Columns: Shooting from the Hip

Columns

India Today, June 7, 1999
June 7, 1999

SHOOTING FROM THE HIP
Excess Baggage

Travelling light is not Indian-the heavier the merrier

By Ravi Shankar

Summer in India is when luggage becomes the defining metaphor. Just like the American tourist can be recognised by his camera and floral Bermuda shorts, the Japanese by his camcorder and the European by his bottle of Evian, the vacationing Indian can be identified by his enormous piles of suitcases. Trains scream into railway platforms disgorging boxes, parcels and bundles wrapped in cloth, and cartons of impossible shapes tied up with colourful string. Porters in red clamber in and out, their necks veined out by the valises arranged on their head with miraculous, precarious balance. Bus terminals are full of the chaos of arrivals and departures, people chattering excitedly like magpies while hopping among aluminium trunks and canvas-suited suitcases which lie scattered about everywhere. Passengers trying to get to their seats are met with hostile mountains of travel debris among which the owners have bunkered down. Women sitting crosslegged on the seat-cushions have already opened greasy packets of cloth in which paranthas and pickles have been wrapped for the journey. People trip over groaning luggage carts at airline check-in counters while inside the aircraft, pregnant baggage-lockers open overhead, nearly braining those trying to stuff the corridor with their bags.

The typical middle-class Indian tourist does not backpack. He needs the comfort of his belongings, and taking a holiday is a case of familiarity breeding comfort. Families check into hotels along with electric stoves to make their tea and omelettes inside the rooms, while detergent is unpacked into buckets and bathtubs to wash clothes. The malls of hill-stations are full of people in three-piece suits and silk saris, eating desi Chinese food and playing video games. Tourist bazars teem with kitsch which the traveller will take back in his overstuffed bags back home: shawls and sweaters, Taj Mahals made of cheap glass and little plastic medallions of favourite gods. At the foyers of hotels, honeymooners unload their taxis with enough belongings to settle down and start a family immediately.

The meaning of a holiday is to free oneself from the bonds of routine, abandoning the rituals and habits which form the reflexes of daily life. Not always the case here. Once driving through the calm brightness of a mountain afternoon, hillsides furry with conifer and distant silver ribbons of streams sparkling in the valley far below, I was surprised by sudden screams.

"Chhod do, kameene, mujhe chhod do," a woman was pleading.

I stepped on the gas, topping a rise and turning a curve, and came upon a clearing among the pines. A small waterfall skipped its way down the mossy rocks, chattering on the pebbles below and tall pines stood sentinel along the circular periphery of a ridge. A new, red Maruti van was parked in the shade, its luggage-laden boot yawning at me. On the sun-dappled grass, in a perfect horseshoe, sat a family dressed in bright woollen colours. Empty plastic packets of potato chips were strewn among beer bottles and paper plates. In the middle of the semi-circle, a genset had been unpacked from its carton. Attached to it was a television and a VCR. On the television, Dimple Kapadia was trying not to get raped.

Kilroy ... er ... Killjoy was here.

Issue Contents | Write to us | Subscriptions | Syndication