As we drove to the waterfall
through the hardscrabble Rajasthani land, all scrub, desert, barren hills, the
road passed through small villages. In between were stone fences snaking toward
the distant hills.
My guide, Mr. Ajit, sat upfront
with the driver, and as we came up on a mini-bus with a couple of men riding on
top, he’d half turn in his seat, “That’s India.” A few minutes we tailgated a
van packed with passengers, two men balanced on the back bumper, holding on for
dear life. “That’s India,” Mr. Ajit said. The more squalid, inconvenient, and
crazy, the happier it seemed to make Mr. Ajit. As it reinforced his view, that I
was not receiving some burnished image of the true India.