The sight of the woman in her lime colored sari hunched by the side of the terra-cotta temple starkly reminds me about the dangers of the single story. She has a beautiful face and her vibrant attire contrasts scenically with the ochre sanctuary, but her depleted gaze and outstretched arms are a reminder that in India, deep poverty and indescribable beauty are inescapably plaited. It is a tale constantly told, as if this were a country filled only with the exotic and the poor. Here at the temples of Bishnupur, a small town in West Bengal, I am most aware of the stereotypes forged by the single story and the incomplete picture it portrays for outsiders. It is difficult to tell any tale about India without touching on both but, as novelist Chimamanda Adichie warns us, to do so would be a great disservice to both listeners and storytellers.
As a traveler, I am all too aware of the ubiquity of the lone tale wherever I go, of the way people perceive certain locales, and of the limiting nature of guides. Not even our digital searches produce random results, thus perpetuating a pattern of partial and fragmented knowledge. I have been mulling over the singularity of my own stories and how, despite my attempts, they engage others in one-sided conversations with a place and its people.
“As a storyteller, I am guilty of perpetuating the myth of the single story.”
Lack of time and resources are my excuse in showing a small sliver of any of the destinations I explore. I believe destinations are personalities as complex as we are, yet I do not form full friendships with each of them nor make the effort to introduce them in all their impenetrable glory. Instead, I love finding a solitary tale at each of my destinations and kneading it repeatedly until the crust rises above all the noise of my surroundings.
In India, however, I have trouble focusing on any single subject for long: it is as if the country is determined to foster my attention deficit. For instance what is the narrative I tell here?
“There are so many scenarios I see among the saffron carved temple walls and drooping banana trees.”
This nation has more than its share of economic and technologic wealth which I could concentrate upon. I could dwell on the tragedy of a broken system which makes it conventional for me to bribe ticket officers to get inside heritage landmarks. I could discuss the heartbreak of watching farmers plant, harvest, and thresh their grain and yet go hungry. Each story has its own lure and its own peril, yet I don’t know how to weave them together to paint a more truthful portrait of India. Despite the innumerable material at hand, my plot lines refuse to shape themselves into neat packages ready for consumption. Instead they spill over like one of the crowded trains I took to get here: words jut out of doors and stand on rooftops eager to escape their confines.
I agonize over the dangers of the single story in Bishnupur, but is the danger of the single story worse than no story at all? What happens if I don’t find a narrative here—does my experience become less valuable? Discussing solutions to the hazards of the biased narrative, Adichie suggests we pay attention to how we start our stories. So I am starting this one with the tragic woman in green. I smile at her and crouch beside her, my back heated by the warmth of the sun-drenched temple wall.
“I am torn between wanting to help this woman and not knowing the best way to do so.”
Our language barrier means that I cannot understand her tale: her predicament will forever remain silent to me. I hold her hand, share some water and bread I have with her, but when I leave the Hindu sanctuary I know she will abide there, alone, unloved, and uncared.
I wander the outskirts of the terra-cotta shrines my mind preoccupied by the dejected outcast. I meet a few worshippers making their way into the pavilion and ask their opinion, but they themselves are here seeking succor and do not have any answers for me. To them she is a reality so often seen it fails to catch their attention. I, on the other hand, feel inadequate at sharing her narrative; my locution has no power to instigate change within these ornate brick towers. The hut shaped fanes retain resplendent carvings which tell profound tales of legendary royals and their courts, of devoted lovers and forgotten battles. These walls continue to mutely recount allegories about virtue, morality, and justice. However, like the cowering untouchable, the myths are too inextricably woven into the ethos of this landscape and no longer provoke contemplation from passerby.
I find the impoverished pariah beneath the flimsy shade of a banana tree, her veil covering her face, her head lowered onto her knees. I offer her a curry vegetable boxed lunch I bought from a street vendor. The muggy day has dampened my own appetite, but I sit next to her in companionable silence. Jesse, having finished photographing the area, joins us. I tell him about my day, my misgivings about not having any story to tell or being able to relate the right one, and my unhappiness over being unable to help the homeless woman. He has no resolutions either, but reminds me of a quote by American poet Maya Angelou he cherishes, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” The lady speaks to me in her native tongue which I do not comprehend. I tell her I am sorry to leave her and that I will try to contact someone who can ameliorate her situation, but she does not understand either. As Jesse and I leave we touch her feet and bow, a traditional Hindu salutation, to show her our respect.
“It is a gesture that breaks through the barrier of foreign verbiage and she staggers back, nonplussed at our behavior.”
Her eyes fill with tears and she clutches our hands in her calloused ones, burbling out unintelligible words. Perplexed, we are not sure if we have given offense or joy. This Gordian knotted culture is recurrently baffling us, its people impossible to gauge.
