I'm in a tiny internet cafe in a tiny village called Tala which is right on the edge of the Bandhavgarh National Park. A few hours ago I was on the back of a jeep watching a tiger lurk in the bushes. The Safari featured this along with many sweet-looking monkeys with enormously long tails, white backs and black faces, breath-taking spotted deer, several peacocks, a few elephants, and (of course) some cows.
I'd love to go on about the wonders of nature and rural life, but there is a man sitting behind me watching me write for seemingly no reason at all. More on those topics to come...
4 am train tonight to Varanasi - talk to you all then!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Saach
If ever there were a people who were brutally honest, it was the Indians. Everyday, I run into more and more evidence that the phrase must have been invented to describe Indian speech patterns.
I once read that "the truth is a bully we all pretend to like," and the phrase struck me as fairly accurate. The reality in India however, is that Indians don't just pretend to like this ubiquitous bully, they are fiercely committed to her.
On my second or third day at Sambhavna, I listened in mortified agony as a couple of the women in the clinic informed an American volunteer that her face had become ugly due to a recent outbreak of acne. "Your face? Very bad..." they commented, prodding at her face and shaking their heads in consolation.
Soon it was my turn, Jimmy the adorable 6-year-old son of the cook who prepares dinner for the volunteers had a habit of plopping into my lap, joyously squeezing my arms, then resting his head against them in a fit of giggles. Eventually my Hindi improved to a point where I could understand his explanation of this pattern of behavior. He proudly told me that he enjoyed leaning on me because my arms were fat and therefore very comfortable. As he closed his eyes, and rubbed his head against my arm, his tone and giggles defiantly melted my horror at receiving the news of the secret of his adoration.
But the truth here isn't always brutal. After the details of the flaws in my appearance are recited to me, compliments have a special relish. Unlike in the Western context, they are not passing comments whose truth value is completely questionable. They are determined, well-considered statements that inspire the kind of confidence that can only result from knowing exactly where you stand.
My experience with Indian honesty has taught me a valuable lesson. Insecurity and unease do not come from knowing your flaws. We all have mirrors, both literal and figurative. Rather, they come instead from the false comfort and ambiguity we derive from the dance of polite lies and euphemisms with which us Westerners adorn our speech. Although, Indian billboards feature impossibly fair women with impossibly perfect beauty--these advertisements don't seem to provoke the same type of attempts at emulation and consequent body-image issues produced by their counterparts in the West. The fact is, my friend was having an acne outbreak and I do need to lose weight. In India, these truths do not make us any less beautiful or any less human. Speaking them is actually a sign of a deep-seated understanding of their relative insignificance, an understanding which seems to be lacking in Western culture. Flaws are a fact here, and people are just as happy to point them out in themselves as they are in others. They are simple, brutal and true.
I once read that "the truth is a bully we all pretend to like," and the phrase struck me as fairly accurate. The reality in India however, is that Indians don't just pretend to like this ubiquitous bully, they are fiercely committed to her.
On my second or third day at Sambhavna, I listened in mortified agony as a couple of the women in the clinic informed an American volunteer that her face had become ugly due to a recent outbreak of acne. "Your face? Very bad..." they commented, prodding at her face and shaking their heads in consolation.
Soon it was my turn, Jimmy the adorable 6-year-old son of the cook who prepares dinner for the volunteers had a habit of plopping into my lap, joyously squeezing my arms, then resting his head against them in a fit of giggles. Eventually my Hindi improved to a point where I could understand his explanation of this pattern of behavior. He proudly told me that he enjoyed leaning on me because my arms were fat and therefore very comfortable. As he closed his eyes, and rubbed his head against my arm, his tone and giggles defiantly melted my horror at receiving the news of the secret of his adoration.
But the truth here isn't always brutal. After the details of the flaws in my appearance are recited to me, compliments have a special relish. Unlike in the Western context, they are not passing comments whose truth value is completely questionable. They are determined, well-considered statements that inspire the kind of confidence that can only result from knowing exactly where you stand.
