It’s impossible to explain exactly why India is so impossible. The moment you try it squirms out of the reach of words and you’re left sounding paranoid and prejudiced. Sometimes it seems that the entire country is conspiring to make you go out of your mind. How the British with their control freak ‘stiff upper lip’ ever survived here is a mystery. Perhaps the collapse of colonial rule can be blamed upon the servants forever switching the salt and sugar jars around.
We can only give you a few images to illustrate the everyday illogic of India and maybe you can make some kind of collage from them.
They have the same word for ‘yesterday’ as ‘tomorrow’.
They have nuclear weapons but still can’t make boxes of matches that don’t explode in your hands.
Even now, in the 21st century they have no long-handled broom. Indians still bend at the hip to sweep up with a brush.
Indian cows are holy but they’re left to eat plastic and die of clogged intestines.
The 50 rupee notes come fro the bank with a huge staple through them. So when you separate them they begin life with a huge hole in the middle. From there it’s only a few months before they head to the torn-note wallah who’ll change them for 60% of their value.
Nothing is pure. The petrol is adulterated and comes out of exhaust pipes in opaque, black fumes. The honey is mixed with sugar and the saffron is blended with cotton. Everyone clings onto the caste system and traditional prejudices but all the guys want to be as Western as the Bollywood actors.
Well, I still don’t feel like I’m any closer to explaining how impossible India is. But if i had been writing with an Indian pen it would have stopped working by now, spilling ink onto my shirt. As i turned around to wash the ink off my hands there would have a cow would have some along to eat my manuscript… you get the picture.