Photos | Michael Ryan

(Pushkar, December 18, 2007)

The world changes shape as one moves through it, but the substance remains. After five months, I’ve seen only seven of India’s 32 states. The nation has 14 distinct languages, hundreds of dialects, and as many cultures as there are religious deities to worship. From the teaming chaos of Mumbai to the bucolic serenity of Kerala; from the ancient ruins of Hampi to the neon IT lights of Bangalore; from the smog and stench of Chennai to the blue-green coral reefs of the Andaman Islands; from the French baguettes of Pondicherry to the indigenous hill-peoples of Ooty; from the yoga gurus in Mysore to the Hindu priests in Gokarna; and from the shanty, shanty beach shacks of Goa to the dusty brown desert towns of Rajasthan; each part is wholly unique, yet universally Indian. More than that, I am struck by how much is universally human. East and West are closer than I had imagined.

As I wrap up a magical holiday gift from the god of false aspirations, I am in the arid and holy town of Pushkar, awaiting an overnight sleeper bus to Udaipur, on my way back to the airport in Mumbai, where it all began. I came here as a graduate student in Temple’s IMBA program, spent two months in Mumbai during the monsoons, studying statistics and financial management. I left the program, realizing that I am more interested in theories of economic development than I am in practicing the rote knowledge of what works, and what does not work, for big business. With that came an unexpected gift of time, to travel and see a part of the world I knew so little about, and may never see again.

Here in Rajasthan, the shape of the world changes every few meters. What can’t be expressed in words is felt here; a happy resignation to the dry and dusty streets; red and broken teeth flashing sincere smiles as rugged as the texture of the garments people wear; old and gray mystics, with leathery, scrunched-up faces, huddled on the steps of ornate temples; the tinny clang of bangles on long, brown and slender wrists, with pointed and shriveled fingers reaching out, looking right at you, smiling, as you approach.

Photo | Michael Ryan

“Namaste. You like henna tattoo? I make nice for you.”

“Jee naheen, shukriya.”

It is so hard to turn down such beautiful girls, but I am keen to their ways. I am ubiquitous, just another traveler with a few extra rupees. This morning, after espresso and a chocolate croissant, I walked down to the lake, at the center of Pushkar. It is legend that Krishna came down to earth here, and hence sprang up a giant lotus flower. In the center of that flower, we find Brahma in eternal bliss, with the Oneness; and a few dozen hotels and rooftop restaurants catering to western tourists. For Hindus, this is a holy place, where one comes to worship (do pooja) by setting flowers afloat. For travelers, it’s a pleasant way to observe warm and genuine people living real lives, unaffected by the constant stream of strangers.

This morning I woke up and decided to take a long walk, first down to the lake and then out into something approaching “desert.” I needed to break away from the bustling center, where my room is located, and see something I haven’t seen already. When I reached the slate platforms at water’s edge, I was approached by an exasperated man in white robes.

“Hello, shoes,” he said.

Looking down, I realized the slates were covered in cow manure, pigeon dung and tobacco spittle. “Am I to take off my shoes here?”

“Yes, this holy place.”

“If it’s a holy place, why is it so filthy?”

He got angry, uncharacteristic for an Indian. “You no from here. Go back to market.”

“Shukriya, I will keep my shoes on, go back to market and have some more espresso.”

It was rude, but honest. The last time I checked, walking barefoot on shit and piss was hazardous to one’s health. But the soles of Indian feet are thicker. It’s just different here; there is no comparison; and yes, this is a holy place. This was a moment with forgotten differences and too much assumed familiarity.

Like the Turkish toilets where one must squat instead of sit, the standards here are closer to the earth. Shit is compost, part of the cycle of life, not to be hidden or shunned, but celebrated. Most Indians throw trash on the ground, without a thought, because they have been doing that for millennia. It all went back to the earth eventually, except now with plastic. I watched an old man, with a thick beard and a turbine, turn cow pies over, to dry in the sun. As I walked home last night, a small boy, no older than 4 or 5, was squatting in the gutter outside of his house. Unaffected by his posture, he simply raised his head as I passed and said in the sweetest voice, “Hello, how are you?”

