Although it is true that it was mostly a sense of curiosity about the unknown that first led me to Japan, after having lived here for a good while, I now find myself surprised at the simplicity of the questions I am sometimes asked by people back home in India. Most want to know how shocked I was at some customs and practices here, or how impressed or appalled at others. Indeed, it may seem to some that my years here have only added to a personal treasure chest of engaging stories and anecdotes about an exotic “foreign” culture, perfectly suited for entertaining friends and houseguests over languid cups of Darjeeling tea. To people who have loved and seen only their own culture, this would probably seem most natural.

　 In some ways it is true that I do continue to be surprised and captivated with new things seen and learnt here, and that remains part of the allure of this country. But anecdotes are not what I sought, and certainly not all I gathered here. If I were to choose an allegory, I would rather liken my days in Japan, and my consciousness of Japanese culture, to the train journey I used to take home from Delhi to Mumbai during my days as a university student in India, rather than just a series of amusing accounts.

　 People in India think nothing of distances, and train journeys covering hundred of miles over a period of two or three days are accepted with a mere shrug. There are no bullet rains, but the beautiful landscapes in some ways makes up for this rather glaring absence of modern technology. The journey linking Delhi and Mumbai is fascinating for the vast diversity of culture and climate it shows the traveler as the train chugs along magnificently, the sound of it gathering pace broken occasionally by shrill whistles before it bursts into wind-whipping speed. It is a journey where the landscape transforms constantly as bustling towns melt into serene farms and fields, and sleepy villages bloom into bright and boisterous cities. As the train pulls out of the hawker-infested railway station of New Delhi and rushes through the lonely plains that follow, the scraggly trees in the vast expanse of the Deccan Plateau fly past the window in a blur until the eye can only discern flashing blurs of brown and green. Then, as the train crosses the thirsty plains of the Deccan into the foothills of the Western Ghats range, the green shifts in shade from a parched olive to a more vibrant and lush hue.

　 On one such journey, I remember realizing with surprise that at times, as one was drawn into the lull of the rhythm, it was difficult to say whether it was the train that cut the wind as it rushed forward, or whether this was all the magic of motion, that we were all seated in a still cocoon of time, unaware of the fact that it was the trees that flew by swiftly on their way to Mumbai station.

　 Japan and everything I have encountered here has touched me in such a way, sometimes like a sharp wind hitting me with all the force of dry summer heat, and at others inviting me into the soft sleep of ease and familiarity, the sense of comfort that I remember so well from those overnight train journeys.

Shifting Landscapes
　 My journey in Japan began a few years ago at the Kansai International Airport. I smile as I write this, because the picture that appears before my eyes is of a half-scared and defiantly curious girl standing clutching her bags, waiting to be recognized by someone who was supposed to know of her existence and arrival. It was my first time away from India, and I was very nervous about what to expect from my new life here as a scholarship student.

　 For a while it seemed like there was reason enough to fret. I had spent my entire life in India, an overpopulated and poor country no doubt, but also a land bursting with vivid, sounds, colors and sights which, depending on ones tastes, could either be a feast for the senses, or alternatively, a ruthless attack on them. In fact, some friends who have been to India jokingly refer to it as “a visually intense experience” and “the land that redefines primary colors.” For all its faults, India and Indians cannot be faulted for lack of open friendliness.

　 Not surprisingly then, the quintessentially Japanese penchant for order and discipline initially came across as an intimidating contrast to the cheerful chaos of home. Compared to the ease with which one can start a conversation with strangers back home, the public face of Japan seemed distant and formal. For someone who had been thoroughly spoiled by the unconditional love of family and friends in a country where one doesn’t think twice about dropping in without invitation, it took a while (and a few painfully embarrassing experiences) to grasp that words such as “Kondo asobimasho (let’s meet up sometime)” were more often than not mouthed as a parting expression rather than an overture of friendship. I also learnt the hard way that hugging friends or others physical gestures were not common here, and that the difference between a right expression and a seemed-right-at-that-time expression in Japanese was often larger than just the difference in nuance, and could cause a lot of hurt or discomfort. I learnt all this not through rebuke, but through my own sense of awkwardness and embarrassment, for though no was pointed about these differences, somehow they got the point across, as tactful people do, without a word!

　 I also came to accept that no matter how much or how badly I wanted to make friends and settle down quickly and painlessly, it would be unrealistic to expect the opulent gestures of affection one takes so for granted in India.

　 Although all this seemed baffling at times, I was often given reason for cheer from surprising quarters, and at times when I least expected it. Daruma san, the round large-eyed doll that adorns many a Japanese home and shop, was, I was informed, a priest from India who had come here centuries ago carrying Buddhism’s message of love and understanding. A visit to the Todaiji temple in Nara was wonderful not only because of its magnificent architecture, but also for the wooden statue outside the sanctum sanctorum which, I was told, was believed to hold secret powers of healing-a closer look showed the name of an Indian priest. There were other instances too-a gentleman I met purely by chance at an international exchange event turned out to be a lover of Tagore’s poetry. Another lady spoke fondly of the time she, as a child, had gone to see Indira, the Indian elephant at the Ueno zoo.

