INDIA: How to preserve the memory

I have a bad memory. Maybe it’s because so many thoughts bounce around in my mind. Maybe it’s because I’ve killed too many brain cells. Or maybe it’s because life moves at such a fast pace that I never have time to properly file away a feeling or experience. For a memory to stay with me it does not have to be a moment of great achievement, a nail-biting situation, or the realization of profound thought. Actually, I wish I could recall those moments more clearly. I have realized that an honest description defining each of my five senses is only way to construct my memories in a way that catapults the reader into my own reality. Thus I have unknowingly created my own rubric for cataloging details about a country or culture. Look out Hoefstede, Hall, and Trompenaars; here I come.

Sight
When the sun sets, bursts of bright orange and yellow are brushed across the sky’s smog canvas, the sherbet colors a gradient of smog-soluble watercolors diluting the sky’s polluted. Sunsets in India are compared to those in the old, list topping polluted Los Angeles. Four of the top ten cities affected by air pollution are in India. I was told that sunsets in India will stand out vividly among the thousands of sunsets seen in a lifetime. Again it wasn’t until I saw it that I truly understood. I see black smoke coming from the exhaust of a taxi in front of us. Behind us, I see a bicyclist covering their nose and mouth with a handkerchief. Before we even reach port I see the crew laying plastic and cardboard on the staircases and down the long hallways to protect carpet from the natural filth of glorious India.
The density of the population is visible through the images of poverty stricken crowds of emaciated bodies covered in dirt clothed in rags. I see a swarm of shack homes and the families getting a night’s rest on the side of a busy road. I see a petty theft of bread. I can count the ribs on this little boy. I see a girl tuck her school rationed crackers into her shorts and her jealous mother at the school gates putting her hand out and claiming them for herself.
I have taken notes in science lectures about pollutions effect on agriculture, the atmosphere, and my body. I notice the activists on campus and pause long enough to hear the list of pollution’s effect on daily life and I roll my eyes as they begin to preach that earth’s future is in dire straits. I have taken exams testing my knowledge of the Malthusian Theory.
Now I see it. I travel, I see, I understand.

Hearing

The sound of India is distinctly different during the day and night.
With sixteen different main languages, horns are used as a common communication. In India every ride is a nail-biting experience. Horns are used by drivers to self-regulate the vehicle flow. We ventured by rickshaw to Spencer’s Plaza (a roof-covered version of Moroccan souks). We screamed with questioning smiles on our faces as we tried to balance the tiny cart and cheered when we successfully high-fived friends in another rickshaw that we streamed by.
Molly and I met Said, the kindest shopkeeper, while we were in a rush to get back to the ship. We were in enough of a rush to trust his twenty year old son Tosef to drive us back to the ship. “If you can survive learning to drive in India, you can do anything!” he announced as he started the engine. He was a good enough driver to get us to the ship on time, we only stopped twice. First when the road closed was closed by police. I rolled down my window and heard the chanting of teacher’s protesting something indecipherable. The traffic started again with the sound of a long whistle. Our second stop occurred when we heard the crunching of our front bumper and the yelling of a motorcyclist- a major earful for a minor scratch.

A unique sound from India, the repetition of English words and sentences in a training room at Perot Systems. I visited this outsourcing center with my intercultural communications class.
By night, the chaos of India is put to sleep by the melodic beat of dance drums and the rhythmic sound of port workers loading a train.


Smell

How to describe the scent of a nation? Hesitantly I untie my laundry bag.
Gasoline fumes are released into our small cabin. The source is my tarred capris from my painting job at the Dalit school. My job: to paint blackboards. My paint: a mixture of gasoline and tar. When I ran low more gasoline was added. The only way to wash it from my hands was with a gasoline soaked rag. Also contributing to the smell is each article of clothing worn while weaving through traffic in an open-air rickshaw.
The salty smell of sweat permeates the room next. Source: my tie-dye tee that I wore while walking to the rural Kanicheepuram village down an unpaved road which cut through large a large field that absorbed the equatorial sun. I recalled the program director saying that the child laborers in the quarry were only allowed a break when sun was highest because the rocks were too hot to touch. We laughed when I pointed out that we had begun our mile trek at the point of day that even child laborers are permitted to seek shelter from the sun. When we reached the village, we all wiped away our perspiration trying to look presentable.

Taste

Taste is intrinsically linked to smell.
I smiled as I pulled out a pashmina scarf that I wore to Indian family dinner at Said’s house.
At first I was skeptical of his incredible Semester At Sea discounts and an invitation to his home. But Said and Tosef had been so helpful showing us around the city and explaining Indian culture, I accepted his good will. I bought this colorful silk from his shop (along with many other things). I unwrapped it to wear to dinner to show my appreciation, it had the familiar scent of his shop- incense and tea. Now as I smell it there is a residual scent of dinner- an array of spices. The curry scent makes my stomach crave the delicious multi-course meal.
I stuff the filthy clothes back into the bag but keep the scarf out. I like it’s smell because all together the scents trigger a homey familiar feeling and there’s no smell better than that.

Touch

When exploring, my friends laugh and say I am going to get myself in trouble because I touch, poke, and prod everything.
You can touch anything mass produced and it will feel the same in every country, maybe a little grimier in some. The way to get a distinct sense of a country through touch is to examine the detailed things. Like the century old temple carvings of marble and stone tell the stories of the Hindu gods, each scene frozen in time by precise craftsmanship. Or the wall hanging made from pieces of colorful Indian wedding dresses, each unique in material, beading, pattern, and size, and meticulously sewn together, linking happy memories together into a work of art. Or the soft touch of a little girl’s hand, her young skin is a reminder that she has endured too much too early.  Or the fresh paint of a political symbol, two leaves or a spread hand, on the outside of someone’s home. Or the raised henna itching as it dries in a creative design on my hand.

It is easy to say a country has touched one’s life. What is difficult is encapsulating the reason why. I think that exploring the five senses will help me remember exactly how my memory of a country was defined by my experiences.