A short time ago, in what might well be the exact center of India, if such a place exists, lived a handsome, albeit slightly lazy and extremely spoiled, prince. Prince Prithviraj, or Raj to his friends, or more often, Prithviraj Anuj Reddy to his mother, whom he referred to as Mother, and who, wielding Indian guilt like a batsman protecting the wickets at the Ranji Trophy cricket championship, was constantly chiding him about getting married and providing her with grandchildren, even though I, um, he, already told her, time and again that he, a modern accomplished Indian Prince, would not stand for an arranged marriage.
India has a few problems: it is dirty, crowded and loud. Smell fusion is everywhere—cardamom-garbage, sidewalk-food-vendor-lentil-car-exhaust, and the curry-oil-tobacco-charcoal-tea blend—a deluge of scents providing memory road signs for the future. Car noise and honking horns are the concert of the city, from piccolo to crescendo and back. The sights and sounds become overwhelming and its difficult to see India past her problems. But beyond the funk and noise, the trash-lined streets and organized beggars, there is an India of personalities and people.