On my way back from the desert, I met a group of women who called me over, interested in conversation and probably a few rupees. They were western Rajasthani, from Jaiselmer, with bright red and yellow saris, intricately laced with beads to project status, identity and their own sense of style. One of the women, about 40, held a baby in her arms, no more than 3 months old. Next to her was a girl, about 8, heating a bottle of milk. The mother called me over. The little girl looked up at me and smiled. (more…)

From Mysore to Gokarna

Photo | Michael Ryan

Perhaps the only way to describe India is to keep one’s mouth shut. Every time I think I have something figured out, the antithesis happens. The only way through it is to drink a lot of water and be patient with everyone. It really is all and everything under the sun and the clouds and the moon and the stars. Today, I was approached by seven mothers, holding their babies, begging for “10 rupees, please. Look at my child.” I asked one of them where I could rent a baby, as I am running out of rupees myself. This was cold and hard, I know, but I knew she couldn’t understand me, and I was swimming in the absurdity. I am so weary of salespeople and beggars, who invariably start with “hello, friend,” as I walk by. Guilt trips are just as unfriendly here.

Gokarna

Arambol

Photos | Michael Ryan

Indians do many things which perplex me. They don’t collect garbage. It just gets thrown on the ground and either sits there to rot or gets picked up by someone else. If it’s plastic, it sits there forever. In Mumbai, they do have garbage trucks with “keep Mumbai clean!” painted on the sides. But there is no landfill. They just collect garbage in the nicer parts of town and dump in the middle of the street in the poorer parts of town, where scavengers can sort out usable lumber from the rotten cardboard; the edible rice from the rotten fish bones; cabbage leaves from cow dung. There is no concept of cleanliness, on the street or even in restaurants. I’ve never seen a clean glass or a clean fork, when they have forks. It doesn’t occur to an Indian, as the world is mostly dirt, anyway. Why discriminate? This is where India’s beautiful tolerance goes too far.

On the beaches, they spray table cloths with insecticide every morning, instead of just washing the table cloths from the day before. In my hotel room, there is no “western” toilet, just an” Indian style” squatter. They don’t use toilet paper. It’s hard to find napkins. I have no sink; so when I brush my teeth, I have to spit into the squatter. The effluents from all the showers and toilets drain down onto the steps to the main entrance, out across a dirt path, between two tables of a cliff-side restaurant and into the Arabian Sea, where I will be swimming in an hour. Ironically, all this shit seems to make people immune to illness, even if they look much older and die much younger.

Last night, I was trying to book a flight to Jaipur, online at an internet café. Just as I had clicked the “send payment” icon, the connection went out. I had no confirmation and no way of knowing if my payment had gone through, or if someone hacked my credit card number. The attendant could have cared less, too, and had no suggestion except that I should pay 50 rupees. Afterward, I was sitting in a “pizza bar,” watching an American film (a depressing, but smart one). At the climax, the electricity went out, as it often does, and the pirated DVD could only replay from the beginning. As my former classmate in Mumbai, Colin England, would say, “it’s a shit show.” This whole freaking country is at once amazing, beautiful and horribly fucked up.

The highs are as extreme as the lows, however. (more…)

The eyes of gods are upon thee.

Photo | Michael Ryan

Globalization is a large and abstract term, but useful if you are one to ponder the “big picture.” The India I’m visiting today is very different from the India I could have visited 10 years ago, and it will continue to change at a frantic pace for the foreseeable future. Whatever globalization means, it is a much bigger concern for developing nations like India than it is for developed ones like the United States. In other words, the impact here will be far more profound, because it currently implies a certain kind of change, toward Western ways. Regardless, there is a great deal at stake for all of us; and India is an interesting place to get a feel for what the changes may really mean.

Gokarna

Photo | Michael Ryan

Gokarna is a very special place. It’s a beach community, just a few hours south of Goa, but the locals don’t come here for the swimming. They come here to worship, meditate and “do Pooja.” The narrow streets of Gokarna are very old, darkened by mud-brick construction, and peppered with temples. Half the people on the street are monks, or at least dressed like monks; devout pilgrims on their journey to live the Dharma. The quest of all good Hindus is to honor the Vedic scriptures and live by its rules. The ultimate goal is to break free from the cycle of life and death and elevate one’s Atman (or soul) to Unity with the Oneness (Om, or God). The devotion, sacrifice and faith that such a quest requires are palpable here. I am immediately humbled, forced to look inward and very happy that I came here.

