A Carefully Observed Observer
At the end of the day in any of the cities, small and large, to which we have traveled I am exhausted by the politics of looking and being looked at. In Delhi, everyone on the street wanted to talk to us whether it was to lend travel advice, give directions or a ride on their rickshaw, find out from where we come or where we were going. Most of the time, their “recommendations” resulted in a fat commission for them. When it was just us ladies walking around, we were subject to kissing noises in our ears, unabashed stares, and even Cassidy being called a “beetch.” Needless to say, the attention was anything but flattering,
On our way out of Delhi, I sighed with relief to leave the big city with it’s tourist markets and excessive commerce, and looked forward to time in a smaller metropolis with less people trying to sell fewer pashminas, samosas, saris, batteries, camel skin slippers, peacock feather dusters, sleeping bags, tee-shirts with pictures of Ganesh, bangle bracelets, “aryuvedic” massage, postcards, paints, sunglasses, puppets, chai, genie pants, mirrored quilts, incense and essential oils. During a 4 hour bus ride to Jaipur a man transplanted himself and his 3 young boys to the seat adjacent to mine and Cassidy’s for the sole purpose of staring. To be fair, we were looking at pictures on my laptop, so I tried to chalk it up to innocent curiosity. I waved and said hello in a vain attempt acknowledge his blatant staring and possibly bring it to an end. He smiled back, and continued to be watch us with intent, even encouraging his kids to join in as well. I tried covering my face with my scarf, but this did not help either. Patience wearing thin, I reminded myself that many people in Rajasthan have never left their city or town, and that two American girls, one with short red hair and tattoos and another with a laptop and paper white skin might indeed be a form of innocent amusement. That was until he wagged his tongue at me as a brushed past him on our way off the bus.
As we stepped off the dusty bus in Jaipur, I found out that not much had changed. Throngs of pushy Rickshaw drivers swarmed yelling rather than asking, “Hellloooooo. Madame! Where you want to go. Rickshaw? Yes Please.” Others stepped in just to watch us handle our bags and sheepishly refer to our “Lonely Planet” for orientation. With all eyes on us, we find ourselves wishing there were some way to appear a little less clueless about our surroundings.
In Johdpur, there was much less aggression and the feeling of the Old City was upbeat and inviting. Still, a walk down the street made one feel like some kind of ambassador from the white world. There is a chorus of “Hellllloooo,” repeated by everyone you pass on the street; mostly a demonstration of their pride in whatever amount of English they may possess. In a place where I was prepared to look too hard and too much, people were asking if I would pose for a picture for them! Children bombarded me begging, “One picture pleeeeease.” I hadn’t anticipated that my camera and my curiosity would leave Indians un-phased, and I would be the one squirming with discomfort at the amount of attention I would receive. The audio tour at the Johdpur fort explained the tradition of purdah (the hiding of women behind walls, in covered cars and presently under veils) as a way to “protect” them rom the lascivious gaze of men. Seeing as many women still carry on with daily tasks from manual labor to cooking and cleaning with their faces completely covered with a semi-sheer fabric.
One sure fire way to make a Rajasthani stop in his tracks is by wearing tights. Indian women wear “pajama” pants under their kurtas and saris. The pants can be farely tight, but are drawstring and a little poofy at the hips with bunchy fabric at the ankles. After having coffee on a rooftop café this morning, the waiter asked the burning question that had apparently been on his mind since I walked in the door: what do you call these things you wear on your legs?” I was wearing a knee length dress with black opaque tights. Once we had left and were making our way down the narrow street off the bazaar, Adam pointed out that men and women alike were staring at my calves. Women whispered and pointed and men elbowed each other to focus their attention. Somehow the bare midriff of the women in saris was nothing compared to the black outline of my calves.
At our nexy hotel, the “Artist’s Hotel,” one of the managers who had just been teaching me how to play one of his instruments, told me how he had married his wife when she was just 14 in an arranged marriage, aving never seen her face before their wedding. I met her soon after in their tiny thatched-roof house next door. She pulled me into the room, stroked me hair and made sure i sat down. I asked her how old she was, she said 21 and bounced her baby on her knee. Bangles up to her shoulders and head covered, she asked if Adam and I were married or had kids. When I said no with an emphatic shake of the head, she smiled and gave me a high five.