Writing Feedback /
-- Writing from India (essay about holidays and truth) [29]
I have discovered I have a strong memory, and am often able to extract details from the picture in my mind, of things, which happened quite a while ago.
Early one time we were in US, newly arrived in Washington and were waiting in a hospital for some reason, I cannot remember what that was. But as we waited, a cartoon was playing on the TV fixed on the ceiling there. It was a pedatrics ward, and I remember a few other families and children, all watching this program.
The story was about a bunch of stick-like figures in some town, and they were talking amongst themselves about a demon who visited them regularly and was expected again soon. So all were distraught and in a state of intense fear. They got down on their knees and bending to the ground, started to pray in a kind of moaning voice " ...mmmmm".
The picture pulled us away a bit, and we saw a character, human like, who was actually looking over the entire scene below. He then opened the top of this huge bottle-like container that all these figurines were in, and using a tweezer contraption reached into it. We are pulled back in with the figures again. They are all bowed and suppliant; the boy reaches in and grabs one of them. The figures look up then towards this unfortunate, who had been clamped and begin chanting " oh, the lucky one... the chosen one."
The boy withdraws the figure and trussing him, carries him away. He drives home where, as he opens the door, his dog is waiting, wagging its tail. The boy places the figure, alive and human like as we now feel it to be - on the dog's muzzle; who shaking it vigorously like a rat or a squirrel, chomps down on it .
There were other details, which together conveyed that these stick figures were the weak in the world. Like the people, I thought, where I had come from. The cartoon mocked them, and I remember feeling stunned with the intrusiveness of it.
I accompanied my daughter recently to the American Embassy school here in Delhi, where she will be studying. As we waited for the teacher we had come to meet, a caucasian mother and her daughter came along and sat down with us in the waiting area. It was a little small, so after a while the silence was becoming a bit awkward. My daughter was called to meet with her teacher, and there was little to turn my attention to. I was more at ease than I normally am in such situations, but the woman sitting next to me wasn't. She and her daughter sat there just bearing the strained silence.
".. quite a melting pot this school is " I ventured after a bit . She nodded in quick agreement, but offered no more to ease the silence.
"You've been here long?" I asked with the faintest of trepidation expecting a rebuff, as in my more recent memory.
But she was forthcoming and replied, " Only this 7th of July ".
"Oh! " I couldn't help exclaiming, perhaps out loud " that explains the shell shocked look on your face."
"What do you think of the culture here?" I asked. "There's so much to see, so much to learn " she said, half convincingly.
I don't think I really broke the ice with them, because the conversation did not flow. To be fair, part of that reason may be that unlike my own children, I am not good at talking with native english speakers. My sense is this particular lady will look to avoid me in future.
I tried talking about how my experience with Americans in India, had been so much of one kind before leaving for the US, but had discovered them as thinking quite differently while we were there.
She said lamely, " Yes, the lack of education ". As though illitracy was very high in the United States.
It wasn't the lesser educated that had bothered me, I told her, but those who were in good positions, in society, in schools.
We were rescued when my daughter joined us. The mother introduced herself and her daughter, telling us they were from Canada. Maybe it was her vulnerability, accentuated in this situation, that made her appear quite attractive.