There are three things which have threatened my sanity throughout this trip and about which I have intended to write but have never found the moment to. And now, given that it’s my last night, the energy and inclination are not there (plus, it will be more fun to shout about it all in person with the people who will understand). But they at least deserve a mention:
1) The absymal quality of English-language “journalism” in India. I don’t have enough breath in my body to fully vent my frustration/disbelief. A few months ago I felt perhaps it wasn’t my place to criticise, but now I feel that attitude is condescending and that I have every right to criticise publications that are so arrogant in their self-promotion and yet fill their pages with articles that have barely scraped through a computerised grammar check, never mind seen an editor’s desk. Do copyeditors exist here? What do they do exactly, aside from reward professional journalists for their ignorance of how to employ articles in English? The overwhelmingly juvenile nature of the press is summed up, for me, by the fact that the Indian Express awards a prize for Letter of the Week. I can’t go on, choked as I am by vitriol.
2) Rubbish, and the Indian proclivity to dropping/throwing it wherever they happen to be. Particularly when it’s middle class Indians paying to travel to some mountainous beauty spot who then proceed to throw their ice-cream wrappers/water bottles/anything and everything, down the side of said mountain, apparently oblivious to the paradox of the situation. And then today the Times of India prints an article crowing about how environmentally aware India is and how concerned the population is about effective waste disposal and recycling. Hah.
3) The particular specie of older-middle aged middle class Indian male who considers himself a conversationalist when he is actually an orator whose mindset is so miniscule there is no room for any other point of view. And who especially relishes encounters with foreign women which he uses as an opportunity to show off his dazzling command of Victorian English and to reassure himself that the world is without doubt in awe of his intellect and powers of perception, particularly when he is talking utter rubbish. In response to any foolhardy attempt I may make to converse, the response will invariably begin with, “No, but..” or “It’s not that…” An extreme case in point: Kaushal and I were having a conversation class in Mussoorie, going for our usual amble around to Lal Tibba, when aforementioned male with wife and daughter in tow comes striding around the corner. He sees me and interrupts Kaushal by stating that he had seen me that morning in the same spot, meditating. I told him that it wasn’t me, that I did sometimes meditate but not in that place and besides, at the time he mentioned, I was in a class. He proceeded unperturbed, modified the time by half an hour, when I was still in the class, and assured us that it had been me. His wife dared to suggest that since I was in a class at the time perhaps he had seen another girl. I agreed with this idea, seeing as it wasn’t me. He dismissed such a ridiculous notion, announced to the world that it had been me and marched off, declaring that he “appreciated my meditation”.
