Return to India Part II: The story of my father

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

This article was published on February 14, 2015 on the website of the Traveler magazine from National Geographic

Christmas Eve 2013. It was afternoon and the sun burned us warm on the back. We stood on the umbrella veranda and looked down at the dusty streets. A gentle breeze blew that hardly moved the tangle of electricity and telephone cables, which were draped between the houses in this relatively wealthy suburb of Bhilwara, Rajasthan.

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

This was indeed surprising because it was India.

I stood at the Joshi brothers Satynarain and Radheshyam and my son Peter, who had contributed so significantly to go back and visited these two old friends in Bhilwara.

I taught besides cycling. Both he and his brother had made every effort to welcome the lonely Englishman, who had been so lost in this completely foreign culture. I was shortly before the end of my last year of teaching and I really wanted to see the world and try to "help" something. I applied to the voluntary service abroad and to my big surprise I was accepted and asked to start a new project.

It was an incredible time that shaped me deeply. I managed to correspond to Radheshyam for a long time, but finally it passed and we lost contact. Then, five years ago, my son Peter decided, after hearing so many of my stories who had started with "When I what in India", and had already been infected by travel fever to go to India and see if he could track them down my long lost friends. It was a long way, but things happen on the street. He received the same kind of welcome.

alt = ““> reunion with the old friend Satyanarayan Joshi, 2013

So what about this India? This country that 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, heavily for spices in the air, women crouched with skin such as leather, silver bombs and silver necklaces, bright red and blue traditional skirts and blouses with headscarves that were covered for the sake of the face, surrounded by baskets overcrowded with vegetables, polished green peppers and orange marig flowers. The noise and the constant hustle and bustle. Full buses. Your taxis are decorated - a bright shrine for a Hindu deity. Large black steam trains thunder over dry, yellow levels between rows of shimmering violet hills that look more like a scene from an old Western film.

and always the merciless heat. Cycle quickly from school and put it into the cold shower until evening before the water is turned off. Sit in front of the electrical tilator - Ah, the electricity has already failed. Wait for the evening when the peacocks call when the sun goes down quickly and the night is thick and the stars are so close.

and the people.

People who talk, get involved, want to be your friend for life, want to be your brother, to stare and ask questions-and then ask even more-how the Babu in the bright white pajamas, who sits on the train opposite you, who wants to show it to everyone in the carriage, and yes, he would travel all the way to Neu-Delhi, where he would be happy, and I have all the wonderful sights of this wonderful To show city.

and the school children, perfectly dressed in lightning, clean uniforms that were in line for the morning meeting in front of the flag. This always took place on the roof in the coolness of the morning and was a very serious matter. Here was order and commitment.

the noise, the drama and the constant hustle and bustle on the main streets lined with Tchai stands. Cows that stand peacefully on the street and watch disinterested. Pigs who sniff after waste. Red kiran circles above them and occasionally marches a saffron -colored holy man with an outstretched hand from shop to shop.

music from the latest Hindi film ran through the streets, blew through the windows and campaigned for 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 optimism, some hope even in the face of impossible adversity.

But that's all stored memory - a kaleidoscope lively flashback. How can I put and arrange these thoughts and emotions? And how was it to go back? Wonderful. The same? Yes, the same. No difference. More people. Overcrowded. More traffic. But the same.

as always full of contradictions and as confusing as I was there when I was there. But you can never be indifferent to India. A reaction always seems to be created and often opposing and diametrically opposite reactions that can change within a few minutes.

I was originally thinking that I would help to change something to improve things. But too quickly you can see the vastness of such an idea and even imagination. This is then replaced by the question, well, what exactly do I want to change? Clearly, to increase the standard of living of many and to work to reduce poverty. But does the hand in hand with the import of materialism, industrialization and pollution? Certainly, I got a lot more than I gave.

In the end I stood in the sun on the roof and wondered where all the years had stayed. How easily were they hatched. When I stood there, I felt how Radheshyam took my hand and gently pressed it. He seemed to understand my confusion and it was like I had never left.

Of course I still left me with more questions than answers.

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

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