I’m not a Raj orphan, (1) but I was imbued with the values of empire. When I was growing up in Canada in the early 1950s and 1960s, “that’s cricket” (play honorably) and “keep a stiff upper lip” (never show your emotions) were but a smattering of the concepts associated with the imperial ethos: though in its twilight days, it was not totally moribund — not dead yet. I remember coming to school and standing to sing God Save the Queen. (2) The teacher’s pedantic deference and contrived esteem made you feel as if you were in the Roman Empire being presented to Augustus Caesar; we only lacked the Nubian slaves (I had a vivid imagination). It was the same with our history studies. We were constantly shown textbooks with the British Empire in red, the color of the British army dress uniform, “The Sun never sets on the British Empire,” to paraphrase John Wilson. (3) Everyone knew of the Black Hole of Calcutta and how, after this abomination, Robert Clive, — justifiably, or so we were taught –, (4) established the suzerainty of the British East India Company in Bengal, thereby beginning the creation of The British Raj.
I sit on an airplane that makes its slow descent into Kolkata Airport. I am at the heart of empire, landing in its old capital: exhilarating! I reflect on the contrasts I have experienced since coming to this land. On the one extreme, you have confusion and disorder on all tiers. On the other, you have efficiency at a level that would make the average person’s “head spin.” The announcements on our plane, for example, are in Tamil, Bengali, and English. Hindi, which I assumed to be the dominant national language, is not present in this part of India. Yet, the revolution and violence that this chauvinism must produce is limited, to say the least. Our plane stops on the tarmac and we get on a bus: buses are not my first love and have not been so since childhood, only reinforced by my Shanghai adventure.
At the terminal, after some confusion, I retrieve my luggage. All is seemingly calm. I am therefore not prepared for the clamor that greets me. I open the terminal door: the outside appears to be occupied by one hundred million people and at least as many vehicles of every hue and construction. I have arrived in the “real” India. I receive a phone call from my home-stay family: “Where are you?” One is quick to add (but you restrain yourself): “I am here in the center of a vortex.” You state something, however, much more innocent: “I am standing beside the exit door, column Number Thirteen.” A well-dressed young man quickly arrives, “Welcome to Kolkata.” We engage an Uber-like taxi and get into an enormous river of moving humanity. As we drive, I observe that the structures of the city are low and extend into the far, far distance. The omnipresent poverty that I image is there but colored with a hopeful quality. I have reached the “City of Joy,” so named for a 1985 novel by Dominique Lapierre, and for the popularly held belief that, even in poverty, the more joyous side of life can still be experienced (I have read that civil unrest in India is greatly muted by the fact that to live and eat is relatively inexpensive — even the extremely impoverished do not, usually, go hungry). My local domicile is situated in a middle-class suburb; the room and attendant bathroom are clean and efficient. For a small fee, my home-stay patron is also my guide. During the next several days, we awaken early to take in the full “width and breath” of the city. Two of the most memorable are a visit to the home of the Bengali poet, Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) and a tour of the temple complex of Ramakrishna, Belur Math. (5) It is located on the Hooghly River, the main channel of the enormous Ganges. His disciple, Swami Vivekananda, (1863-1902) introduced Hinduism to the West. We transit the river by small boat. The crossing is stunningly peaceful and meditative, the undulation of the engine giving a melodic beat to the passage. This is what makes India unique. All forms and expressions of life are on display, yet they seamlessly weave into the fabric of humanity.
My home-stay family is typical of emerging India. Its members include a well-educated older brother who lives and works in another city; a younger brother, just finishing his degree in English, who looks after me, and their mother and father. They are, in a word, hopeful and optimistic in the path that India is taking. This direction includes a belief in the American Dream model that, if you work hard and are committed to your goals, you will be rewarded materially. This assurance is not as believed amongst the Western, Y Generation: “Gen Y sees what is known as the American Dream or middle-class dream as less about money and more about living a fulfilling, meaningful life. When asked in the 2011 MetLife Study of the American Dream what was more important to them, 33% said ‘close family and friends,’ compared to only 23% who said ‘having a roof over your head.’” I believe that this Asian nation with its long history in law, spirituality, and philosophy will eventually uncover the truth to living a positive and dynamic life.
The Bhagavad Gita (6) leaves us with a thought: A gift is pure when it is given from the heart to the right person at the right time and at the right place, and when we expect nothing in return. No one who does good work will ever come to a bad end, either here or in the world to come.
A closing thought: A great quote: Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and confirm it. Now, which politician could that be?
A small joke: Why you shouldn’t quit school – When asked for his name by a busy coffee shop clerk, my brother responded, “Marc, with a C.” Minutes later, he was handed his coffee with his name written on the side of the paper cup: Cark.
This week, please ponder your own grand sense of adventure.
Every day, look for something magical and beautiful.
Quote: Without the rain, there is no life; without the sun there is no growth, and without the dark, there is no reflection.
Footnotes:
2) The National Anthem – God Save the Queen
3) Attributed to Scottish writer, Professor John Wilson (1785-1854)
5) Belur Math and The Headquarters of Ramakrishna Math and Ramakrishna Mission