My experience with Indian honesty has taught me a valuable lesson. Insecurity and unease do not come from knowing your flaws. We all have mirrors, both literal and figurative. Rather, they come instead from the false comfort and ambiguity we derive from the dance of polite lies and euphemisms with which us Westerners adorn our speech. Although, Indian billboards feature impossibly fair women with impossibly perfect beauty--these advertisements don't seem to provoke the same type of attempts at emulation and consequent body-image issues produced by their counterparts in the West. The fact is, my friend was having an acne outbreak and I do need to lose weight. In India, these truths do not make us any less beautiful or any less human. Speaking them is actually a sign of a deep-seated understanding of their relative insignificance, an understanding which seems to be lacking in Western culture. Flaws are a fact here, and people are just as happy to point them out in themselves as they are in others. They are simple, brutal and true.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Wiggle Once for Yes
After the head shake and nod, the world-famous Indian head wiggle has got to be the most effective form of non-verbal communication ever developed by mankind. A half wiggle, which involves turning one's head at about a 45 degree angle, is a sign of quiet consent or resignation. A full wiggle, on the other hand, can be used as a sign of agreement or as a greeting, often accompanied by a smile. The other Western volunteers and I have found it irresistable to imitate and use.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
City of Both
I arrived in Bhopal at 7:15 am on Thursday morning. I only knew I arrived because the family with whom I shared the compartment happened to also be getting off in Bhopal. Thankfully I had been pesky enough to this poor family with my touristy questions that they woke me up when we had arrived. How they knew it was Bhopal is still a mystery to me.
It took about 5 seconds at the train station to realize things were different here. First sign: there were no signs in English. Second: although I hadn't thought it possible, the staring I received from others intensified to surpass levels I experienced in Delhi. Of course it did not help that I was betraying my foreigness not just by my western clothing, but by walking back and forth trying to identify the exit.
As I lugged my bags over the uneven ground, signs numbers 3 and 4 greeted me immediately. Sign 3: it was horribly hot, hotter in fact than any point during my stay in Dehli, and it was only 7 am. Sign 4 (and this was the most shocking): there were women in abayas (http://www.hyscience.com/archives/SA-abaya-77_prod.jpg often worn in the Gulf countries of the Middle East) and even niqabs (face coverings) here. Not just one or two, but many. My rough estimate is half. Half!! I saw only one hijab in Delhi and that was at the airport.
I put aside my shock to hire an auto-rickshaw, a whole crowd of drivers gathered. “Sambhavana clinic”, I said. They all stared at me and a couple shook their heads. “Sambhavna charitable aaspital” I said, shamelessly inserting an Indian accent. “Haan Haan” one said knowingly. “100 Rupees” he added. “50?” I said, recalling having been told by the volunteer section of Sambhavna’s website that this was the appropriate price for the distance. “100”. I shrugged and got inside. (That interaction summarizes my price negotiation skills.)
As my rickshaw driver zoomed through the streets, I fell in love with Bhopal. It’s rolling hills offered rare glimpses of whole patches of the bright city. The streets were lined with small shops and stands, and towering over it’s largely 2-4 story buildings were minarets. Some emerged awkwardly out of one-room square mosques and some hovered over large, beautiful structures typical of classical Islamic architecture.
I had read that Bhopal was a “City of Lakes” and in another instance a “City of Mosques”. As we drove in, I could clearly see, to my delight, that it was a city of both.
After about 20 minutes of navigating wide, crowded main roads, my rickshaw driver made a sudden right turn into what seemed like an alley. He maneuvered through narrow lanes lined with brick and mud one-room homes and unfinished buildings. I stared outside the auto as it bumped past old men and women who sat outside their one homes on plastic chairs, children on bikes and a few goats, one of whom seemed incredibly pregnant. Just as I was thinking this was probably some strange, cross-city shortcut to the clinic, which in pictures had appeared to me surrounded by openness, we whirred through a gate revealing a magnificent structure consisting of two towers of red brick with shuttered roofs. The towers were connected by a courtyard with a fountain and sitting area of wooden benches. There were already several families of patients sitting around waiting for the doctors and staff to arrive. Sambhavna felt like an oasis of architectural beauty and structured repose, in the midst of a desert of incomplete housing and half-paved roads. It’s feng shui-like style provoked a sense of the traditional, organic therapies in which the clinic's founders so ardently believed. It was at once ascetically appealing and soothing.
