Mother India- what will I find?

I am not sure whether I believe in one God, in many gods, in one lifetime, in many lifetimes, in a divine Universe, in fate, or in plain old coincidence. The answers to these questions don’t plague me the way they do many others; they simply exist on a plane I trust will become clear to me when it needs to.

What I do know is that Mother India has woven her mysteries into my soul as it has journed through this lifetime. My very first friend was from the Punjab region of India. One of my first memories is of eating hot chappatis dipped in spicy pickles on the threadbare red carpet in her living room. My white-blond pigtails contrasted starkly with her dark, rich braid as she taught me how to eat without cutlery, using only my right hand. The love I have for chappatis has never waned and I still turn to the warmed yellowy bread dripping with ghee when life leaves me underwhelmed. Perhaps my eternal fascination with India was folded into my soul in the same way the love of my adopted Indian “auntie” was folded into that delicious bread. Equally, perhaps my eternal struggle to give up carbohydrates was born in the idea that bread was undoubtedly the tastiest way to transport food from plate to soul…

Mother India also sent me the gift of cultural intrigue, and offered to me the first understanding I had of difference. The bangles and dancing and intricate henna work that coloured the celebrations on the eve of my first Indian wedding seemed like magic to me; I had never before seen so much freedom dance around a room. The next morning, I sat next to the sister of the bride on a decorated cushion on the floor, so that she could explain to me what each traditional step of the ceremony meant to the bride, the groom, and to the Sikh religion. I know now what a huge honour I was given, as in Sikh weddings, one is seated in order of importance to the family. I was as besotted as only a child can be as I watched the bride float around her groom as gracefully as a painted butterfly, my wide eyes filled with colour.

Mother India, always fair, also forced me to take my first steps towards understanding my own privilege. She showed me how terrified our Indian babysitter was when she thought my dad would have to walk her home when my parents returned early one evening as my mom had severe food poisoning. She was not worried that my dad would do anything to her; rather, she was worried what her family would do to her if she were seen alone at night with an unrelated adult male- especially one who was white. I remember to this day the silently deafening fear behind her eyes; she was far too timid to say no, but terrified of saying yes. My mom called our female neighbour to walk her home.

A few years later, Mother India reminded me how unfair life can be for so many girls when the girl next door, and my very best childhood friend, received a beautiful pink bike for her 6th birthday. She was not allowed to ride it until her younger brother and older male cousin had their fill. They returned it to her only once the excitement behind her eyes had dulled, the new bell had been broken, and the frame was scratched and muddy. Those events were uncomfortable to me even as a child, not only because something in me rejected the idea that women were somehow less than men, but also because I knew I was not likely to experience them in my own egalitarian(ish) home. I got to ride all of my own bikes. It didn’t matter how I got home from babysitting.

It is surprising to me that despite my obsession and having travelled to many corners of this magical and wondrous globe, I have never set foot in Mother India. The chaos I have witnessed as the tuk-tuks weave between cows and children, the smells which have greeted me as the discarded paan floats from mouth to pavement, and the colours which have captivated me as I’ve lost myself in a market of saris form only whispy memories that I have not yet made. They are the almost-tangible, though not-quite, moments of my life. And that just isn’t good enough.

So, after many long years of visiting in every way but physical, I have booked my ticket and will set foot in India in 2016. Finally.

And I am petrified.

Part of me is scared that the image I have built up is so powerful, that nothing earthly could ever compare. Somehow, this does not scare me so much. I think the deep part of me knows that India is both more heartbreaking and more magical than something any single mind could fabricate, and I believe that I will be touched in ways so extraordinary that my almost-memories will seem grey in comparison.

No. I’m not scared because it won’t be everything I want. I am scared because it will.

For some reason, going to India next year has made me worry that, when a mirror is held up to my life as it is, the reflection will fall flat. It has made me wonder if I am content. Am I doing what I want? Am I growing into the woman I want to be? Am I as compassionate, spirited, aware as I can be? Have I chosen the right partner? Am I ready to settle down and have children and own a house and continue to progress in my career, or is my spirit compelled to do something which is both less stable and more extraordinary?

I imagine that going to India will challenge me to face the parts of myself that are all too easy to run away from in day to day life. I worry and hope that it will re-awaken the adventurous, carefree woman who wants to get to know the world and make an impact on it. I dread, and pray, that it will lighten the spark within me which dims a little more each day as I trudge through life doing what I believe I should be doing, rather than what I’d like to be doing.

Alternatively, I wonder if India will finally give me the closure on whatever box was opened so long ago, that it will tell me that there isn’t a magical land of colour and intrigue that will show me who I am, and that actually, the life I am leading is the life I am meant to lead?  Will India nudge me to put my travelling boots and gypsy spirit away for a while, and show me that I am actually content and even joyful to be approaching the house-holding part of life which involves having children and putting down roots- however unexotic, privileged, and mundane they may be. Even Indian scriptures suggest that house-holding well and with compassion is a form of meditation. Will this life, this so-called normal life, be the meditation that ultimately soothes my soul?

Whatever the answers, off I will go. I will explore the sites which have always been so close behind my eyes, and in so doing, open myself up to explore the sites inside of myself which are currently scaffolding-clad and hidden behind dusty white sheets. I hope that whatever fate (or god, or Gods, or Buddha, or the universe) show me is divine, and that I am open, compassionate, and brave enough to welcome it, and to be as wide-eyed in awe of whatever I am shown as I was of the dancing butterflies all those yars ago.