One in every five human beings is an Indian. As I gazed out my window on the bus from Mysore, I had the realization that we ought not think of ourselves as anything but “human.” It’s easy for an Indian to think of me as a “foreigner” and for us back home to think of Indians there as “immigrants.” In an enlightened, Dharmic way, these geo-political constructs are limiting, and ultimately, false. Nationality distorts the truth and keeps us from realizing our true potential. If we think of ourselves as human beings first, and as Americans second, suddenly the whole picture changes dramatically. It’s not difficult to identify with seemingly lost souls, sleeping on steam grates in Philadelphia, or wandering along roads in rural India. We really are, like it or not, all in this together.

This realization was not new for me, but on that bus ride, I found myself gasping for air. Such idealism seems plausible here. India is itself a nation of many nations, each with its own language and heritage. Almost universally, its people are warm, generous and tolerant of differences. India is arguably wiser and happier, despite the hardship of having to “develop” with financial debts to the IMF and World Bank.

Fortunately, for India, the days of development loans are just about over. Its economy is roaring along, while the dollar shrinks and US banks name new CEOs, in a panic. When I arrived in Mumbai on Aug. 2, the Sensex (the Dow Jones of the Bombay Stock Exchange) hovered at 15,000. Before I left Bangalore four months later, it was approaching 20,000. When I arrived, I could buy 42 Rupees for a Dollar. Today, the exchange rate is Rs.38/$1. Over-speculation or not, something big is happening here. And it’s happening now.

Not least in all of this is a huge effort to build infrastructure. The roads are often very bad, but they are re-building all of them. In Chennai, I witnessed miles of new flyovers (elevated highways). Along the road to Gokarna, thousands of workers are digging a trench, 400 kilometers long, to bury new water lines and fiber-optic cables. This work, mostly by hand, is in preparation for a road-widening project which will cut transport time in half. Around the bigger metropolitan areas, earth movers are reshaping the landscape and the footings for new bridges are being poured. I imagine this must be the way America looked, shortly after World War II, as our national highways were built. The change is happening so fast that many small towns have become mud puddles or dust bowls, depending on the weather.

There are useful lessons for both America and India, in all of this. My rookie impression is that India is spiritually stronger now, but that this Americanization; this globalization; or capitalization of industries here, is simultaneously its best hope and its worst threat. (more…)

Author in the Amdamans

Imagine a place where the weather Is perfect, where you are perched on a balcony, overlooking the Bay of Bengal; breeze blowing across the parts of your body which are still exposed only because vanity is still very important; where you can sip on your favorite beverage, eat your favorite food; where you can speak French in India and be understood; where you are 10 times richer than you’ve ever been before; where even the strangest of strangers has a smile ready and willing, just in case; where you could visit an Ashram, meditate, do a few Yogasanas, if you wanted; where giant crows perch on giant palm branches; where you can order a baguette with Brie and Tomato, or a plate of Chicken Tikka Masala; where there are very few tourists and where time simply lingers as long as you want it to; where you are both King and Peasant all at once. This is Pondicherry, in the state of Tamil Nadu, southeast India.

I am in heaven. And I’m still alive. The mix of French and Hindu has my neural synapses alit, reconsidering all I had thought I knew. I am within a few kilometers of Auroville, a Utopian settlement begun in 1968, the same precipitous year as so much else. As I am writing this very paragraph, my neighbor has come outside. Before I even notice him, he proclaims, “Good morning, I’m the local nudist.” This makes me laugh in a way that makes guttural sound polite. He’s here, not really nude, but joking, acutely aware of how unique and unexpected this place is.

Of all the insights I have made, trying to digest the sensory overload that is India, this is what I think is most valuable: INDIA IS THE WORLD. It is, at once, all and everything; darkness and light, rich and poor, lawless and repressive, carnivorous and vegetarian. Anything and everything that you could ever imagine is here. And yes, I’m begging you to make plans to visit. The recent global tourism campaign “Incredible India!” is an understatement.

