Any composer trying to capture the aural assault of a typical Indian road would be remiss if they did not include this dialogue as an interlude to their composition. An earnest representation would include this interchange, at the risk of redundancy, at least four times within the span of ten minutes.

As someone who operates in the yuppified world of business, I must admit that I do admire the tenacity of their salesmanship. There seems to be a belief among these rickshaw-wallahs that I’m simply being coy, or playing “hard-to-get,” and that what I want more than anything else in my life is to ride in one of their kerosene-fueled rickshaws instead of enjoying a leisurely promenade.

Occasionally, my common sense fails me and I pay one of these fearless men to try killing me as many times as possible en route to my destination. They are overwhelmingly qualified and determined to perform this task. Before any of this fun can begin, however, one must partake in the ancient ritual of haggling over the fare. Some heathens have switched to metered fare, but a purist does not meddle with such treasonous technology. Rather, both rickshaw-wallahs and their patrons rely upon some bastardized version of the same formula. The common variables of this formula are distance, cost per kilometer, supply and absurdity. My personal bastardization of the formula is something like this:

(Distance x Cost Per Kilometer – Supply x 5) / Absurdity = Starting Offer for Fare

Of course, the rickshaw-wallah has his own formula, so after the initial calculations are shared among the two de facto mathematicians, the ensuing fifteen minutes are spent pretending that averaging two numbers is a skill that can only be performed by overly-exuberant thespians. If there was an Academy Award for Best Depiction of Numerical Shock, I’d have at least seven Oscars on my desk, and a Lifetime Achievement Award to boot.

This negotiation always seems to teeter on the precipice of hostility, and only made worse when the only words the two parties have in common are numbers. There is an art to asking someone to accept payment that is inconceivably low. Submitting such an offer can only be done when delivered with a bit of humor and sangfroid. On several negotiations, I’ve lost my footing and plunged into a kerfuffle. Never a fisticuffs, just a verbal spat between two people who do not understand each other. One party always relents, and whether victorious or vanquished, I typically crawl into the backseat of the rickshaw, a black smudge invariably finding its way onto my pants from the smog-encrusted vinyl seat. As the rickshaw-wallah driver jerks the engine to life, and we putter along the roads of India, we both sit sullenly, mentally recalculating our formulas.

The scene from there is always the same:
Being a child of the 80s, my eyes are naturally drawn to the shiny rear-view mirror that is quivering from what I can imagine is the same fear of death that I am struggling with in the backseat. Naturally, the mirror is pointed at me, and not at the road. When we stop momentarily, I see my reflection; the sun glinting off the beads of sweat on my face, a look of surliness commandeering my face. Recognizing the cantankerous curmudgeon in the mirror, I look in the other mirror (also not pointed at the road), hoping to find an equally incensed rickshaw-wallah glowering back at me. Instead, I find a man who is calmly doing his job. No anger, no rage – all of that is stewing in the backseat.

I think it is time I give the rickshaw-wallahs a chance. One of these rickshaw-wallahs will be my friend, nolens volens.

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Upon entering the Indian territory known as Pondicherry (or Pondy), one is immediately aware of a shift in form and feel. I’m reminded of the late Ustad Ali Akbar Khan’s explanation of ragas and improvisation in classical Hindustani music. He said that a raga is like a woman without jewels or ornamentation, the musician’s improvisation is what adorns the woman with ornaments. When juxtaposing Pondy with other Indian cities, you’ll find that it is mostly congruent; zealously spiritual, chaotic yet sublime, gregarious to the point of inducing misanthropy, and culturally profound. The cultural profundity, however, is not homogeneous.

India, by occupation or by choice, has had to syncretize her ancient culture with the culture of those who have claimed her as their own. From the Mughals to the Portuguese to the French to the British, India has drawn these foreign waters through her vascular system and grown, but her roots have remained unchanged. Pondy is a stellar example of the confluence of cultures in India as it was a French colony for more than a century. The buildings serve Indian needs, but within a form that is French. The restaurants serve the same, ghee-laden food, but have a bistro-like atmosphere. One of the predominant ashrams here, the Sri Aurobindo Ashram, holds Hinduism as its foundation, but it has embellishments derived from its broad, international community of followers.

To posit that India is a shining example of acceptance and harmony amidst diversity would be erroneous. There are those who are fiercely nationalist. Nationalism isn’t a bad thing, but their vehemency dances on the boundary of persecution. What I find troubling about this minority is that they fail to recognize the contributions of India’s syncretization; rather, they claim the product as being uniquely their own. Fortunately, most people are aware of the influence of foreign cultures, and continue to draw upon other cultures.

