My... God... by venitha

Izzit, my Indian co-worker Raghu's favorite phrase, has competition from a close second: My! God! Spoken vehemently and as two separate sentences, the words convey a sense of bold outrage and confident self-righteousness that only a Brahmin certain of his superior pedigree is capable.

While the annoying Izzit has been banned from my own household, Jim and I both regularly have experiences worthy of Raghu's My! God! Like white rappers, however, our imitations are lame; at least we have the sense to feel shame.

In my first few days in India, I discovered that it's not the phrase that's wrong, but my mimicked intonation. A suitably pale, though equally wracked with emotion, cousin of Raghu's, my own My... God... was soft and sober, amazed and astonished, alarmed and appalled.

The mind-boggling insanity of a street packed with cars, motorcyles, buses, bicycles, auto-rickshaws, cows, goats, dogs, monkeys, and people. So many people. My... God...
The double-take shock of a family of four crammed onto a scooter, a sari-clad mother riding side-saddle, a baby clasped at her hip, a toddler standing to peer over dad's unhelmeted head. My... God...

The sickening dismay at people sleeping on sidewalks, washing in gutters, urinating in corners, begging on the streets, unabashed in their homelessness, their nudity, their appalling lack of everything. My... God...

The astonishing beauty of brightly colored saris billowing in the breeze as women gather cow patties in a dusty clearing, crouch round a cooking fire next to a ragged, precariously-tented tarp. My... God...

The lip-licking pleasure of that first tangy creamy sweet lassi. My... God...

The jaw-dropping splendor of that first glimpse of the Taj Mahal. My... God...

venitha