When I first arrived, I had culture shock in Mumbai. In retrospect, Mumbai is the most Western of all the different parts of India I have seen. And I have still not seen much. But if you do come, please don’t expect a vacation. For the most part, travel here is challenging and arduous. The farther East one travels, the harder it gets. It’s the rewards, when you finish a leg of the journey, which are indeed sublime.

After Bangalore, I took a daytime bus ride to Chennai, a choking hazard, polluted and filthy beyond anything I’ve ever seen. There is no refuge in Chennai, because tourists rarely come. There is no coffee, no food resembling anything we know back home. It’s hard to find bottled water or toilet paper. And nobody speaks English. But it’s also the place where one must go if they want to book a ticket to ride a boat to the Andaman Islands, 1,000 miles east, near Bangladesh and Myanmar. When you do, you quickly learn the international sign language for, “boat, quickly, please!” (more…)

Photo | Michael Ryan

Hampi was one of the largest cities in the world during the 15th and 16th Centuries, with a population of 500,000. Today, it is but a stop on the travelers’ trail, a village of 4,000 whose primary source of income is from tourism. The ruins of the Vijayanagar Sultanate are all that remain; yet they are incredible and far more expansive than Palenque, Monte Alban, Chichen Itza or Machu Picchu. It’s hard to convey just how mind-blowing it is to stand on top of these granite walls and imagine what it must have been like until 1565, when Hampi was sacked by its neighbors in Hyderabad. Unfortunately, my digital camera stopped working on the beach in Palolem, so I can only suggest that one look it up on Google and Google Earth.

Hampi Bazaar is a crowded collection of hotels, rooftop restaurants and souvenir vendors. As in Goa, the vendors are numerous and persistent. “Hello, friend. Where from? Come look, my shop. Free to look. No problem.” This is the mantra they seem to have memorized in street vendor school. Invariably, it is the same speech, and it gets tiring. I have the same problem with rickshaw drivers. It’s never a simple matter of “where would you like to go?” They always have a “very nice shop” they would like to take me, so they can earn an extra commission. And because I’m a white man, they seem to assume that I am here to shop. “No, thank you,” one must continually fight them off.

I stayed in Hampi for 5 days, instead of 3, because of the yoga and massage I found, as well as the ruins and natural rock formations. Each morning at 8, a Yogi walked a small group of visitors to an ancient temple, where he guided us through two hours of Yoga Asanas and Pranayama breathing exercises. Afterward, and each time, I went back into town for an Ayurvedic massage. By 12 noon on the last day, I was as relaxed and flexible as I’ve ever been. Like each of the other places I’ve visited, leaving was not a happy prospect. After hot and sour soup and a few vegetable momos, I hired a rickshaw into the next town and caught an overnight sleeper train to Bangalore.

I am now in Bangalore, taking care of chores. I paid my bills online, booked some tickets for the next few stops on my trail, purchased a new camera and gave my dirty laundry to a friendly Sikh who promised to bring it back tomorrow morning, clean. In the meantime, I have an opportunity to see a bit of this place we hear so much about back home. (more…)

Photo | Michael Ryan

Travel is cheap and easy here in Goa. In Palolem, the Indian version of “laid back” is sublime. I am in my shack on a remarkably active beach, with cows and dogs, travelers, fisherman and sales people mingling in the surf. Despite this activity, there is never a shout or angry word, or anything even approaching a bad vibe. Everyone is smiling as if they’ve just found paradise. Here, life is swim and tan, eat and drink, smoke and dance. A beach shack is 300 Rupees ($7.50) and a scooter is Rs.200 ($5) per day. With meals and kayak rentals, I’m topping out at 20 bucks a day. Why on earth would anyone ever leave?

The locals here still have genuine smiles for travelers, despite the disparity in work, pleasure and spending money. For the Goans, a white face is an opportunity for additional income. Every Tamil, Deepak and Hari has his own racket, including boat trips, scooter rentals, ayurvedic massage and handmade goods for sale. These services are on top of an already thriving formal economy of beach shacks, tiki bars, clothing and souvenir shops, internet cafes and travel agencies. In Palolem, everything a beach bum could possibly need is within a few hundred yards. But finally, after 15 days on the beach, I am ready to hit the road.

