The police officer wore khaki on khaki and toted a World War Two era automatic rifle. He had the fat cheeks of a child and a continuously unaware smile to match. He approached me, uninvited as always, as I sat on a bench outside the Taj Mahal.
"Which place you from," he asked with that goofy smile. A question that I should have by then been used to, it was one that still irked me. I couldn’t imagine those being the first words that came out of my mouth upon approaching a stranger back home.
"The United States," I told him, looking back into his blank yet smiling face.
"Eh?" he replied, uncertain, as always what my answer had meant.
"America," I said, knowing this would clear up the confusion, though I always felt bad claiming the name "America" for my homeland when, technically, America comprises over 20 countries on its northern and southern continents.
"Oh, America … Woorshington D.C." he proudly pontificated.
"Yeah," I said, hoping he would go away.
"Capitol of America."
"Yeah."
"Very power country. Most power."
"Sure."
"In world is much powerful."
"I suppose."
"Osama Bin Laden."
That I could only answer with a look of confusion.
"World Trade Center," he said, with a sly half smile on his face, for what reason I’m still unsure. I looked away, wishing he wouldn’t have brought it up. He eventually went back over to the neighboring bench, rejoining the rest of his four-strong khakified posse in their ongoing quest to do as little work as possible.
• • •
After the Taj we told a rickshaw driver that we wanted to go to McDonalds. We were then driven out into a weird, wind-blown district not more than four or five kilometers from the Taj, yet a place that felt like another world. Shooting up out of the ground in this fantasy land were two huge, modern buildings - multiplex malls with five levels and everything from a four screen cinema to a Nike store. The bicycle making up the rickshaw’s front end creaked mournfully to a halt in front of the golden arches that separate the two mall buildings. The silence of this place was weird and so much different from what we were used to in any city, much less in a city as fabled and populated as Agra.
Pushing open the glass doors we were met with a lively atmosphere of upper-class families dining on this bright Sunday afternoon. I made my order for two filet o’ fish sandwiches and fries (which I may have regretted later but were oh so glorious in the moment) and took a seat at a table near the back where the restaurant connects to the mall. I was glancing around at the advertisements, somewhat creepy representations of Indian folk exercising while eating their dripping chicken and fish sandwiches (no Big Macs in Agra) when I about jumped out of my chair as a little Indian boy flew past the separating glass door in a Big Wheel type car built for kids. For me, this was the ultimate representation of wealth and class, a plastic car built with a motor for children to drive. It was the item I longed after as a child, yet never achieved. And now here it was, being driven by an Indian boy in the middle of an upscale shopping mall in a five thousand year-old city in a "third-world" or "developing" country.
I began wondering if this restaurant, with its squeaky clean tables and flat screen televisions, was simply a product of its proximity to the Taj Mahal. Did this entire shopping mall run off of the spend-hungry appetites of tourists? As I looked out the window I felt like I got my answer, for in the parking lot there were men with rags, shining the automobiles they were paid daily to drive. They were the drivers for rich Indian families, assigned to wait in the parking lot while their hired family spent an afternoon indulging in Western delight … so close and yet so far removed from the place in which they were actually existing. This wind-swept district was quiet and removed because that’s the way people like it. They don’t want to have to be reminded of the hustle and bustle of the city streets with their beggars and their cows and their stink.
This bothered me somehow. It bothered me for about as long as it took for the food to arrive and for me to sink my teeth into the fried, tarter-sauce-enhanced goodness of the easy life. Some things make it easy to forget.
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"Which place you from," he asked with that goofy smile. A question that I should have by then been used to, it was one that still irked me. I couldn’t imagine those being the first words that came out of my mouth upon approaching a stranger back home.
"The United States," I told him, looking back into his blank yet smiling face.
"Eh?" he replied, uncertain, as always what my answer had meant.
"America," I said, knowing this would clear up the confusion, though I always felt bad claiming the name "America" for my homeland when, technically, America comprises over 20 countries on its northern and southern continents.
"Oh, America … Woorshington D.C." he proudly pontificated.
"Yeah," I said, hoping he would go away.
"Capitol of America."
"Yeah."
"Very power country. Most power."
"Sure."
"In world is much powerful."
"I suppose."
"Osama Bin Laden."
That I could only answer with a look of confusion.
"World Trade Center," he said, with a sly half smile on his face, for what reason I’m still unsure. I looked away, wishing he wouldn’t have brought it up. He eventually went back over to the neighboring bench, rejoining the rest of his four-strong khakified posse in their ongoing quest to do as little work as possible.
• • •
After the Taj we told a rickshaw driver that we wanted to go to McDonalds. We were then driven out into a weird, wind-blown district not more than four or five kilometers from the Taj, yet a place that felt like another world. Shooting up out of the ground in this fantasy land were two huge, modern buildings - multiplex malls with five levels and everything from a four screen cinema to a Nike store. The bicycle making up the rickshaw’s front end creaked mournfully to a halt in front of the golden arches that separate the two mall buildings. The silence of this place was weird and so much different from what we were used to in any city, much less in a city as fabled and populated as Agra.
Pushing open the glass doors we were met with a lively atmosphere of upper-class families dining on this bright Sunday afternoon. I made my order for two filet o’ fish sandwiches and fries (which I may have regretted later but were oh so glorious in the moment) and took a seat at a table near the back where the restaurant connects to the mall. I was glancing around at the advertisements, somewhat creepy representations of Indian folk exercising while eating their dripping chicken and fish sandwiches (no Big Macs in Agra) when I about jumped out of my chair as a little Indian boy flew past the separating glass door in a Big Wheel type car built for kids. For me, this was the ultimate representation of wealth and class, a plastic car built with a motor for children to drive. It was the item I longed after as a child, yet never achieved. And now here it was, being driven by an Indian boy in the middle of an upscale shopping mall in a five thousand year-old city in a "third-world" or "developing" country.
I began wondering if this restaurant, with its squeaky clean tables and flat screen televisions, was simply a product of its proximity to the Taj Mahal. Did this entire shopping mall run off of the spend-hungry appetites of tourists? As I looked out the window I felt like I got my answer, for in the parking lot there were men with rags, shining the automobiles they were paid daily to drive. They were the drivers for rich Indian families, assigned to wait in the parking lot while their hired family spent an afternoon indulging in Western delight … so close and yet so far removed from the place in which they were actually existing. This wind-swept district was quiet and removed because that’s the way people like it. They don’t want to have to be reminded of the hustle and bustle of the city streets with their beggars and their cows and their stink.
This bothered me somehow. It bothered me for about as long as it took for the food to arrive and for me to sink my teeth into the fried, tarter-sauce-enhanced goodness of the easy life. Some things make it easy to forget.