Maharashtra: Feb 9 - 11

Mumbai (by sleeper-train)

The Limits of Adjustment

After nearly six weeks it can be tempting to think that India has lost the power to shock you.

After all, there is much you can grow used to.

There are the reactions along the way from people who are curious, cheerful and polite; while we might have been too worn to always offer them the response they deserved we still knew we were fortunate to be able to expect such genuine friendliness.

There are the small differences that remind you home is elsewhere: eating with one hand, watching people whip surfaces clean rather than wipe them, asking a shopkeeper for a bin and being pointed to the dirt in front of his store. Familiarity is as simple as repeated viewings.

Then there's the rest; the stuff that's definitely not enjoyable and more confronting than quirky. The ailments. The poverty. The crammedtogetherness.

Even here, you adapt. You have to, if your plan for India includes more than rocking yourself to sleep in the corner. Time will callus you but it isn't enough. You have to find a way of dealing with the rub of exposure.

Dheiu gave money to beggars, then grew quiet and frustrated. Ben and I retreated into dark humour, planning a campaign of open letters to India: Hey guys, why won't you return my calls? Yours in waiting, - Sanitation.

It wasn't the same as accepting a situation, just a way of getting through it. There's no real triumph in devaluing suffering, but it did make it easy to believe that I had adjusted to the shape of India.

Sometimes, I could start to think that I had seen enough crusty-eyed street kids defecating on the footpath to not be surprised by anything.

Don't ever fall for that.

As soon as you find yourself thinking you're inured to the everything you've seen, India calls your bluff, ups its game and throws from the wings some greater poverty, disfigurement or chaos.

It was a lesson I kept learning right up until our last day in Mumbai.

We were cycling from the cobblestone streets of South Mumbai to the airport beyond its newer slums. It was a 20 kilometre ride along flyovers that cut Mumbai into a cross-section of old Empire architecture and bustling Indian hardship.

We could see the decrepit with splayed hips, the amputees on skateboards or hand-pedalled carts -- a long litany of ailments, many of which could easily be treated or cured in other, wealthier countries.

We could also see the many born with a full sheet of health that would be crushed by poverty and lack of sanitation nonetheless, like the young boys who -- cheerful and malnourished -- waved us on as we passed.

By then, they were sad scenes of hard-won familiarity and I remember thinking, again, that I'd finally lost the ability to be shocked.

Then I turned the corner.

There, in the dirt by the side of the road, was a young man of about my age whose hips and shoulders were so contorted that he was unable to walk with his feet or pedal with his hands; instead, he moved on all fours, crawling facedown and slow with the shuddering off-kilter gait of a tortured spider.

I turned away quickly -- hopefully before anyone had seen the look on my face.

He soon fell behind, shuffling through a life I didn't want to contemplate.

We rode on, hurrying the final few kilometres to the plane that would take us out of India.

India had been brilliant, a full-strength serve of life's multiplicities, innumerous kindnesses and counted blessings.

But we were ready to leave.