As we depart the temple grounds, I realize that I have never been able to fathom this subcontinent because I have not read or heard all of its stories. Millenia of saga formed this civilization, transforming into religious duties, societal laws, and unalterable truths. Narratives have drawn from them, added to them, and reshaped them over generations, yet the originals hold hard and fast, handed down through ancestors. They continue to survive in villages, in farmhouses, and even in skyscraper cities. Though crumbling, they cling from the sides of ancient ruins and disintegrating frescoes. As I struggle to determine how to tell an impartial tale, I am indebted to the thousands of stories that remain because they are all important. Stories express every aspect of our lives in different forms, they are meant for us all. To defeat the trap of the skewed narrative, I must be more thoughtful about the manner in which I ply my craft, but I must also seek out as many chronicles as I can, bringing them out of hiding. In the end, every story matters, mine and yours.
The latrite and brick shrines in Bishnupur were built in the 17th century by Malla rulers who were worshipers of the Hindu deity Vishnu. These temples have exquisitely carved facades portraying various scenes from three classical Hindu epics: the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, and the Puranas.
I first heard of Adichie’s TEDtalk through Roxanne Krystalli. Here is a different take on the dangers of pursuing the single story or the “one solution” from Michael Hobbes.
Reblogged this on venicetravelling.
Thank you for the temporary transport to this location. I think when you touched her feet, she was so taken aback by the reverent gesture, but never offended. Society and institution have taught her only to revere, not be revered, so it was a surprising and emotionally wrenching experience. Also appreciative of the attempt to not color India as the unapproachably tragic/beautiful place. Love the idea of “the danger of a single story”.
India, like any other country is full of complexity and we hope we shared a little of that in our stories. The exact danger of the single story is in it being repeated consistently until others believe it is the only story. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and we are happy you enjoyed the tale.
I think you’re right–destinations do have personalities, maybe even more complex than we are. I also like your phrases “the skewed narrative” and “in companionable silence”. Great stuff, Bespoke Traveler!
The more we travel, the more we discover that everything in life is far more complex than we first thought it could be. Which is always intriguing but sometimes challenging to accept. Thanks so much for your reading our stories and for sharing your thoughts!
What an interesting read! Very thought-provoking, and wonderful photos as well.
What a very moving piece. The mighty architecture fades into insignificance alongside your tale of the lady in the green sari. I’m touched that you ‘broke bread’ with her. That’s the important thing.
Jesse and I wished we could have done more, which is the frustrating part of some of our travels. We see and experience a lot but struggle to find the best ways to help.
‘I believe destinations are personalities as complex as we are’ – this sentence was so beautiful and it made me think. But actually, I think they are infinitely more complex!
Destinations are the scrapbooks of endless personalities. Everyone who goes to any one place experiences something unique. It means something new to them, something seperate. We all contribute to the history of a destination. Over time one place will mean as many things as the people that go there, which is an uncountable amount!
I guess that means that ultimately the personality of a place is as infinite as the stars and what lies after them 🙂
I hadn’t extrapolated that far until you and another reader (The Awayfarer) had mentioned it. I am now wondering how any place can seem static or unchanged given this “infinite as the stars” possibility and how governing or responsible care-taking of any place can be done by yes-or-no, black-or-white ideas.
Strange, right? Maybe it’s because the change is as much in the minds of the people who identify with the place as it is a physical thing. Probably more so, i reckon
Yes, perception is so often more real than reality and perceiving change is also, I believe, tied to our emotional states as well.
Every story is a one-sided story. It’s up to the reader to have a critical mind and seek diverse perspectives. As a writer, as l feel that as long as you are clear that this is only your view, you’re doing your job. “Write what you know..” as they say.
Life: it’s all about the stories. It’s what we cling to in order to make sense of things. I look forward to many more.
It is indeed all about the stories. Here’s to discovering all the different ones out there!
Reblogged this on travelobuzz.
We are all guilty of our one sided stories and so are the peoples we visit. I once had an Indian woman say I wasn’t like other tourists. I’m sure I was the first one she’d ever spoken to and only then she probably realized we are all alike in many ways no matter how different we appear on the outside.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts on this subject. It is hard to deal with complications. I think, like labels and categories, one sided stories help us simplify the complex so that it is easier to understand. The problem occurs when ALL the stories out there are the same. Hopefully I can work towards adding more facets to the stories I tell.
That’s wonderful. Thank you for sharing this precious experience.
Fascinating temple story, beautiful architecture, sharp photography, love your quote of Maya Angelou!!!
So many temples to see =O, great post as usual!
Thank you. By the way, the fish cakes in your Hanok Bukchon post look delicious. I was having trouble commenting there, but I wanted to let you know. 🙂