Time and again I romanticize the poor. I see beauty and nobility in families struggling to get by, integrity and humility in those who have never had the opportunity to venture outside their local villages.
When I came to India I believed that the real India was the India of the slums. The India that toils away, back bent, face darkened by the ruthless sun, feet calloused from the thousands of kilometers trudged. My real India lay in the tears from gross inequality and the cries of oppression during the British rule. Like a classic scene out of an old Indian film, I found honor in simplicity, beauty in ignorance.
I keep telling myself that all that is not true. It would be like limiting the definition of America to those who live in trailer parks or work on farms. Just as you cannot focus on the wealthy while ignoring the poor, you cannot romanticize the poor while belittling the wealthy.
But as I sip chocolate espresso in the Chocolate Room, eat the Chicken Maharaja Mac at McDonalds, run on the treadmill in a sky terrace gym, and indulge in manicures and pedicures at a local salon, I cannot help but worry that nothing has changed since leaving the States. It seems like you can throw me across the world and plop me down in any city whatsoever, and I will manage to seek out all that resembles America and then formulate a simple routine around those discoveries.
I wanted this semester to change me profoundly. I stacked up all my dreams and pegged them on this four-month period. Have I sprinted away from the real India and sought out the pre-packaged, limited warranty version? Or have I just acclimated quickly to this country and refuse to be surprised anymore?
I am starting to fear that I cannot run from my American-bred, materialistic, capitalist self. Like a shadow, it follows me wherever the sun shines, which is literally everywhere. Except maybe for the North Pole, or Seattle.
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