The heat; it’s sticky, it’s constant, it’s everywhere, always, never going away.
At night, it is humid and mosquitoes come for their daily rounds. Sweat soaks through my sleeping sheet.
Walking the old streets of Delhi, there are more beggars than I can count, more people I see sleeping on the hard, concrete ground, with no more than their hand to keep their head from bruising, and more children without shoes than I’d like to believe there are. No water. No food. Nothing. Many beggars look too weak to beg, and timidly hold out their hand, hoping for a random act of kindness.
At an overcrowded bazaar, where combinations of engine exhaust and urine odor fill our nostrils, a boy walks up to me speaking Hindi. I don’t understand him, but his intentions are obvious. His hand was held out, his eyes were rolled back behind his fluttering lids. He was dehydrated, hungry and his face was hollow. He was not sweating. His ribs showed through his dirty, oversized shirt. He had a string holding his tattered shorts up. I reach into my backpack and pull out a big, cold sweating bottle of water. He takes it and walks behind a truck, where a man is waiting, standing. He holds out his hand but does not get the coins he expects.
The boy opens the bottle and takes small sips it as he watches us, drinking, looking. A small look of relief comes across his face as he sips. His eyebrows are no longer furrowed, and his eyes continue to fixate on us as we search around for the driver who said he would meet us here. We feel displaced.
At first glance, my fellow volunteering friends and I are obviously not from here. Flies crawl on our feet, sweat drips from our faces and backs, our white skin glows pink with heat rashes, we carry packs with four bottles of lukewarm water each, maps, guides, cameras and sunscreen, maybe our passports for security of mind. I cover my bag, knowing I probably have possessions in there that are worth more than a beggar has seen in a year. I feel guilty.
I see dogs trotting and sleeping in the streets. Their faces are friendly, yet hungry. They sniff out the trash that lies on the ground, hoping there’s food. I suddenly realize that the poorest of India, probably live just as these strays, sniffing out the people, hoping for a few rupees, to pay for a small bite to eat, a small bit of chewing tobacco or a swift sip of drinking water. Or maybe they are begging for someone else, who says they will protect them. Is it true? Will they have someplace to go?
I had arrived in India not knowing to expect. My heart races as we land in Delhi at 10:30PM, after more than twelve hours of traveling. I’m actually in Delhi, India. I was told I would be picked up by someone with my name on a card at arrivals. I didn’t know the address of where I would be staying and sleeping. An interesting fiasco upon passport control would ensue when I admitted I had no clue where I would be going that night. The agent looked at me, probably wondering if he'd read the news the next morning about a murdered white girl picked up from the airport by a stranger. The more I explained my situation, the more suspicious it all sounded.
Beads of sweat collect on my head, my armpits, my legs. I claim my baggage. I assured my family and friends everything would be fine. I didn’t want them to worry, even though I knew I was far more scared than I attempted to appear as. “..Call me when you arrive” they say, half-knowing I won’t and half-believing that I’ll be alright.
As planned, a man holds up a card with my name. I make eye contact and he gestures for me to come around and greet him. He hands me a letter and tells me something in Hindi. I don’t understand. I look at the letter and it’s signed by my volunteer country coordinator, saying that the driver will be taking me to a hostel and that I should make myself at home upon arrival. I smile at one of the drivers and that seems to be the extent of communication he expects. I see two other girls, also with the men. They ask me if I am also a volunteer, and I say yes. Our anxiety and nervousness vanishes.
We drive for an hour through the streets of Delhi. My heart races as I peer out the window. I see the twinkling lights of the city that I saw out of my airplane window. There are so many people. So many honking horns. The driving conditions are.. hair-raising. I jump in my seat when I see another car inches from ours, driving faster than I do when I'm in a hurry. We arrive at 1AM. A small boy greets us and unlocks the gates and we are led to a room. He gestures for us to go inside, and then he shuts the door behind us. We look at each other. One asks, "what’s going on?”
We didn’t know where we were, we didn’t have a cinch of an idea what would happen when we would wake up. I’d be lying if I said the room was anything special, but I expected that. I’d say it’s nice, for Indian standards. I don’t mind. I remember what I’m here for, why I’m doing this. I feel okay. I put my head to the hard pillow and I fall asleep.
I’m privileged, I’m lucky, I’m loved. The noise of the city, Hindi lessons, the non-stop sight-seeing and the conversations I have with my new friends lessen the fear. I brought way too many things, which I’ll donate at the end of my trip to make room for Indian goodies when I return. Why would I bring thick fleece in the middle of summer?
What I love most about India, though? The kindness that is given is returned. The smiles are undeniably genuine. The people are kind. A peddler holding a small baby, despite the fact that I didn’t want to buy a beaten, old fan to keep myself cool, tells me to watch my step and to keep an eye out for pickpockets.
She smiles at me and tells me the name of her baby. I buy the fan without bargaining and she tells me she will remember my face. I’m a sucker.