Backpackers with Lonely Planets run into each other in different places, again and again. We recognize each other, sit down for dinner and carry the conversation from where we left off last time. Sometimes, when you run into someone you didn’t quite like, it takes a delicate white lie to throw them off course. Other times, you run into people you enjoy a great deal, and if the schedules permit, get to spend a few days or more with them.

Toward the end of my 10 days in Anjuna, I ran into two Australian girls, very fun to hang out with in Anjuna for a few days, and then decided to join them for a 3-hour taxi-share to Palolem. On the way, we picked up a third Australian girl, who grew up in South Africa, and with whom I was immediately smitten. Like, “holy shit” smitten. Once in Palolem, we kept running into people we’d met in Anjuna. I am now heading toward Hampi, which also happens to be next on the itinerary of several travelers I’ve spoken to. After that, I’m heading to Mysore for yoga.

Kate, the third Australian we picked up in Baga, has just left us. I am very sad about this, more than I should be, since we met a few days ago. Then again, I’m a guy and unusually fickle. It’s a double-edged sword, to meet such a remarkable, articulate and refined woman while traveling, but to know that we’ll end up on opposite sides of the planet. She is going home to Perth, to begin a residency. I am heading off to continue my tour of India. We’re stuck in a travelers’ fantasy. As she prepared to leave, I was searching for ways to.. oh, I don’t know.. move to Australia? Finally, we said our good-byes. I wish you all the best, Kate!

As the Australians put it, “it’s really very lovely, here… isn’t it?” Last night I found myself in a group of only native English speakers. We were Australian, English, American and South African. We talked about our countries, how other countries are perceived back home, and linguistics. It was a startling realization for me, that so few nations around the globe can claim English as their primary language, yet the language dominates trade and information worldwide. I knew this already, but here I was, speaking with representatives from the 4 largest English speaking nations, on a beach in India! It suddenly occurred to me that we are really a minority on earth; extremely privileged; and that by talking to each other, we might actually be changing our own languages and accents, ever so slightly, back home. We dubbed it the new “Globo-Anglo.”

If the news back home has any of you stressed, the healing qualities of beach life are still working, and easier to obtain for extended periods than you may realize. There is something hypnotic about laziness near the waves. My big stress for the day is a run to a neighboring town, to use the only ATM near Palolem. After that, I’m renting a sea kayak with James, the Englishman from our group discussion. Last night I enjoyed a traditional Goan dish of chicken “chilly stir fry,” with a few “Kings” beers. It’s like a spicier version of pepper-steak, and satisfying over a bed of plain white rice. Tonight, I am going to try the more famous Goan “fish curry.” I hear it’s amazing.

I’m leaving the beach tomorrow. I’m heading to Hampi for a few nights, about nine hours east from here in the state of Karnataka, then onward farther south to Mysore, Ooty and Pondicherry in Tamil Nadu. Along the way, I will be looking for yoga schools, so I can learn a new discipline, lose a little more weight, breathe a little more deeply (Pranayama) and see as much of India as I possibly can. If all goes well, I will also get to see Kholkat (Calcutta) and Rajasthan, and maybe even squeeze in another week on the beach before heading home in late December. Gotta go now… I can smell that fish curry. Thank you for reading.

If you would like to write, please know that your comments are always welcome. You can reach me directly at mikerphilly@mac.com.

Philadelphian Michael Ryan is reporting from India. He started the semester in the Temple University Fox School of Business’ International MBA Program. Though he’s recently dropped out of the program, he’ll spend the next two months exploring the sub-continent on his own. We hope to hear from him when we hear from him. Read the kick-off article and subsequent installments. Michael will also be posting YouTube videos of his explorations.

More photos after the jump… (more…)

Photo | Michael Ryan

My ceiling fan rattles a panicked rhythm here in an otherwise calm and bucolic Goa. As I sit here on the beach in Anjuna for the ninth day, I am having an Easy Rider moment away from the Temple IMBA. I was very fortunate to be a part of such a program, and to be a guest at Welingkar in Mumbai. As in Easy Rider, I realize that escape is failure, no matter how I try to frame it. But the failure for me was in signing up. I should have known better.

