Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

I am hesitant to start this post with a cliché, but as with most clichés there must be at least a grain of wisdom to them.  Otherwise why would they be used so often?

The idea came to me while making the train journey from Tirupur back to what now feels like home.  After a week of both heat so intense we looked like we had jumped in a lake and discussions that made our heads pound, we were ready to return to cooler temperatures and the classroom so we could fully unpack our experiences.  In this rather sorry state we sat as the train hurtled toward Visthar.

Riding the train in India is always quite the experience.  Inside, the cramped quarters and side-by-side seating force you to get to know your neighbor very well.  We fill the time with book club books, listening to music, making funny faces at the little Indian girl in the seat across, and most commonly, sleeping.  In between all these activities, one’s eyes are frequently drawn outside the blue-barred window.  Outside the train, the traveler finds constantly changing snapshots of Indian life.  Through the blurred trees bordering the tracks, one can observe the rhythms of India from a distance.

Through both the anonymous windows of the train and our personal, emotional field visits, the unintentional beauty of India emerges.

After spending a weekend at a small, organic farm, agricultural beauty was redefined for me.  Hailing from the land of corn and soybeans, working in a place where all plants intermingled astounded me.  Far from neat rows of plants and round the clock electricity, this farm radiated organized chaos and simplicity.  In the pursuit of being completely self-sufficient, our farmer created his own cooking gas system.  The first step is mixing the cow dung and water with your hand.  Upon first sight, my stomach recoiled, but our farmer blended that concoction like it was no problem.  He covers his arm in cow dung out of deep respect for the land, and that is beautiful.

One of our last field visits in Tirupur took us to a village of Arunthathiyar people.  Described as ‘the Dalits of the Dalits’, or the lowest caste possible in India, the people of this village face challenges I could never imagine.  Hearing the story of a woman whose identity is used to oppress her from all angles, I was filled with simultaneous anger and sadness.  But to only focus on that pain discredits her strength and resistance.  She was a single mom supporting her daughter’s higher education and fighting a court case her village didn’t support; this woman radiated strength.  A question was posed to her about what brought her the most joy and even before the translation finished, her eyes flicked to her daughter standing next to her.  And that is beautiful.

Back to my speeding train window, I cast my glance out onto rural India.  Taking in the dirt roads, buildings made of coconut tree leaves, and Indian villagers hard at work, I reflect on my perception of beauty.  The rhythm of this life is so drastically different from my own but where does my connection to beauty lie?  So often it manifests itself in a consumption pattern very far removed from production.  How is that beautiful?  At first the lack of spotless cleanliness and the rural lifestyle struck me as chaotic and messy, but when did the earth become dirt and dirt become dirty?  Since when does living so far removed from the earth constitute ‘development’?  The communities I pass on the train work and live close to the land and that is beautiful.

I am not trying to paint an entirely rosy picture here by glossing over other difficulties.  What I previously perceived as difficulties, however, now present themselves as something else: this beauty that I behold.  Beauty is not a standard to be held to; it encompasses the joy of the human, natural, and spiritual experience.  My idea of beauty is being constantly redefined, and I think that is beautiful.