traffic weaves through a Mumbai slum

The sight of a human body hurtling through the air after colliding with a car is one I’ll probably never forget.

I’ve wondered during past visits to India how more people aren’t hit, given the endless mass of pedestrians and automobiles sharing the same space. So today, as if on cue, my colleague Joy and I walked out of an office building just in time to watch a man attempting to cross the far side of the road end his days as road kill.

The impact shattered the car’s windshield, and the man, after which a small crowd gathered to calmly inspect the carnage.

After a substantial wait, filled with the cacophony of angry motorists bleating thier horns, but absent the appearance of an ambulance or police car, they bundled the broken man into the broken car and left, allowing traffic to resume. No one seemed particularly fazed by the incident, which would have been front-page news at home.

What a country.

crowded streets in front of Mumbai's famed Victoria Station

Joy commented to me that his father had been similarly struck by a car, sending him flying 10 feet across a filthy road. He mentioned this as casually as you or I might discuss the morning’s corn flakes.

What a country.

Joy describes India as a country seemingly held together by “some super natural force.” He says he’s still amazed it hasn’t shattered into pieces.

Consider this: India has 23 states, and 24 official languages. Hindi is the official national language, but each state also has its own official language, completely unrecognizable from one another.

India’s former prime minister spoke an astounding 16 languages, yet still couldn’t communicate with a substantial number of his people. 16 languages! America’s last president barely spoke one.

Traveling from one Indian state to another there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to communicate with the locals. Can you imagine someone from Alabama traveling to New York and having difficulty communicating?

at every stop people rush the streets begging for money or selling odd knick-nacks

Ok, perhaps that’s a bad example. But you get my drift.

What a country.

And that’s just the beginning. Many Indians speak English, or think they do, though it’s an official language nowhere in the country. There are also endless local languages, spoken by remote tribes, and hundreds of different gods worshipped across this land. There’s virtually nothing binding these people as a nation. The only things Indians seem able to agree on is that cows are good, Pakistan is bad, and cricket is the most glorious sport ever invented.

Bill Bryson, possibly the best travel writer on the planet (I’d pay real money to see him tackle India) suggested that “the English invented cricket as a way of making all other human endeavors look interesting and lively.”

I played cricket when I lived in New Zealand, and still haven’t the slightest clue what the game is all about. A cricket match can last up to five days, including meal breaks. And Bud Selig worries that baseball games are too long?

"Capacity 3 idiots" - bumper sticket on a Mumbai rickshaw

Bryson did a far better job describing cricket that I could ever hope to do, so I’ll stick with his description. Said he, “Imagine a form of baseball in which the pitcher, after each delivery, collects the ball from the catcher and walks slowly with it out to center field; and that there, after a minute’s pause to collect himself, he turns and runs full tilt toward the pitcher’s mound before hurling the ball at the ankles of a man who stands before him wearing a riding hat, heavy gloves of the sort used to handle radioactive isotopes, and a mattress strapped to each leg. Imagine more-over that if the batsman fails to hit the ball in a way that heartens him sufficiently to try to waddle forty feet with mattresses strapped to his legs, he is under no formal compunction to run; he may stand there all day, and, as a rule, does. If by some miracle he is coaxed into making a misstroke that leads to his being put out, all the fielders throw up their arms in triumph and have a hug. Then tea is called and everyone retires happily to a distant pavilion to fortify for the next siege. Now imagine all this going on for so long that by the time the match concludes autumn has crept in and all your library books are overdue. There you have cricket.”

India, it seems, is quite good at cricket. The week before I arrived they won the World Cup, and it’s all anyone talks about. Every time I get in a cab the driver asks if I’m aware that India won the cup.

“Yes,” I reply, “are you aware that you just ran over a pedestrian?”

“Yes, sir! Thank you sir!”

What a country.