Only love is real

IT was going to be a busy day, I thought, as I drove to office that morning. Our executive director was making a pre-retirement visit to all the offices in the country and I was expected to sit through a day of presentations, speeches and reports. It was a delightful surprise when, after being introduced to his wife, we were told that the visit doubled up as an India Dekho trip for the American couple. This could be their last trip to India and the big man wanted to keep his wife occupied while he took care of business.

My boss raised a questioning eyebrow at me, asking if I wanted to do the honours of showing her the sights and sounds of Chennai. “No!” I gestured frantically to him. At that moment, the prospect of sitting through dull and boring speeches seemed more attractive than showing a foreigner the smelly Koovam and the littered Marina Beach. In spite of my protests, I was shooed out and hastily bundled into a taxi to Mahabalipuram with the lady, whom I will call Mary.

As we got chatting, I realised that Mary had been forewarned by her friends who, in their eagerness to visit the land of spirituality and yoga, had not taken enough precaution against our friendly mosquitoes and flies. She conspiratorially confided her fear of the ‘green chutney’ in the bhel puri and the mineral water sold at tea shops. I stole one glance at her bulging bag and was reassured to see it packed with bottles from the five-star hotel she was staying in.

We reached Mahabalipuram and pulled into the parking lot. Even before we could get out of the car, 10 grimy little faces with running noses were staring up at us. One little girl with a baby on her hip, put out her hand cheerfully, and asked blatantly for phoren money. We approached the ticket counter leading a trail that had by then grown to about 20 of these openly fascinated kids. I looked at the entry fare on the chart and gasped. I turned to Mary, hoping to distract her from seeing the hopelessly exorbitant charges that only a foreigner was expected to pay, but I was too late.

As we drove back to the city, I bristled silently. Defensive and protective about my country, I thought up excuses for the deplorable state of our tourist spots. I was irritable and depressed as I bid Mary goodbye, cringing at the thought of her visit to other cities like Agra and Jaipur.
A month later, I received an email from Mary in my inbox. With great trepidation, I opened it, expecting to hear her disappointment with the whole India.

Dekho trip, with our lack of amenities, civic sense and goodness knows what else.

Instead, I found my eyes misting over as I read her description of the greatest symbol of love, the Taj Mahal. Mary and her husband, it seems, were so taken by the romance of the monument that they had gone back to see it again and again, extending their stay at Agra. Their marriage, she wrote, in that characteristically candid way of Americans, had taken a rocky turn a little while ago. The time they had spent in India, especially at the Taj Mahal, had turned it around. They were in love with India and couldn’t wait to return. After all, they still had to experience the spirituality that their friends had spoken so much of!

I broke into a jig in my living room. I was euphoric and ecstatic as I imagined the many monuments of my country and their stories, which would touch the lives of so many people around the world.