After being shown to my room, I explored the clinic on my own as the clinic’s staff filtered in for the 8:30-3 work day. Seeing that I could barely open my eyes or formulate a complete sentence, Shehnez, the volunteer coordinator told me to take some rest and come back to speak with her about my research and volunteer work at Sambhavna. Back in the volunteer dorm, I struggled to sleep through the 110-degree weather.
At 1:34 I awoke to a vaguely familiar sound. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar” a voice in the distance called. As I listened in awe to the Muezzin make his way through the supplications of the call to prayer, I instinctively repeated the words after him just as I had been taught to do since childhood. In his slow and rhythmic repetitions was the peaceful collision of this world with my own. The familiar asserted its self loudly in the foreground to an unfamiliar setting and place. I was at once comforted and exhilirated. In that moment, it dawned on me that if I let it, Bhopal would offer me a different experience than the largely academic one I had anticipated.
It took about 5 seconds at the train station to realize things were different here. First sign: there were no signs in English. Second: although I hadn't thought it possible, the staring I received from others intensified to surpass levels I experienced in Delhi. Of course it did not help that I was betraying my foreigness not just by my western clothing, but by walking back and forth trying to identify the exit.
As I lugged my bags over the uneven ground, signs numbers 3 and 4 greeted me immediately. Sign 3: it was horribly hot, hotter in fact than any point during my stay in Dehli, and it was only 7 am. Sign 4 (and this was the most shocking): there were women in abayas (http://www.hyscience.com/archives/SA-abaya-77_prod.jpg often worn in the Gulf countries of the Middle East) and even niqabs (face coverings) here. Not just one or two, but many. My rough estimate is half. Half!! I saw only one hijab in Delhi and that was at the airport.
I put aside my shock to hire an auto-rickshaw, a whole crowd of drivers gathered. “Sambhavana clinic”, I said. They all stared at me and a couple shook their heads. “Sambhavna charitable aaspital” I said, shamelessly inserting an Indian accent. “Haan Haan” one said knowingly. “100 Rupees” he added. “50?” I said, recalling having been told by the volunteer section of Sambhavna’s website that this was the appropriate price for the distance. “100”. I shrugged and got inside. (That interaction summarizes my price negotiation skills.)
As my rickshaw driver zoomed through the streets, I fell in love with Bhopal. It’s rolling hills offered rare glimpses of whole patches of the bright city. The streets were lined with small shops and stands, and towering over it’s largely 2-4 story buildings were minarets. Some emerged awkwardly out of one-room square mosques and some hovered over large, beautiful structures typical of classical Islamic architecture.
I had read that Bhopal was a “City of Lakes” and in another instance a “City of Mosques”. As we drove in, I could clearly see, to my delight, that it was a city of both.
After about 20 minutes of navigating wide, crowded main roads, my rickshaw driver made a sudden right turn into what seemed like an alley. He maneuvered through narrow lanes lined with brick and mud one-room homes and unfinished buildings. I stared outside the auto as it bumped past old men and women who sat outside their one homes on plastic chairs, children on bikes and a few goats, one of whom seemed incredibly pregnant. Just as I was thinking this was probably some strange, cross-city shortcut to the clinic, which in pictures had appeared to me surrounded by openness, we whirred through a gate revealing a magnificent structure consisting of two towers of red brick with shuttered roofs. The towers were connected by a courtyard with a fountain and sitting area of wooden benches. There were already several families of patients sitting around waiting for the doctors and staff to arrive. Sambhavna felt like an oasis of architectural beauty and structured repose, in the midst of a desert of incomplete housing and half-paved roads. It’s feng shui-like style provoked a sense of the traditional, organic therapies in which the clinic's founders so ardently believed. It was at once ascetically appealing and soothing.
After being shown to my room, I explored the clinic on my own as the clinic’s staff filtered in for the 8:30-3 work day. Seeing that I could barely open my eyes or formulate a complete sentence, Shehnez, the volunteer coordinator told me to take some rest and come back to speak with her about my research and volunteer work at Sambhavna. Back in the volunteer dorm, I struggled to sleep through the 110-degree weather.
