Culture Clash

I watched India through a car window. Like an unedited video of rolling scenery, it was dreamy, but distant.
My mom and I tried to find a balance between discovery and security. We wandered Mumbai and Delhi a bit, but for the journey between, we hired a driver. “Don’t leave the hotel without me,” he’d say. Our measure for safety was leading to a sheltered experience.
When we asked to meet locals, we were shown touristy markets where currency buys contact. Kids automatically posed when they saw my camera, and then demanded money. This was commerce, a transaction.
Luckily, my mom and I kept running into this tour guide who invited us to his shop, which was around the corner from our hotel in Agra. He welcomed us warmly with tea and whiskey. We opted for the whiskey.
I lamented that we were being carted around without a chance to explore or meet someone new. At that, the tour guide began drawing a map. “Don’t say it was me who told you,” he added.
He drew the Taj Mahal and its four gates. He guessed that our guide would bring us through the east, but his map detailed the south gate. He drew circles labeled “katra” and explained that, during construction of the Taj Mahal, these were the colonies where the workers lived. They were now residential areas.
The next day, we told our guide that we wanted to leave through the south gate. He lied, said it was closed. He tried to divert us to the east gate twice. I revealed our map; he caved and led the way.
En route, we saw rusty bicycles, spice shop gossip, and women bundled in vibrant color. In the katra itself, the winding alleys exposed homes with faded paint, motorbikes parked casually outside.
We happened upon a busy square: Vendors sold produce, teens swung tennis rackets and men laughed from the shadows. After a few shy moments, the littlest kids ran up to us. I gestured to ask if it was okay to take their pictures; with magnificent grins, they nodded.
They were so excited to see their images on my digital display, as they posed again for more. And when the photo op was over, the kids asked for only one thing – perhaps the only English they knew – “chocolate.”
That was it for me. That was the moment I knew I found the real thing: when the children asked me for something that a kid anywhere, in any country, wants. I hadn’t expected this, and had no chocolate to offer. But they seemed happy still, as they smiled and waved goodbye.
That exchange of wonder, curiosity and delight: that’s a souvenir you cannot buy.