　 Scrambled pieces of India peeked out at me from unexpected places, reminding me that a current of common culture and shared understanding did exist despite the differences between modern cultures of the two nations. When India tested the nuclear bomb in 1998 and the world media lashed out aggressively through angry editorials and opinion pieces, a friend’s grandfather simply said, “This is a tragedy. A tragedy because it is a country like India where this happened-the country of Gandhi and Tagore.” His words had the warmth of those who genuinely care, and the words touched me, for that was exactly the sentiment of the liberals in India. Japan had seen war and its painful consequences, and it was ironic that this gentleman could sense the loss to humanity that such a step brought, just as Tagore had lamented the path Japan seemed set to follow many years before war actually broke out.

Gathering momentum
　 If appreciating this commonality of traditional culture was a pleasant and enlightening experience, learning to understand the modern culture-and its loyal young followers-was a perplexing one.

　 I arrived in Japan at an age where most Indian girls begin to consider marriage, and their place in society as individuals and adults, in a serious way. Consequently, I remember chats with friends back sometimes stretching into hours on end as we all debated and exchanged our views on how we planned to balance careers and family, about women’s rights in the workplace and other topics that we knew would come to affect us all deeply. For some reason, I took it for granted that girls my age in Japan would be faced with the same crisis of identity.

　 My friends at university here in Japan, however, seemed enviably unburdened with any such ideas or trains of thought. Life for them was a happy four-year affair which one deserved after the harrowing experience of having secured admission into university. Compared to them, I seemed a worrywart, someone who thought too much and was “in a hurry to grow up.” While I fretted and worried about how life would shape up in the next ten years, these friends spent the larger part of their free time waiting at tables in McDonalds in order to earn extra money that could be channeled into karaoke parties, shopping sprees, and backpacking trips to Bali or Thailand. I envied their happy-go-lucky lifestyles to bits, and faced conflicting longings-I wanted to wipe my mind clean of my worries and live a happily hedonistic existence, and at the same time also wanted badly to find friends with whom I could talk through the night about the struggle I knew I would have to brace myself for.

　 Looking back on it now, I realize that I was too harsh in judging these friends, and the youth of Japan in general. A major shift in occurred in the lives of my friends soon after. We all graduated and got jobs; some friends stayed on to study further. They had enjoyed themselves thoroughly at work. The Japanese even have a name for this phenomenon-the “moratorium ningen,” or people who have been allowed a brief suspension from reality. Life after graduation, however, was far from easy.

　 Once at work, most faced either exhausting schedules and the pressure of strict business etiquette, or the frustration and monotony of being relegated to the task of serving coffee and answering the phone while the “real work” went to male colleagues. One friend went into depression and, unable to change in the way the company expected, quit within a year. I was very concerned for her, and yet a little confused as to how she could have seen it coming. Had teachers, parents or close friends not told her that the business world is demanding, and that she should not expect the gentleness of teachers at the workplace? What were her expectations from life?

　At the risk of sounding harsh, I would lay the blame for this friend’s pain not only on her naivet_, but also on the thoughtlessness of elders and family. A major part of the responsibility for honing of personality of a child lies with parents and the society in general. For me, even stranger than the fact that a lot of youngsters today are unnaturally obsessed with trinkets such as makeup accessories and mobile phones is that parents and society are content to look on passively and deride the younger generation as hapless “moratorium ningen,” instead of working actively in helping them understand the demands that society places on working adults.

　I find this trend particularly disturbing because things are different in India. The essential social unit in India is the family, and despite rapid modernization in urban areas, it is still the custom for children to help with housework and contribute to home life. I may be wrong here, but I have the feeling that many of my friends would have been better prepared for life as “shakaijin” if they had more communicative parents, or if their parents had instilled a strict sense of discipline from an early age.

　Be that as it may, not all friends suffered to that extent, and I would add that I have come to share an even closer bond with these friends because of our experiences through the years. Despite all my fretting and worrying about social pressures, my time here has given me the strength to view my life in India objectively, and the exposure to different kinds of people and thought has made me more confident to seek what I want from life, and to question many ideas and beliefs I had previously taken as unquestioned truth. My Japanese friends, on the other hand, are also growing within a new environment. They are learning to question the state of things around them, and do demand better rights as professionals and as women. Some, who had gone to study abroad, have come back to Japan determined to give their very best and to change traditional views about women’s role in the workplace. In the new millennium, we are each searching for a balance between nurturing our traditional heritage while at the same time imbibing new knowledge. In that sense, we are reflections of each other.

　It is when I think thus that that I remember the train journey I used to take in India. Japan and India are not parallel and alien cultures one can compare objectively. They are each as vibrantly original, and yet steeped in the color of the other as my friends in Japan and I. My journey in Japan has gathered pace to a happy momentum, where I sometimes forget that it is not the trees that are moving by but the train. And like all enjoyable journeys, I know that finally reaching my destination will also leave me with a sense of sorrow at parting with the phase of passage.