Lemuel's Travels

Whether the misguided, childhood thoughts we had about the world were the impact of the malignant words of a non-ambitious parent who saw a sky without the stars or from the seemingly profound words of an ignorant news-reporter, we seem to internalize the falsehoods that life lives to feed us. But on a 2009 excursion, the ignorant glass heart which beat in a 15-year old Indian, South African boy was shattered so that the said heart was changed; reformed; renewed after a journey on a long road that was neither yellow nor brick-made but rather dirt, red and love-infested.

A poor village stood proud and clandestine in the dust, hours away from the bustle of the New Delhi city. Scattered huts and parading animals added an uncomfortable stench to the already polluted air. Women sweating at the brow, in rice fields, as they cheerfully slaved away to feed their community. Tribal. I had always known this to be a sad state of living but all these people adorned their faces with radiating, senior-citizen-esque smiles.

We stopped at a hut as a multitude of simpletons poured out, ecstatic at the prospect of entertaining aliens. An old woman stretched out her hand. She released her palm to reveal shiny pomegranate seeds. She smiled warmly. Her skin creased at the corners of her mouth into neat folds, like exquisite papyrus. Her eyes blazed with pride, over her village, bright and trembling as the Indian sunrays above her.

She spoke in a deep, animated tone proving that charisma is something that one is born with – it isn’t taught or bought. On translation, her words proved to be a vibrant flow of raw, uncouth emotion as she relayed tales about “this my India” and “this my village”; her birthplace - her home until she is buried in the ground and even after that.

I had been surprised by the contrast between the energy of the woman (with her troop of orphans) and the bush village but as I reminisce over the visit, 5 years later as an adult, the inspiration has long since set in to dispel the wonder.

The abundant spirit matched the village – an environment gently woven with humility at the seams. It was this trip that taught me the value of global travel. Everything is not as it appears, in the media. The smell of feces, the sound of indigenous and bombastic celebratory melodies, the sight of true passion– these can only be rivaled by the beauty of the ruby-red pomegranate jewels, from the Indian garden. Such experiences can only be taken head-on; face-to-face.