Return to India Part II: My Father's Story

Return to India Part II: My Father's Story

In the first part of this two-part series, Peter shared his story from India in search of his father's long-lost friends. Five years after his first visit, father and son return to India to reunite with these friends. Here is his father's story.

This article was published on National Geographic's Traveler magazine website on February 14, 2015

Christmas Eve 2013. It was afternoon and the sun was warm on our backs. We stood on the roof porch and looked down at the dusty streets. A gentle breeze blew, barely stirring the tangle of power and telephone cables draped between houses in this relatively affluent suburb of Bhilwara, Rajasthan.

Each house was painted in different pastel shades of blue, green and peach and set against an azure sky. It was quiet and the streets were almost empty.

This was indeed surprising as this was India.

I stood with the Joshi brothers Satynarain and Radheshyam and with my son Peter, who had been so instrumental, that I went back and sought out these two old friends in Bhilwara.

I had taught alongside Radheshyam more than 40 years ago. Both he and his brother had gone out of their way to welcome the lone Englishman who had seemed so lost in this completely foreign culture. I was about to finish my last year of teaching and really wanted to see the world and try to “help” something. I applied to volunteer abroad and to my great surprise I was accepted and asked to start a new project.

It was an incredible time that left a deep impression on me. I managed to correspond with Radheshyam for a long time, but eventually that faded and we lost touch. Then, five years ago, my son Peter, after hearing so many of my stories that began with “When I was in India,” and already having caught the travel bug himself, decided to go to India and see if he could track down my long-lost friends. It's been a long road, but things happen on the road. He received the same kind of welcome that I had received.

alt=““>Reunion with old friend Satyanarayan Joshi, 2013

So what about this India? This land I remembered so long ago. This land of intense colors. Such a light. The endless blue of the sky and the brown dust that seemed to be everywhere. In the markets, with the air heavy with spices, women with skin like leather, silver bangles and silver necklaces, bright red and blue traditional skirts and blouses with headscarves pulled over their faces for modesty, sat surrounded by baskets overflowing with vegetables, polished green peppers and orange marigolds. The noise and the constant hustle and bustle. Crowded buses. Their taxis are decorated – a garish shrine to a Hindu deity. Great black trains of steam rumble across dry, yellow plains between rows of shimmering purple hills that look more like a scene from an old western film.

And always the merciless heat. Quickly cycle home from school and stand in the cold shower until the evening before the water is turned off. Sit in front of the electric fan – ah, the power has gone out again. Wait for the evening when the peacocks call, when the sun is setting quickly and the night is thick and the stars are so close.

And the people.

People who want to talk, to engage, to be your friend for life, your brother, to stare and ask questions - and then more questions - like the Babu in the crisp white pajamas sitting across from you on the train, who wants to show everyone in the carriage how good his English is, and yes, he would travel all the way to New Delhi where he would be happy to show you all, and I mean everyone, the wonderful sights of this wonderful city.

And the school children, impeccably dressed in crisp, clean uniforms, lining up in front of the flag for the morning assembly. This always took place on the roof in the cool of the morning and was a very serious affair. There was order and commitment here.

The noise, the drama and the constant hustle and bustle on the main streets lined with Tchai stalls. Cows standing peacefully on the street and watching disinterestedly. Pigs sniffing for garbage. Red kites circle overhead and occasionally a saffron-clad holy man marches from shop to shop with his hand outstretched.

Music from the latest Hindi film was playing through the streets, wafting in through the windows, promoting something. And of course poverty. People who have nothing but what they hold in their arms. And there are so many. No safety net here. No guarantees for tomorrow.

But still, there seems to be an optimism, some hope even in the face of impossible odds.

But this is all stored memory – a kaleidoscope of vivid flashbacks. How can I file and organize these thoughts and emotions? And what was it like going back? Wonderful. The same? Yes, the same. No difference. More people. More crowded. More traffic. But the same.

As always, full of contradictions and as confusing as when I was there. But one can never be indifferent to India. It always seems to provoke a reaction and often opposite and diametrically opposed reactions that can change in a matter of minutes.

I originally came in with the thought that I would help make a change to make things better. But all too quickly one realizes the vastness of such an idea and even imagination. That is then replaced by the question, well, what exactly do I want to change? Clearly to raise the living standards of many and work towards reducing poverty. But does this go hand in hand with the importation of materialism, industrialization and pollution? Certainly, I received much more than I gave.

At the end I stood on the roof in the sun and wondered where all the years had gone. How easily they had slipped past. As I stood there, I felt Radheshyam take my hand and squeeze it gently. He seemed to understand my confusion and it was like I never left.

Of course, it still left me with more questions than answers.

I continue to be very grateful to my son for his encouragement to return, his support, his interest and his love.

Mission statement: Atlas & Boots

      .