VIGNETTES OF TURKEY - TONGUE-IN-CHEEK

Vignettes of Turkey – Tongue-in-cheek

I landed in Bombay in the early hours of an October morning last year, back home from a 16-day 3,500-km long tour of the Western half of Turkey. I came back suffering acutely from culture-shock, and relieved that I was an Indian. Let me explain.

On landing in Istanbul I was struck by the absolute – not relative, but absolute – cleanliness on the streets. Not a piece of litter, not a scrap of paper, and certainly no pan-stains. And this was not just on the broad spaces and wide roads outside the airport, but right upto the Sultanahmet district where I was put up. My shock worsened when I saw the same fetish for cleanliness as I rode through the small towns of Turkey – Kanakalle, Kusadasi, Marmaris, Fetheye . . . Strange, I thought, these guys don’t seem to have anything to do but to keep their surroundings clean!

Next, the silence – long spells of eerie, nerve-wracking silence. No honking on the streets, and if there was someone in the way a very gentle toot sufficed. Even ordinary conversation seemed muted. Yes, the vendors in the Spice Market and the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul did shout, but almost apologetically so.

And then the historical monuments – the amphitheatre, the temples - beautifully preserved and painstakingly restored from centuries B.C. All without a Rajesh etching in stone for posterity his immortal love for a Smita.

All this left me a nervous wreck! I just could not take in the restraint and the restrictions!

And then I pondered. How lucky was I to be in free, democratic India – where I can exercise my fundamental right of freedom of expression. Freedom to litter, freedom to spit, even to piss where I pleased. Freedom to shout and swear and scream, and to make money through corrupt practices.

And the taxi driver who drove me home from the airport yesterday morning epitomised that freedom. I saw his spirits soar as he broke every traffic rule, ran through every traffic light, swore as his taxi ran into potholes left by the BMC as if to remind us of Their existence, left his signature of pan-masala spittle on the road, and honked furiously at invisible pedestrians in his way. And as I inhaled in lungfuls the lovely, sweet stench of Mahim Creek and saw the mountains of garbage all around, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I was home.