When I dreamt, I found the spaces in between…

written March 13th:

India feels too big for words, and I’ve been struggling to find words appropriate to encapsulate my experiences there.  It is seductive, and cruel, and flagrant.  It pushes and begs and cackles.  It bats its eyes.  It’s cheeky. And it’s only now that I’m in the safe haven of Nepal (a considerably calmer, cleaner, nicer neighbor) that I can even consider writing about India.

Hinduism, certainly the most passinate and sensuous religion I’ve encountered.  So passionate it can be simultaneously hilarious nd frightening (and not in some distant intelectual way, like how Christianity can be frightening, but in the up front, in my face sort of way).  Sadhus, ceremonies, chanting men, smoke incense fire, an energy that pushes itself onto you, whether you like it or not, whether you’ve invited it or told it to fuck off.  Everyday life, in the market on the streets, around the ghats, has this pushing moving energy.  And, not surrisingly, i’ve found this to be incredibly overwhelming.

But let me back up a little and give some context.  I don’t want to mislead you - all of India is not so intense and I am not so sensitive to not be abe to handle it.  My last post referred to a certain attack by bacteria, bovine, and broads (eunuch tranny ones at that):

The bacteria: To be expected.  This happens out here to us delicate Westerners - I’m sure I’m not the only white erson to have blessed Delhi’s train station with, well, vomit.  I was happy to have missed any human bystanders and considered that a resounding success.  Stomach emties, I had a lovely night’s sleep on a sleeper train (little did my compartment-mates know that they too lucily had a good night’s sleep: my puking hapened five minutes before boarding).  So yes, bacteria.  Check.

The bovine: Not quite so expected.  I guess if I had given it any real thought, I may have come to the conclusion that walking in front of a cow who is intent on getting somewhere might best be avoided.  But, I hadn’t given it thought and so swiftly had a cow head (and its two nubbly horn stubbles - thank goodness this thing wasn’t full grown) pushing me down the street.  I dn’t recommend this - it hurts.  Later the next week, however, I was twice blessed bovine-style, as if in reconciliation for the earlier headbutting, by two cows - one who nuzzled my armpit with her wet nose, and another who deigned to lick my food (think giant cat tongue).  I’ve considered this a show of goodwill, and by my last day in India I’d taken to patting cows in return. 

(Also, don’t get me started on yaks.  I now love yaks - thye have the sweetest moon-pie doe eyes on the planet.  They can also stick their tongues neatly into their nostrils, as if their tongues were specifically designed for this purpose - and maybe they were!)

This leaves us the (tranny prostitute) broads: We’re in Jaiselmar Rajasthan, a very old fort desert town.  Lots of people, cows, noise, pollution, oen sewers, scammers, merchants.  It’s hot and colorful and the most amazing - I’m enthralled.  And, sparing the details, because it’s a better story in person, a prostitute (think Indian drag queen if you need an image) and her john grabbed my breasts, in broad daylight, in public.  After pushing them away, losing it a few minutes later, deciding to tell the tourist police (not an easy decision - will they listen? do they care? will they blame me? I felt like a classic 1960s America sexual assault victim), and having the police tell me there was nothing to be done about it, I was left with a very deep disgust for this aspect of Indian culture - around gender and sex, and for Indian men in general.

All the observations I had been making, dispassionately, that men would never address me in conversation when I was with Stephen (I was always referred to by a pointed finger and the words “she” and “her”), the staring, the fact that I had to wear a shawl to deflect the staring (only worked partially)… all of this experience joined forces with being attcked, and drew out all my rage and feelings of helplessness around this question of gender and having a voice.

I spent a good two weeks, in increasingly intense cities, contemlating voicelessness, while feeling less and less welcome.  (The staring, in my case because of how I look came from both men and women, and was unrelenting.  You know how little kids stare without shame?  It seems that almost all adults in northern India do the same.  It’s not welcoming, and after days and days of it, gets terribly irritating).  What does it mean to have an empowered voice in my usual context, and then lose it in another?  What does this voicelessness mean for local women - how does it manifest, how do they use it, how does it use them?  Also, less thoughtful questions such as “What the fuck is wrong with these people?!” (not my finest moment, but at least it was honest). 

Women are simply second class in this culture.  And this was something I couldn’t accept.  In short, I couldn’t figure out how to even exist in India.  Talk about an identity mind fuck.

And so, with a flip of the sexual harrassment switch, what was funny amazing overwhelming turned into terrible overwhelming, and all the other fucked-up gender role experiences I had and continued sexual harrassment were amplified into the mantra “India and I are not friends”.

More on this in my next post…