A Fading India Journalistic Essays

I am waiting for the Regal Taj when another bus, advertising itself as the â€Å"premier deluxe air-conditioned Taj Express,† arrives, its seats apparently filled completely with people. I climb up the creaking steps as the driver stretches his hand for a 10 rupee note for the pleasure of this upgraded ride. There is a reason why the bus is â€Å"air-conditioned†; two of the windows are broken. A makeshift cellophane sheet stuck with duct tape over the open space keeps coming undone and rattles angrily against the ledge. This is not a bus for the country club crowd. Men show deep creases of labor and worry on their foreheads and women balance four or five children, on their laps and pressed against their bosoms. But they are Indian, and they have a birthright and an obligation to respect their history. This is the country where spontaneous monuments sprout up in honor of Shivaji, the Hindu warrior who lost his friends, family, and then his life in resisting the conquering Moguls. This is the country where people invoke the name of Gandhi at political rallies, â€Å"Long Live Mahatma,† as if his placid face lingers as a ghost on the stage. The Mahabharat, mostly mythical but historically based, was adapted for television a few years ago and remains the highest rated series of all time. So, as overworked and overburdened as the masses may be, the Taj Mahal beckons to reveal the glory of India’s past to them. The back of the bus has an empty seat, next to a foreign tourist, which I claim as my own.