So, then, it’s time for me to take a walk in my own bullshit for a while, and wear it like a poor Mumbaiker wears his recycled food waste. I’ll wear it like a 3-year-old Indian boy, naked and dirty, washing up in someone else’s waste water. I’ll wear it like an 80-year-old woman, carrying an 80-pound bundle on her head. I’ll wear it like any poor scrap, too tired and weary to realize or to complain. You can count me among the humbled.

Goa is India’s smallest state. It was “liberated” from Portugal in 1961, and declared a state in 1987. It is the least “Indian” of all the states, and a peaceful refuge from the unfamiliar chaos that is so much of India. Sacred cows graze outside mostly Catholic churches. Little shrines and giant cathedrals dot the landscape, which varies from beach village to crowded city, and from rainforest to wide-open rice fields. But like the rest of India, Goa is hard to characterize. There is too much variety to call it any one thing. Its residents speak multiple languages, are relatively affluent and are by no means provincial. There are 10 times as many Indian tourists here as foreigners.

The beach towns are dominated by hotels and restaurants, but inland it’s local. In rural areas, people often dry grains in the street. One must scooter around these puddles of barley, sorghum and rice. Some of the neighborhoods are suburban, affluent and old. Portuguese tile roofs intermingle with straw and thatch. Narrow streets poked with holes are fun to navigate, but full of surprises. If it’s not a pavement hazard, it’s a cow (again), a delivery truck, a tourist bus going too fast in the other direction, or a sudden influx of rush hour traffic. Everywhere, there is another sight to behold and another interesting person to talk to.

Today I got lost 30 kilometers from the beach, and found my way back. Toward the farthest part of that journey, I was halted by three men in the street. They weren’t police. They were just three neighbors outside, talking. (more…)

I have 9 nieces and nephews. They are the only ones I’m concerned about having to tell that I just dropped out of Temple’s IMBA program. I’m afraid it will send the wrong message, so I’m grappling with my explanation, even moreso than I had to grapple with myself in coming to the decision.

One of my classmates got very upset when he heard that I was about to leave. He did the best thing he knew to do and stormed into my dorm room. “What the hell are you doing? Where are you going? I know you’re not going to do anything, because you’re just a bitch. You’re 40 years old and you’ve never done anything. That’s why you’re alone.”

I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and gently told him that I appreciated the sentiment, but that he was wrong. I wasn’t quitting, in the sense he meant. I was actually just doing the right thing for myself. I just don’t give a damn about increasing shareholder value. It’s really the very last thing I care about.

Prior to coming here, I had far too many experiences, in work, travel and in love, to take any of them seriously. I used to joke that I was living the “sampler platter.” I don’t joke about it much anymore, because frankly, I’m running out of options. I could really use something steady!

So this brings me here. I applied for the Temple IMBA program because it seemed like an exciting way to do something which might give me a practical edge in my work. It’s easy to jump from career path to career path when you are 25. It gets much harder when your head turns gray. People stop smiling, “Oh, how cute,” and start grimacing, “What the heck is your problem, pal?”

A few years back, between samples, I found myself in Vermont, attempting to write a screenplay. I never finished, but I learned a great deal trying. In the process, I picked up some books by Joseph Campbell. His life’s work was finding universal stories and mythologies as a cultural anthropologist. He wrote The Hero With A Thousand Faces, among others. This was the book that inspired George Lucas to write Star Wars.

I mention this because it explains why dropping out was not a failure of character, in the larger, more important sense. Business school is not my dragon to slay. What my dragon really is, however, is more elusive and difficult to ascertain. That’s why they call it a dragon.

Westerners are known to pick the dragons we want to slay. We take flying lessons or hike Mt. Everest. We join the Peace Corps or we take out a loan and start our own business. For us, these are the tangible, controllable dragons. We get to choose them, and when we’ve conquered them, we get to scrape another notch into our tree bark.

The real dragons in life are not choosable. They just show up, or linger around just out of sight. And that’s what I’m getting at here. Right now, I have no clue what my dragon is, but I know it’s nearby. Fortunately, I’m in India, where anyone and everyone is welcome to rejoin the human race. And so I’m going to spend the next two months doing just that. That is, if she’ll have me.

As for my 9 nieces and nephews, well.. you already knew your uncle was little funny. I may not be bringing home new credentials for my resume, but I have a lot to share with you about what India has to teach us. For starters, we’re all going to move into the same house together, and spend every evening on the front porch, talking until we get sleepy. Okay? We’ll eat non-veg, with a little less curry. Don’t worry.

