People who have or live in the West often complain of a feeling of isolation. One can hardly make eye contact with fellow humans riding in the metro or at the supermart for fear of offending the other person. And indeed when I visited Italy, a country in Europe that perhaps comes closest to the Indian way of life (cheating cabbies and pickpockets, possessive mommas, the food; though no one seemed to know of Sonia ), the Indian contingent at Vinitaly (a wine show I was attending, in Verona) was the only one that seemed cheerfully garrulous. A lady in our group, who tooks pains to dress in colourful saris, was invariably complimented. At one of the gatherings though the compliment was rather different: “At least you people talk and laugh,” she was told. All the colour and joy, it seems, has leeched out of Europe this recession, even from its sunnier parts.
If I were an Indian, perhaps from Chandni Chowk where people live intertwined lives in gullies, or from a smaller, not so anonymous town, I suppose I should have found the disengagement with fellow humans traumatic. As it were, I was pleased to not have to listen to the constant hum of humanity unless specified otherwise. In the stores, there were no eager- beavers asking if they could “help” with fake and pushy smiles, and I could browse to my heart’s content without having a nosy shadow. The only time I did need help was at a local gourmet store where I went to pick up some fresh, homemade pasta sauces but discovered that all the labels were in Italian. Of course, I only had to ask the woman shopping next to me and there was plenty of help forthcoming —no, not from the storekeeper, but from other shoppers who managed to find someone with a smattering of English.
At a black tie dinner, I found myself seated next to a young, Italian winemaker and a rather chatty sushi chef from Sweden. Other company included an Italian settled in New Zealand who told me that he hated living in Italy because “systems don’t work and there are too many people”! A bit like India, I told him, anxious not to speak too ill of the motherland, and was rather relieved when the topic moved to Slumdog Millionaire that everyone seems to have seen (along with The Guru, a forgettable film starring Vikram Chatwal ) as the only example of Indian cinema. We debated life as it really is in India versus the image, but what hooked my audience was expectedly, “spriritualism”. That, and the fact that we don’t have a word for “cheers”!
But what that evening really got me thinking was the near zero possibility of ever having something similar in India: For one, no one really drinks in a civilised manner here, to expect them to converse intelligently a couple down can be a bit much. What, I wonder, would be the chances of a single woman in a city like Delhi engaging in interesting conversation over a drink without someone or the other getting “overinterested”? The wine fair itself, with several million litres of vino and an equal number of visitors, made for a study in sociology: The Americans were eager and friendly, the Europeans more reserved, the locals treated it like a picnic, and, as if everyone wanted to live up to stereotypes, I even spotted a Japanese taking out a map (the fair was so huge that you could lose your way). What did the Indians do? While some of us tried out an incredible number of wines, elderly others (males) were interested in asking out young women reps from the stalls for coffee!
On the flight back, transiting through Vienna, I found the airport’s quiet held hostage by a group from the Punjabi heartland. The children squealed, bawled and chased one another. The adults were equally loud. But what hit me the most as I came back to lethargic queues at Delhi airport was the sense of fear. I landed at an unearthly hour and as I stepped out hoping to find my car and driver (taxis are too risky at that hour), all my senses were on full alert and not in a happy way… By contrast, the only time I found myself lost in Verona, I had a happy hour exploring.