In late autumn in Delhi, the weather turns cool in the morning and evening, long clothes, long pants and long socks are acceptable. But I did not expect, tightly wrapped body plus carry a variety of anti-mosquito chemicals, used to deal with the Indian mosquitoes is still not prevented. Everything in the star hotel is very clean, as long as the extra tip, male waiter smile also have all. But no matter how many smiling faces, the buzzing mosquitoes can still be heard from time to time, it is alarming, people heart “thud”.
Sometimes, a few fellow travelers are laughing, some suspicious shrill sound from nowhere and close, the crowd inevitably face a sudden change, hands and feet to fight, a good conversation had to be suspended and lost. Out of a Chinese habit, of course, I will never let go of the flying mosquitoes in front of me. Interestingly, my action always attracted the Indian people around me surprised and puzzled look, as if I did something wrong.
The Chinese embassy officials also gave us anti-mosquito oil. They later told me that India is a religious country, most people hold the rule of abstaining from killing, and this great compassion will benefit mosquitoes. Mosquitoes are also life, so you can repel, but definitely not to kill. For my two hands clapped a loud bloody atrocity, they are certainly very uncomfortable.
I only then understood their repeatedly surprised and puzzled to turn back, but also to understand the epidemic of dengue fever.
In India, not only the mosquitoes are happy, but also various other living creatures other than humans. The streets of New Delhi are often filled with hooting monkeys leaping past you, climbing up trees or walls and playing at leisure. There are squirrels running up and down every shade of green, sometimes crawling into your outstretched palm. There is also a tidal wave of crows and birds that seem to come from Tagore’s transparent and dreamy prose, lapping at the setting sun in wave after wave, meeting you with surprise. Everywhere you go, you seem to be in a natural zoo, in a fairy tale. Some public service places around you also often have some of these fairy-tale bulletin boards: “This exhibition hall opens at sunrise and closes at sunset.” This rejection of time by clocks has long been a departure from news, laws, textbooks and business documents, and has the tone of a fairy tale shepherd or prince.
The cow is a sacred object in Hinduism, and no matter how many unowned old or fat cows there are in the wild, beef is not allowed in the kitchen. Due to the influence of Islam, pork is also taboo in most restaurants. Fish is rarely even seen on the menu, which reminds me that Tibetans do not eat much fish either, and I wonder if there is some connection between the customs of the two places.
As you can imagine, with these few items alone, the table has lost the scenery, lack of good, not to mention the luxury of what other rare meat. In a country where fasting and dieting are almost daily habits, my friends and I had to put up with the same old pastry and the same old chicken that was used to stuff our guts day after day. For half a month, we were in a state of semi-starvation, dieting, and our eyes seemed to have dilated a bit.
When I swallowed the pastry, I had to ask a question: Does the Indian army also eat vegetarian food? If so, are they a bit overwhelmed when they charge into battle? Do Indian athletes also eat vegetarian food? If so, how can they get the necessary nutrition and calories? How can their physical fitness be ensured?
It seems more appropriate for them to go into the temples of Hinduism, Islam, and Buddhism, where they can calm their minds, be free of desire, and receive concerns and homes from the Lord of God. When they grow old, they will probably be like all the old Indians I have seen, a statue of a philosopher, scattered under the eaves or at the intersections of towns and villages. No matter how poor they are, no matter how thin their bodies are and how ragged their clothes are, there is a brightness in their gaze that is insightful of the world.