Of course, being an American, I see everything here as such. Interestingly, American culture has emanated across the cities of India. Trends in The States invariably find their way to India. I’ve noticed that since my last trip to India (four years ago), people confuse me as being native to India more often than they did before. On my first four trips to India, I was easily picked out as being a foreigner. My attire hasn’t changed much since then (read: jeans and a t-shirt), but now most people think that I’m from Chennai and not vacationing American. While this is pleasing from the sense of belonging to the motherland, it is simultaneously disconcerting that such a metamorphoses has taken place in such a short amount of time.

Fundamental to syncretization is the notion that varying influences must be amalgamated harmoniously. Having done this for so long, I think India will continue to draw its influences from abroad. However, I think India’s progression as a nation will lead to increasing influence of its culture in other nations. Better start buying stock in turmeric and rickshaws now, people!

Visit the gallery to see more pictures from my trip.

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Murugan and I decided to commence GDO(TE) on our own, and have the other dudes join us as they arrived. Peacocks, parrots, love birds (I swear that’s what they call them here)…all seemed so overwhelmingly flamboyant and awkward that day. By the time we reached the snake exhibit, we had assembled the full GDO(TE) cast of six. While walking to the big cat exhibits with my posse, I couldn’t help but notice that there were similar, all-male groups enjoying the zoo together.

It is not uncommon to see a gaggle of guys with their arms around each other’s shoulders, or holding hands for prolonged periods of time. If this aspect of India were to be personified, we’d be met by Glenn Beck. Fiercely homophobic, but exhibiting behavior that seems to contradict said position. I cannot help but laugh when I observe these public displays of affection, and I feel terribly awkward when I am an active participant of these actions. It’s a lot like passing gas.

So yes, I held hands with a dude here. How do you buck cultural tradition gracefully? I didn’t even have a huge belt buckle that read, “Git ‘er Done,” on my person! I know; I was ill-prepared. What began as a innocuous handshake ended in at least forty-five excruciating seconds of hand-holding. I’ve since learned that giving someone dap (that is a ‘terrorist fist bump’ for you Glenn Beck fans that just have arrived here via Google), is an easy way to avoid holding hands.

Once I got past this, I started to learn more about my fellow GDO(TE)rs. They were all incredibly nice and accommodating. I was really struck by their insatiable curiosity. Murugan, in particular, has a very unique perspective. From teaching me about the natural remedies of Kerala, to his thoughts on education in India, I know there is a lot to be learned from him.

As far as the zoo was concerned, it was a zoo. Nothing particularly incredible except one thing: one of the GDO(TE) homies, Thyagaraja, lives next to the gentleman who cares for the zoo’s four white tigers. The man was kind enough to take us behind the enclosure to meet three of the tigers. While the tigers were encaged, to say I wasn’t concerned about the integrity of the structure separating me from three fearsome beasts would be a lie. Fortunately, there were five brosephs next to me that would have gladly held my hand.

Here are some other videos from the day:
South Indian food at Murugan Idilly. The ensuing, gastronomic decimation is not included in this clip.

Freshly roasted corn on Besantnagar Beach

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I keep referring to work, but I don’t think many people know why I’m actually going to Chennai. My company has hired a team of eight people in our Chennai office, and I’ve come here to train them. I’ve been training them over the phones for a week, so exposure to the challenges of working within a truly globalized environment has been limited. I’m sure that the coming months will teach me a lot about business culture in India, and allow me to view globalization from the Indian perspective more lucidly. More on that later, though.

From the little that I have seen so far, one thing is immediately noticeable: the jarring volume of people. The social polarity, the punishing struggles, the unbridled happiness…all of it assaults you within a five minute rickshaw ride. India has no mercy, she immediately smacks you in the face and forces you to submit. My goal outside of work is to delve into the struggles, specifically in underserved populations, to understand the threads that are woven into the fabric of India.

No pictures for today, just exploration and words. That will change tomorrow. Another change tomorrow: no more “let me tell you about my day” posts. In all honestly, today was uneventful, and I’m trying to get back onto the US schedule (this post, a pot of coffee, and the Premier League are getting me there).

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I have owned the domain Syncretized.com for at least three years. In that time, it has merely been a one-page placeholder citing a December 2007 launch date. On December 19, 2009, I’ve finally done something with this space. I had originally gotten this domain after I learned the word syncretize. To syncretize is to attempt to combine or harmonize differing philosophies, values, cultures, etc. What better word to describe the merging of two cultures (Indian and American) that I’ve been attempting to do for my entire life? I imagine that my time in India will either confuse me more, or solidify the amalgam that is already present. Either way, I need to chronicle the journey, so I finally put in the effort to set up a blog.

You can expect to read some of my thoughts on life in India, business, and a slew of funny stories along the way. I’ll be taking my baby with me on the trip (and by baby I mean my Canon EOS 7D). You’ll be able to see some of my pictures in my blog posts, but you can view them all at my gallery.

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