Philadelphian Michael Ryan is reporting from Mumbai, India. He started the semester in the Temple University Fox School of Business’ International MBA Program. Though he’s recently left the program, he’ll spend the next two months exploring the sub-continent on his own. We hope to hear from him and bring you his reports as often as possible. Read the kick-off article and subsequent installments. Michael will also be posting YouTube videos of his explorations.

Photo & Video | Michael Ryan

When I was a kid, and I didn’t want to eat my string beans, my mother would say, “You know, there are people starving in India.” In my cocky smugness, I would reply, “Okay Ma, just mail it to them.” I have now, at age 39, lived to regret that. Sorry, Ma. You were right. There are people starving in India. Lots of them. But there are also wealthy people here. Lots of them, too. There are so many people here, that you can choose any world you want. I’m getting to see it all.

I get in a cab and ride for 30 minutes, all the way down to Colaba. It costs me 120 Rupees. That’s 3 dollars, just over an average day’s pay here. When I get there, I walk around, find a cool-looking bar and order a bottle of Foster’s. (It’s Indian for “only decent beer available.”) I have a great conversation with a local Mumbaiker; about soccer; about his manufacturing business; about his relatives who are living in New Jersey, and his three trips to Manhattan. We talk about education in India, lifting people out of poverty, about corruption and “the mafia” here. We pat each other on the back, exchange names and phone numbers, say good bye. I walk outside, catch another cab and take the ride home.

And this is where the real story begins. As I’m riding in the back of a beat-up black-and-yellow Fiat with a wobbly rear wheel, I can hardly believe what I am seeing. The roads — if you can call them roads — are lined with make-shift shacks. There are kids walking around without any clothing at all. I spot a group of three girls, no more than 3 or 4 years old, having a good time under the transmission of a big “Goods Carrier” truck, parked, thankfully. There’s a cow eating grass, next to a guy selling corn on the cob and roasted nuts. And then shack after shack after shack, naked kid after naked kid after naked kid. Families are huddled together, fathers often staring off into space with a half-smirk… holding on to the last thing they know… wondering whatever… but probably how he’s going to earn, beg or borrow enough Rupees to feed these damn kids tomorrow.

In the air-conditioned bar, the Mumbaiker and I, and a few beers, are able to digest all of this. We can talk about the problems, and when we get to the poverty, his response is, “I know, it’s very sad.” I’m thinking, “No fucking way, pal! It’s more than sad. It’s totally unacceptable!” And then I realize that I’m an American, and we’re not as poor; that it’s not my country and I can’t judge. In fact, if there is one thing about India that shines brighter than anything else, it is this inherent ability to humble even the most arrogant among us. His comment is not neglect; it’s just sober realization. If we have made gun violence banal in the U.S., here it is poverty which goes unnoticed, because it is everywhere.

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Photo | Michael Ryan

We celebrated Gokulashtami at midnight and Janmashtami on Tuesday, the day after Labor Day. So while you were all getting back to school, and back to work, we were cheering human pyramids in honor of Sri Krishna, the eighth incarnation of Lord Krishna, and he who is credited with having dictated the Bhagvad Gita. This auspicious holiday is celebrated in various ways all across India. The more religious traditions include “doing Pooja,” which is a family-based worship in the home.

To mark the second day, Mumbaikers on just about every street are known to build human pyramids, sometimes 10 or 11 levels high, to reach a clay pot, hanging from a long garland. In some places, this can be as high as 50 feet or more, but the local one we opt for is about 30 feet up. When the top climber reaches the clay pot, he breaks it open and buttermilk pours out, over everyone’s heads (see video).

On our way home from a late dinner on Monday, we stumbled across a group who were celebrating the birth of Sri Krishna at midnight. As we approached, I pulled out my camera and wondered whether they would be offended. On the contrary, once we were noticed, a swarm of young boys came running toward us. They pulled us into their circle and we had no choice but to join the jumping and shouting. An older woman, who normally may have ignored me, was so taken by our visit that she pulled us into her makeshift temple, and asked us to take pictures of her offerings. I’ve never felt so much love, so quickly, from complete strangers, in all of my life.

