over-noisy Meccas for the meditators, the chanters, the Om-wallah, the ganja-wallah, or the ordinary, curious tourist. The millions who visit India annually scratch their heads in bewilderment, wondering where all the elements are that they found on an ‘Incredible India’ ad on cable, in a magazine, at the travel agents. The cities that people flock to—Delhi, Jaipur, and the Kerala assortment— are often far removed from what those who brave the distance to come here are seeking.
But Mayapur bought and owns the ‘shanti factor’. It’s peaceful, it’s a spiritual land, a holy site, a meditational Mecca, a chanter’s dream, a peacelover’s heaven.
Om shanti, shanti, shanti? You’re in Mayapur.
As I write, there’s a slight chill in the weather; an unseasonal rain shower is falling softly, and a cool breeze is lifting the curtains. It’s fresh-smelling, picturesque, tranquil. Birds are singing, and that’s the only noise besides the gentle whirring of the fan and an occasional distant train horn from across Jalangi River, which intersects with the Ganges at the end of our street. I can’t believe anyone who comes here would not walk away with a stunningly beautiful impression forever embedded in their mind, in their heart. I’m from Australia, where white sandy beaches and turquoise water are the norm, especially in the northwest corner of the country, where the Indian Ocean rolls gently into remote, still-untouched coastal towns. So many places on this planet capture the mind, enchant the senses, bury themselves in the heart.
But India uniquely attracts not just the tourism bodies, but their hearts and souls. How many places can make that claim?
The state of the world is another factor contributing to India’s attractiveness, despite her external chaos. The world, in general, is struggling—it’s hell out there. I haven’t always lived in a peaceful village. London, Sydney, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Stockholm, the Gold Coast, you name it: I may not have seen it all, but I’ve certainly seen enough, at least. None of those cities have the answers. They may be cool places; they may even temporarily satisfy, be exciting, exotic, picturesque. But they don’t exactly contribute to the eternal benefit of mankind.
Yet India has that unique element: it exists to reinforce the genuine identity of the soul amid a world intent on borders, boundaries and bodily designations.
Everyone is searching for peace— within themselves and their environment. As a stone thrown into the middle of a pool creates concentric circles, so a rock-solid centre, with its attention focussed on the spiritual, can create an international environment of harmony. That centre is the essence of spirituality. And that is India: because that’s its heritage. Not its ‘religion’. That comes in many flavours, but the culture and heritage in India are shared. And I found it in Mayapur: it’s that simple.
Everyone has a place that calls to them, that bestows its own mantra, but unless we’re consciously aware of life, most of us don’t ever speak that mantra, don’t even hear it. Some do and don’t know it’s their mantra: it’s the inner dialogue, the voice of our conscience, our heart speaking, whatever you want to call it. Some will find it in India. Some will find it in Jerusalem, Rome, Tibet or Mecca.
But we all need to find it. It’s not an option: it’s the call of the soul. And it’s where our mantra is driving us. All of us.
When I stopped to listen to my mantra, it was the heart and voice of India that were speaking: it was ancient spiritual dialogue, timeless transcendence, poetry in prayer, the meaning of life, the soul’s home. Ask anyone in India: they have it. But the secret of India is something only revealed to those who love it, and whom it loves in return; to those who serve it, and whom it serves in return; to those who want it, and whom it wants in return.
Like any relationship. Like any person.
The first image and the original article were published as the cover story and lead article in the "Passage to India" feature in Harmony Magazine in 2015.
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