Ready to wrap ’er up? This is the eighth and final installment of these Notes on India. For the previous parts, click on the following links: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, and VII. And where were we?

Yesterday, I was talking about the jewel in the Indian crown, for me: encounters with people. I see and mix with zillions of people in my two weeks of traveling. You really can’t help it, in India. (Although I have been in places so remote, you can just watch the wind push the dust around.) I will indulge in some generalizing — some more generalizing. But necessary and true generalizing.

It’s amazing how happy and content people seem; how much serenity is about. I notice it, and other members of my party notice it. There are dogs not barking: an absence of harshness, an absence of chilliness, an absence of bite. Even the people who have basically nothing — who live in squalor — seem happy. At peace. They are smiling. All over, people are smiling.

Do I sound like a stereotyper? Like a 19th-century traveler, cartooning a foreign people? Tough: Come and see for yourself.

Yes, India experiences horrible bursts of violence, usually of a sectarian type. Indian history is red with violence. And troubles — significant troubles — persist. But this is a big, big country. And contentment, in the places I have visited, seems the rule.

I can’t help thinking of America — my own country. Every day in New York, I see frowns and scowls and glares and sneers. And these are on the faces of people who have millions, or at least many thousands (and I ain’t talkin’ rupees). An Indian might say, “What’s wrong with you people? Take a chill pill. Be grateful.”

We hear that happiness is a state of mind. That is a Hallmark sentiment — but it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

‐The Indians I meet tend to be very, very admiring of America — even idealizing of it. And yet they have their reservations, as they should. Do parents really kick their kids out at the age of 18? And when your parents or grandparents are too ill to care for themselves, you park them in these foul institutions?

Oh, yes we do. It is barbaric.

But an Indian friend in Bharuch tells me that younger Indians are starting to do the same. For the first time, there are these “nursing homes.” This is part of the Americanization of the country. Whether this is true progress — people will argue, heatedly.

Look, there are always trade-offs: between individualism and communalism, between self-reliance and social obligation. Social obligation can be strangling. Etc., etc. Trade-offs, trade-offs. And most of us are subject to a little grass-is-greenerism.

‐In my Indian travels, I have found people extraordinarily kind — gentle in their manners, ready with a smile, very willing to help. A pleasure to engage with. And, frankly, being around such people makes you kinder. Or rather, it frees up your natural kindness. At home, you may have to be hard, or unwarm, because everyone around you is. It’s in the air. People blend in. Here, in India, you can be as nice as you want. People won’t think you’re a freak or a sap.

Know what I’m sayin’?

I know that you’re patriotic, dear readers, as I am. But, honestly: Do you ever find America a cold, coarse, mean place? A place where morality is not only not honored, but mocked? A place where decency is often uncool?

I will never forget hearing the word “monogamist” used as a putdown.

As my days in India draw to a close, I’m not sure I look forward to returning home — to a harder environment. To get along in such an environment, you may have to exhibit a little hardness yourself. Or at least put a damper on your natural warmth. Forgive me for this — because it is extreme — but I can’t help thinking of a famous statement by Golda Meir (and I’ll paraphrase): “We can forgive the Arabs for killing our children. But we can’t forgive them for making us kill their children.”

This is a tricky thing to express. But you perhaps know what I mean . . .

#JAYBOOK#

‐In Jaisalmer’s fort city, I meet an Italian, from near Naples. He lives and works in India — in New Delhi, where he runs a high-end Italian restaurant. Business is “amazing,” he says — amazingly good. And does he like living in India? Loves it. “It grows on you,” he says. I agree.

‐And in that same fort city, I meet a band of vendors, hawkers — young men trying to sell products and services to tourists. Business is not great for them. They are super-friendly and fun: warm, amusing, charismatic — all that. But they have their grievances. Boy, do they.

First, I should tell you they speak quite good English — surprisingly good English. Where’d they get it? School? No — from working in the tourism biz, trying to hawk. They’ve been at it since they were tots. They’re now between 16 and 25, by the look of them. One young man has a decent French vocabulary; another one has the same in Italian.

The Italian-speaker would like to go to Nashville, Tenn., one day — play country-western guitar. America is a dream for him, as for countless others around the globe. He also wants to know about Area 51. He saw a program on it, on the Discovery Channel. What do I know? Not much, I have to tell him. I’m not sure he believes me. Probably thinks I’m in on the grand conspiracy.

