Just One More Thing...

India Trip V

As I prepared to depart India, one question loomed over my head, and almost forced itself upon me; it would not go unanswered. Is found myself wondering, considering, silently musing on what I would be now, a man of nearly 20 years in age, had I grown up in India. It's the classic nature vs. nurture debate. Of course, my parents would be the same, so the nurture aspect of my adolescence would remain mostly unchanged, but how would the stark change in my surroundings alter me?

In principle, I would perhaps still be same man, raised by the same father, who possessed the same moral compass (though that incites a question on the source of morality, which I will not answer here), and the same mother, just as loving and giving. But as I observed the kids, young adults, and people my age in India, I found myself alienated from them in a way which is hard to explain. It seemed like everywhere I went, I was being stared at by someone or another. Maybe it was the way I dressed, but I rather think it was that they knew by my countenance, walk, and general mannerisms that I wasn't like them. At first, I thought the stares were because I had something on my face, so I hastily took opportunities to glance at myself in the mirror, or in my phone camera. But there was nothing on my face, and nothing wrong with my hair, which was my second concern. Gradually I begun to realize that it was not just them staring at me. I begun to likewise observe them in a manner which dictated pure fascination, and was perhaps unnerving to some.

And to be realistic, the people there aren't vastly different from myself. I went to an uncles house (though he was only just on the wrong side of 25), and we played Fortnite before dinner. I saw people my age everywhere pulling out smartphones and taking pics for the 'gram. And the malls were a sight of pure rampant commercialism, in which young Indians thrived in a way that reminded me of home.

But there are also differences in the lifestyle to be considered. Supposing that my father had a steady job as he does now, and my mother took up some work as well, we would make a decent living and probably fit right into the middle class Indian wealth bracket. But the lives of middle class Indians differ so greatly from middle class Americans that I knew my life would be very different had I grown up in India.

Take for example my grandmother's house, which exists in a nice neighborhood. There's still a milkman who comes around every morning. There's still no vacuum cleaner; just a strange broom which is little more than dried long grass stuck together. There's no air conditioning in the summer, no heat in the winter, and the electricity and water are as fickle as can be, with long blackouts where one is forced to live through flashlights. These things are just so different from the way we live at home that I couldn't see the same child growing up here as in America.

I could imagine myself as a young boy in India, weaving through traffic and animals to buy the equivalent of a 25 cent candy bar at a local store, or buying street food from the same places which give me food poisoning today. I would be attending a school which required uniforms, and my parents would laud my smart appearance as I trotted (or biked) off to school every morning.

A vacation might mean flying out to Australia, maybe Europe, but rarely America. And even then could simply mean driving out to a hotel for a weekend, just to get a break from the hectic world and be served like kings for a couple days. And instead of a fairly new iPhone in my pocket and a MacBook in which to write, I would be furnished with some Android phone and a laptop would probably be out of the question. Regardless, my knowledge of English would render one meaningless.

As I grew older, only two career paths would be open to me. Well three, really. I could choose to be a doctor, an engineer, or perhaps a cricket player, should I show enough of an aptitude for the sport. Any other occupation would be seen as a waste of time, and my parents would meet every hint of a bad grade with threats of becoming a tuk tuk driver or a simple shopkeeper, barely making enough money to buy chai and bread.

And would I then make it my chief concern to get out of India? One family I visited with certainly had, shipping their daughters out to school in London and Sydney. My father certainly had, as his father had done everything in his power to send him to school in America. Would my father think of sending me to school in a foreign country? Probably. But would I shy away from the opportunity or meet it head on. I think the latter, though the prospect of the former is scary enough.

And were I to meet this clone of myself now, would we even be friends? Assuming our families did not know one another, how would we even recognize each other? Perhaps he would not attempt a beard, as I so foolishly attempt now. Maybe he'd have long hair, straight instead of mysteriously curly as mine is. Would we know that we were kin in our hearts? And let's say we didn't. Would the simple fact of our parents being the same people be enough to make us compatible as pseudo-brothers? He would be more socially awkward than I, and having grown up in a hustling environment instead of the lazy streets of Andover, would presumably be a harder worker than me (though perhaps not a smarter one). I still think about these questions daily, and imagine a meeting, by happenstance, of me and my Indian self. It's interesting to think that, though our ages would be the same, the nature in my upbringing would lead me to be his older brother, of sorts.