Written in the international terminal of Bangalore Airport.
A departing letter to a world.
As I write this I am waiting in the international terminal of Bangalore airport. I sit in an overly-fancy cocktail bar, much less patronised than the canteen a hundred metres down the corridor despite offering the same prices. Of course, because this is Bangalore, instead of arriving in a martini glass it instead arrives in a faux-jam jar cup with a straw through the lid. But as I sip my alcoholic sugarwater, I realise how lucky I am to have had the experiences here that I have.
India is a difficult place to write about, for reasons so myriad it is barely worth explaining, as like rummaging through a messy bag, in pulling out one reason you also bring out so many others. I carry no pretension that my experiences of the country are anything other than that of an over-privileged descendant of the very people who exploited India for close to two hundred years, and whose present enjoyment merely fulfils the ideological demands of neoliberal capitalism to enjoy, share, commodify and fulfil myself in the spectre of the Orient. Continue reading “Departing letter to a world”