Who are we?

Madurai, India

There are about a million seconds in 12 days. There are about a billion seconds in 32 years. There are also about a billion people in India. So if I were to have a one-second conversation with each person, then I would not be finished before I turned 64. However, India’s population is growing at a little over 2 percent a year. So by the time I had talked with one billion people the population of this country would have doubled and I would not be half way finished with the job.

In this constant mass of humanity I am only one slightly graying tourist with longish hair and baggy pants that need washing. I am about five pounds lighter than when I left home and I need a shave. I have dirt on my feet from walking barefoot in the temples and my backpack is coming apart at the seams. In the mornings I drink chai tea on the streets and eat masala dosa with my hands for breakfast. I struggle with squat toilets and, unlike most of the people here, I insist on using toilet paper. I spend my days wandering lost in the streets and taking pictures of mundane things.

I am not a doctor; the sick that I encounter stay sick. I am not a movie star and my face is not plastered on walls along with my sexy co-star (Suzanne) and an exploding car. National Geographic has never published my photos and probably never will.

Sure, my mother and my wife think that I am special, but that is my mother’s job and I duped my wife long ago. What I cannot explain is why so many people here treat me like that which I clearly am not. Why would a group of MBA grads seek me out? Why would they care where I came from, what my profession was? Why would they be interested in telling me about their future careers and job prospects? Why would five of them cluster around me as we chatted amiably in the midday sun? Why would they then come running back over to me after initially departing to ask if they could take their picture with me? And most perplexing of all, why would this be anything other than a freak occurrence? As the days have turned into weeks Suzanne and I have posed and smiled, held hands and linked arms in countless impromptu photos. All of these people smiled at us and then instantly blended back in the crowd from which they had come. For only a fleeting instant did we even know their names.

Once upon a time we traveled the width of northern India from Varanasi to Jaiselmere. Hounded and afraid we dodged touts, thieves and anyone proposing spontaneous friendship. We were the lone cockroaches in world of stomping feet. Ducking, weaving and hiding we marveled our way through an India often bent on obstructing us. Loving the thrill and the challenge we came back for more only to find that we understood so little of India. India is different this time and yet the unavoidable pulse is throbbing around us here just as it did five years ago.