And these are not Bush voters, these guys. They don’t like him at all. Why? Because he’s killing innocent people in Afghanistan. I give a contrary opinion: George Bush is the world’s foremost opponent of people who kill innocent Afghans — starting with the Taliban government. The guys listen respectfully, somewhat wonderingly, and nod. They seem never to have heard such a viewpoint before.

They have an interesting complaint — one I would not have thought of. They resent the Lonely Planet guidebook (which for Rajasthan, as for other places, I’m sure, is superb). Or rather, it’s not that they resent it; they resent the use that tourists make of it. They make beelines for all the recommended places; and others that are just as good are ignored.

So, the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer.

These fellows acknowledge that many people and businesses deserve to be shunned, and to fail. But all of them — all the ones not anointed by Lonely Planet — certainly not.

The oldest one in the group gives me a long discourse on the problems they all face. The biggest problem, in a nutshell, is corruption — corruption that blocks opportunity. Yes, things in India are getting better. But not fast enough. And will progress occur speedily enough to help them?

They do everything right, they say — take the right courses, pass all the exams. But they can’t get ahead. There is always some palm to grease, and they don’t have any grease for the palms. So they do what they can in Jaisalmer Fort. They have practically nothing, they confide — pennies. And they feel stifled, stunted, unable to realize their potential or to pursue their destinies.

This is a familiar story, and I hear it a lot — see it a lot — in the Arab world, in particular.

What a waste. What a waste of talent, of brightness, of promise. I’m telling you, the faces of these guys radiate intelligence and ability — and desire. They don’t just want to sit on their butts. They have read widely — or at least heard widely — about history, the arts, religion. I grant you, their knowledge of President Bush is limited — sort of like students at elite American colleges. But they know a little more now.

When they have finished their briefing of me, I say, “Thank you. I feel enlightened. I really appreciate the education you’ve given me.” They protest, “You’re a lot more educated than we are.” I say I’m not so sure. Then one says — such a bright fellow — “You’re more experienced.” I say, “That’s right — I’ve had more experience, more opportunities. I was lucky to be born where I was.” They agree enthusiastically.

And I am also lucky to have come here, and to have met them, and some good slices of India.

‐Just a couple of notes on the homeward journey: from the village of Dantali to the regional airport in Baroda (as the British said — the national way of saying it is Vadodara). Flight from Baroda to Bombay, and from Bombay to London, and from London to New York. Total: 33 hours. A breeze.

‐Would like to tell you something about the Baroda-Bombay flight. It truly is a breeze — 45 minutes. Maybe less. Plane barely gets arched, and it’s headed down again. On a similar flight at home, you might get a cup of water. But here — on Jet Airways — they hustle out a full, hot dinner. Extraordinary.

‐In the Bombay airport, something strange occurs to me: There is a sprinkling of white people. Just a sprinkling. Maybe 10 percent of the people in the airport. But it seems like a lot. Why am I noticing this? I realize: It’s because I really haven’t seen white faces — almost none — in two weeks. It’s been that “inside” a tour.

‐Also at Bombay Airport, the flight to London is delayed, by a couple of hours. Instead of leaving at the eminently reasonable hour of 2:40 a.m., we will leave at the just-slightly-unreasonable hour of 4:50 a.m. And the lounges for those waiting are pretty rudimentary — kind of dirty and hot. Except for one.

It is the British Airways Executive Lounge (or something like that). I enter it. It is the Garden of Eden. Air-conditioned, perfectly clean, replete with Internet stations, graced by a lip-smacking café. The day’s newspapers neatly laid out. Paradise. Honestly, it’s like a mirage, shimmering in the desert. I can’t use the lounge, of course: I have a coach ticket, and it is for business-class passengers only.

It is at moments like this that my Marxist juices get flowing. Nay, they burn within me. I’m ready to man the ramparts, singing the “Internationale.”

Gosh, no wonder socialism and its uglier cousins succeed as they do, politically. No wonder it’s so hard — impossible, probably — to kill them off, no matter what sense and experience teach us.

‐I think that I’m a hardy traveler — marathon traveler — until I meet an American couple at Heathrow Airport. They appear to be in their late 60s. Get this: They’re going from Bombay, to London, to Washington, to Chicago, to Portland, Ore. Total: something like 42 hours. I bow to them. The man nods toward his wife and says, “She’s tough.” I’ll say.

And you are great, to have perused this Indian journal. I thank you, and I’ll see you later.