Why Denmark resembles India?

I secretly admire watching Danes break traffic signals. It’s so very Indian. On rare occasions when Texans walked, they started a second after traffic signal turned green, Danes start as it turns orange and Indians nonchalantly walked even when it’s red. A common joke proudly floats around among Indians; if you can drive in India then you can drive anywhere. Danes might learn to drive in India but my NASCAR loving Texan buddies never would. I love it.

I can’t believe it’s been 4 months in Copenhagen. It feels like only yesterday when the beautiful CBS exchange crew girls were welcoming us at the airport. Time really did fly in Denmark faster than the local Metro train. Looking back, as I always do, there was definitely something which made my stay in this city of unisexual toilets remind me of my birth place New Delhi. Though still struggling to eat an open Danish sandwich, I feel at home here. I enjoyed Texas but even with chicken tandoori dinners I never felt at home. I wondered why.

I was in awe of America. Blame it on CNN. Blame it on silly Bollywood movies shot in rapturous California. Blame it on stories of Indians who made fortunes in US. Blame me. I think I was more curious to meet the Texans than otherwise. Indians in US are as common as cycles in Copenhagen. We are everywhere. Would a Dane jump with joy meeting a Swede in the LA bar? Nah. Going by how much the Danes drink beer and party, I thought they would be as aware and curious about ‘those- IT-outsourcing-Indians’ as I’m about Henrik’s major: nanotechnology. None. I was amazed by the spectacle of half-drunk Danes wanting to know about India in Danish parties. I was amazed to hear how many of them had actually traveled to India. Indians in Denmark are as like Danes in India. Novelty.

I noticed Texans stepped back, if for a relative stranger, you get within a couple of inches of them. They didn’t share rooms either. They valued their privacy. I was brought up watching guys or girls walking hands-in-hands without ever any sexual preferential connotations. Our privacy radius is comparatively small. So is for the Danes. When sober, you can get pretty close to them and talk. They seem confident while touching. Without any sexual preferential connotations. Anyways, the privacy radius goes for a smoke whether in New Delhi, Bombay, Texas, Chicago or Copenhagen after Saturday 2 AM.

India is colors. Danes love colors. Pink, yellow, green, blue, black and red. Young and old Danes carry off stark red colored shoes, blue framed sunglasses and yellow helmets with élan. Even the little grocery shops strutting fruits and vegetables on sidewalks unknowingly pour colors to the eyes. It feels like an Indian wedding all day long. Show me three adjacent houses painted brown, yellow and red in Texas and you can have all my Indian spices.

Danes and Indian students (in India) are messy. We just don’t clear our tables after eating. See Solbjerg Plads’ canteen at 2 PM: mess. Dishes, tissue papers, cutlery and beer glasses are thrown all over the place like there’s no tomorrow. Texans had picture perfect trash bins. You leave dirty dishes on the table and next moment you are called on “Sir, you have stuff to take care of”. Americans liked it clean.

Or maybe it was Henrik’s parents’ invitation for a family dinner which eventually made me feel at home in Denmark. I met his mom, dad, brother with his girl friend, grandpa and uncle. They all had gathered to meet me. I dined everything traditional Danish: Flæskesteg, Tortelletter, Kartfoler, Brun sovs, Gele, Asier, Rødbeder. I also won the almond while savoring ris a’la monde med kirseber, got gifts and correctly pronounced ‘Rødgrød med fløde’ as jocularly told to. Grandpa was talking to me in Danish, Henrik translated it in English to which I replied in English and he translated back in Danish to his grandpa.
There are some things money can’t buy. It really can’t.
What a beautiful world.


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First column for Danish newspaper 'The CBS Cornet'

Dear Dad,

I hope everything is great at home and that mom is enjoying her post-retirement life. How’s my little angel Unchi growing up?

Ah, I did finally reach Denmark and currently staying with my Danish room mate Henrik. Statistically, they say it’s the home of the eighth highest per capita beer consumption on our planet. Watching Henrik and his friends indulge in their half hourly beer guzzling conventions, no wonder Danish beer recycling has been in existence since the days of Ford Model T. Henrik once suggested, in all seriousness, only if the government could supply beer directly through the existing water pipes in homes. I just stood listening. Beer is just everywhere.

Oh, nudity! It’s just everywhere. Young Danes discuss sex, its processes, applications and events so casually like we do about the choice of snacks at 5pm in India. And unlike us, these discussions are democratically inclusive of both the sexes together. Nude women are plastered all over Copenhagen: on buses, gymnasium ads, clothing retailers, posters under flyovers, night clubs and sex shops. I also ‘discovered’ The Museum of Erotica in one of the famous shopping streets, which ironically stands nonchalantly than a silly condom vending machine does in New Delhi. And if you visit Copenhagen, don't get misled by associating the omnipresent spray painted '69' with anything even close to mating. From outright stunning to stunningly outrageous and in all possible inappropriate places, graffiti is just everywhere.

Dad, analogically speaking, moving from Texas to Copenhagen was like Danish football team losing to Faroe Islands 0-4 in a home game.

I finally could relate myself to comparable physical human dimensions after cohabiting with XXL Texans. Shopping became easy to find right fit clothes at first try, talking became easy without your neck pointing up all the time and introduction became easy (for George Bush everybody knew Texas). Bananas finally look like bananas and so does squirrels. Gone are those Shrek size cauliflowers and mushrooms enough to last a week. If ‘everything’s big in Texas’, then everything’s small-medium in Denmark.

Texans don’t walk or cycle, they either jog or drive. Only the unlucky iota travels in buses or trains as there aren’t many. The thought of driving a Volkswagen on Frederiksberg’s 4-lane road would bruise the Texan ego. It’s the home of Ford trucks, $3/gallon petrol and monster highways. And the local delightful sight of a helmet-strapped one-year old on the rear of a bicycle with his mom is only quixotically possible in the Bush land.

Women are beautiful across each side of the Atlantic with the only palpable difference in the quantity of clothes. Sartorially speaking, it’s sleeveless cotton tops, denim shorts and high heels versus hooded overcoats and high boots. While the Texan idea of fashion was big, rough and robust, the Danish version is sleek, chic and minimalist. The Texas classroom had young Texan guys in bland long shorts, T-shirts and baseball caps, Danes come in their low body hugging trousers with colorful mufflers and shoes. Anyways, who would dare don shorts in this gothic Danish weather?

Okay dad, you’ve got to visit Denmark sometime, taste the freshest McDonalds’ burgers on earth and meet Henrik. And I pray to God to shower some more sun to this country; they crave for it like Indians crave for foreign trips and Americans do for free healthcare insurance.

Love to mom, Montu, Pampy and Unchi.
Good night.
Rahul