On Tuesday, we were invited to participate in our school’s official Dahi Handi program (human pyramid building), but instead opted for a local one. The same kids we had danced and shouted with the night before were all now dressed in yellow T-shirts and they took over the street in front of our hostel. I’ve included a You Tube link (above), so I can stop writing and just let the facts take over.

From Mumbai, Happy Gokulashtami!

Michael Ryan is reporting from Mumbai, India, this semester while taking part in the Temple University Fox School o Business’ International MBA Program. Read the kick-off article and subsequent installments. Michael will also be posting YouTube videos of his explorations.

Michael Ryan will be reporting from Mumbai this semester while he takes part in the Temple Fox School of Business’ International MBA program. Read the first installment.

Michael Ryan

Bangar is about 60.  He sweeps the floor of my dormitory here in Mumbai with a soft bundle of dried grass. I am captivated as I watch his wrist action, the long end of his whisk snatching debris from an impossible corner under my desk. “Thank you,” I say in English to his Hindi ears. He looks up and smiles gleefully, “gud monig, sir.”

It pains me to see Bangar bending over like he does, his back permanently arched in submission to his work. I ask one of the Indian Americans in our class why he uses a clump of dried grass, instead of a long plastic broom, “like we might use in America.”

“It’s the traditional Indian way,” he replies. 

This causes me to reconsider. I don’t want to see big box shopping malls in India (they already have them, in the burgeoning suburbs), but something as simple as a long-handled broom would make all the difference for this man. Would he lose 7,500 years of Hindu identity if he suddenly found himself upright, sweeping with a blue plastic broom from a large retail outlet.

“A regular broom would be more efficient, and he wouldn’t have to bend so much,” I reason.

“Yes, but you have to understand the way Indians think. If it’s cheaper to buy a whisk for 35 rupees, instead of a Western broom for 350, an Indian will buy the cheaper one and pay more people to work. It’s the labor. Here, there are 10 people for every job. Why spend money on more efficient tools?”

“But if India wants to keep up this 9-percent rate of growth, it has to be more efficient.”

“For an Indian, cheaper is more efficient.  You would do the same thing if labor in America were as cheap as it is here.”

Bangar’s use of a traditional straw broom is indicative of several things I’ve noticed in India: labor is cheap; strong traditions help to bridge the gaps of economic disparity but also limit innovation; the serving class sees itself as subservient (thereby contributing to their own poverty); and those with an education almost universally wish it were different. The potential for productivity growth here is simply enormous, if the so-called “serving class” is able to achieve “consumption class” levels of wealth. 

The task here, it seems, is to make the distinction between what is good practice and what is good culture. Younger generations are testing the limits, with objections from their parents. And somewhere in that mix, a new reality is unfolding. It’s not clear what that means, exactly, but that’s why it’s so exciting. 

India is a nation re-birthing itself.  Mumbai, its New York, is building new highways, new technology grids and a new subway system. The Bandra-Worli Sea-link is an eight-lane, 14 kilometer bridge going up now. Cell phones have become ubiquitous and internet cafes are jammed with customers. The Times of India is running a “Lead India” campaign aimed at prompting new discussion and challenging young people to step up. There is a new critical mass of highly educated people, expats returning to their home, more effective government, talk about cleaner streets, open space campaigns, and efforts to improve buses and trains. The efforts of thoughtful but quiet leaders, over decades, are finally bearing fruit. 

At the Ghandi museum here, I read India’s Declaration of Independence for the first time. Written in 1930, it begins, “We believe that it is the inalienable right of the Indian people, as of any other people, to have freedom and to enjoy the fruits of their toil and have the necessities of life so that they may have full opportunities of growth.  We believe also that if any government deprives a people of these rights and oppresses them, the people have a further right to alter it or to abolish it.” It’s a bit familiar.

More after the jump (more…)

Our man in Mumbai: Ryan, front row, second from left.

Photo courtesy Michael Ryan

Today we kicked off Michael Ryan’s immersion study of the culture and economics of India, Mumbai, The Hard Way, over in City Paper. Check in here throughout the semester — Ryan’s in India with Temple Fox School of Business’ International MBA program — for weekly updates. Additional photos from the maiden installment after the jump. (more…)