Today, after watching an entertaining, colorful Bollywood movie about god-knows-what, we took an auto-rickshaw back to our hostel in Faridibad. I sit up in front with the driver and two other girls, with no room in the back, it being jammed pack full of other foreigners like myself. I look at the cars passing us on the right, and people look me in the eyes and smile. I wave and they smile larger and wave back. It’s almost as if they are saying “Welcome to our country.”
Sukriya
“Thank you”
At night, it is humid and mosquitoes come for their daily rounds. Sweat soaks through my sleeping sheet.
Walking the old streets of Delhi, there are more beggars than I can count, more people I see sleeping on the hard, concrete ground, with no more than their hand to keep their head from bruising, and more children without shoes than I’d like to believe there are. No water. No food. Nothing. Many beggars look too weak to beg, and timidly hold out their hand, hoping for a random act of kindness.
At an overcrowded bazaar, where combinations of engine exhaust and urine odor fill our nostrils, a boy walks up to me speaking Hindi. I don’t understand him, but his intentions are obvious. His hand was held out, his eyes were rolled back behind his fluttering lids. He was dehydrated, hungry and his face was hollow. He was not sweating. His ribs showed through his dirty, oversized shirt. He had a string holding his tattered shorts up. I reach into my backpack and pull out a big, cold sweating bottle of water. He takes it and walks behind a truck, where a man is waiting, standing. He holds out his hand but does not get the coins he expects.
The boy opens the bottle and takes small sips it as he watches us, drinking, looking. A small look of relief comes across his face as he sips. His eyebrows are no longer furrowed, and his eyes continue to fixate on us as we search around for the driver who said he would meet us here. We feel displaced.
At first glance, my fellow volunteering friends and I are obviously not from here. Flies crawl on our feet, sweat drips from our faces and backs, our white skin glows pink with heat rashes, we carry packs with four bottles of lukewarm water each, maps, guides, cameras and sunscreen, maybe our passports for security of mind. I cover my bag, knowing I probably have possessions in there that are worth more than a beggar has seen in a year. I feel guilty.
I see dogs trotting and sleeping in the streets. Their faces are friendly, yet hungry. They sniff out the trash that lies on the ground, hoping there’s food. I suddenly realize that the poorest of India, probably live just as these strays, sniffing out the people, hoping for a few rupees, to pay for a small bite to eat, a small bit of chewing tobacco or a swift sip of drinking water. Or maybe they are begging for someone else, who says they will protect them. Is it true? Will they have someplace to go?
 |
| A stray cow eats trash on the side of the road. Trash can be seen for miles. |
#
Beads of sweat collect on my head, my armpits, my legs. I claim my baggage. I assured my family and friends everything would be fine. I didn’t want them to worry, even though I knew I was far more scared than I attempted to appear as. “..Call me when you arrive” they say, half-knowing I won’t and half-believing that I’ll be alright.
As planned, a man holds up a card with my name. I make eye contact and he gestures for me to come around and greet him. He hands me a letter and tells me something in Hindi. I don’t understand. I look at the letter and it’s signed by my volunteer country coordinator, saying that the driver will be taking me to a hostel and that I should make myself at home upon arrival. I smile at one of the drivers and that seems to be the extent of communication he expects. I see two other girls, also with the men. They ask me if I am also a volunteer, and I say yes. Our anxiety and nervousness vanishes.
We drive for an hour through the streets of Delhi. My heart races as I peer out the window. I see the twinkling lights of the city that I saw out of my airplane window. There are so many people. So many honking horns. The driving conditions are.. hair-raising. I jump in my seat when I see another car inches from ours, driving faster than I do when I'm in a hurry. We arrive at 1AM. A small boy greets us and unlocks the gates and we are led to a room. He gestures for us to go inside, and then he shuts the door behind us. We look at each other. One asks, "what’s going on?”
We didn’t know where we were, we didn’t have a cinch of an idea what would happen when we would wake up. I’d be lying if I said the room was anything special, but I expected that. I’d say it’s nice, for Indian standards. I don’t mind. I remember what I’m here for, why I’m doing this. I feel okay. I put my head to the hard pillow and I fall asleep.
#
What I love most about India, though? The kindness that is given is returned. The smiles are undeniably genuine. The people are kind. A peddler holding a small baby, despite the fact that I didn’t want to buy a beaten, old fan to keep myself cool, tells me to watch my step and to keep an eye out for pickpockets.
She smiles at me and tells me the name of her baby. I buy the fan without bargaining and she tells me she will remember my face. I’m a sucker.
#
Today, after watching an entertaining, colorful Bollywood movie about god-knows-what, we took an auto-rickshaw back to our hostel in Faridibad. I sit up in front with the driver and two other girls, with no room in the back, it being jammed pack full of other foreigners like myself. I look at the cars passing us on the right, and people look me in the eyes and smile. I wave and they smile larger and wave back. It’s almost as if they are saying “Welcome to our country.”
Sukriya
“Thank you”
No comments:
Post a Comment