At 1:34 I awoke to a vaguely familiar sound. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar” a voice in the distance called. As I listened in awe to the Muezzin make his way through the supplications of the call to prayer, I instinctively repeated the words after him just as I had been taught to do since childhood. In his slow and rhythmic repetitions was the peaceful collision of this world with my own. The familiar asserted its self loudly in the foreground to an unfamiliar setting and place. I was at once comforted and exhilirated. In that moment, it dawned on me that if I let it, Bhopal would offer me a different experience than the largely academic one I had anticipated.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
No Problems Here
I’m sorry for this past hiatus, guys. I am in Bhopal safe and sound alhamdulilah. I have a lot to say about Bhopal, but first a couple more snapshots of my day in Delhi.
Bishal took me around to see, from the back of the Tuk-Tuk famous temples, memorials, museums and government buildings. At most, I just snapped a blurry photo or two as we whirred past.
The only place I actually visited by foot was the Gandhi memorial, which featured a walk through his hollowed out house, a memorial wall of photos and a walk with posters of Gandhi quotes and defining moments along the sides of the path. Unfortunately, the camera with me could not handle the Indian heat and decided to refuse to work for this portion. My pictures since then are sporadic and completely based on the whims of the camera’s functionality.
At one point we reached the majestic Birla temple and Bishal offered to watch my bags while I toured it on the inside, as there were, according to him, no bags allowed inside. I wanted to take him up on that offer, but I hesitated for two main reasons. 1) He was fully aware of the amount of valuables I had purchased from the gift shop from hell and we both knew they were much more than whatever I was going to pay him at the end of the day. (Of course, the rationality of that did not stop me from feeling a tinge of guilt for being obviously uncomfortable with entrusting him with my things.) 2) I was not entirely sure I would be welcome, or even allowed, inside a temple in my hijab. I had heard from a Desi friend back home that Muslims were not allowed in the Hindu temples, and I did not want to risk offending anyone. I kept trying to find out the truth from Bishal, but I did not want to be offensive. A few minutes after departing from the Birla temple, I decided I was foreign enough to pull off the question.
“So Bishal, anyone is allowed in the temples?”
“Yes ma’am, everyone.”
“…even Muslims? I had heard somewhere that Muslims were not allowed inside…”
“No ma’am, everyone allowed.” He said.
A few moments of silence passed.
“Ma’am, this is India, Hindus and Muslims no problem”
I smiled and nodded, but my mind instinctively flashed back to photos and videos of deadly riots that said exactly the opposite. Although it was hard to believe such a simple generalization, it did make me think of the implications of my American background. Surely, there are some Hindu/Muslim tensions in India, but was I allowing my upbringing in the US to force me to mentally fit this society into an Americanesque racialized dichotomy? It is a question I continue to ask myself now, 2.5 weeks into my stay…
Around 2 pm, Bishal asked if I was getting hungry. In fact, I had absolutely no appetite despite hardly having touched my room service the night before or my breakfast that morning, but I wanted to see where Bishal would take me so I feigned hunger. He promised to take me to a great restaurant, and I was excited to see what he had in store. I imagined a stand on the street with piping hot pakodas and samosas or a little hole-in-the-wall that made up in food what it lacked in décor.
I was disappointed when we arrived at a posh restaurant with AC and a set up that reminded me of a typical fine dining place in Ann Arbor. Before I could protest, I had already been led inside and seated. The food was overpriced and mediocre; the wait staff was overly haughty and irritating. I spent my time inside itching to go back outside. Afterwards, Bishal asked if I liked the restaurant. Irritated with him for having taken me there, I forewent the option of a courtesy lie. Instead, I shrugged and said “it was just like American restaurants. I thought you would take me somewhere more...”I searched for the appropriate description “...a place with less tourists."
“You will not like to go there, ma’am. Food hurts stomach and very crowded with people sitting around.”
Bishal seemed to know a great deal about what I wanted and liked, and neither of them involved interacting with locals or seeing anything that did not attempt to replicate the place I had just left. It was frustrating, but I knew that with just a few hours in Delhi, I had to take what I was given by fate and my rickshaw driver.
Bishal took me around to see, from the back of the Tuk-Tuk famous temples, memorials, museums and government buildings. At most, I just snapped a blurry photo or two as we whirred past.
The only place I actually visited by foot was the Gandhi memorial, which featured a walk through his hollowed out house, a memorial wall of photos and a walk with posters of Gandhi quotes and defining moments along the sides of the path. Unfortunately, the camera with me could not handle the Indian heat and decided to refuse to work for this portion. My pictures since then are sporadic and completely based on the whims of the camera’s functionality.
At one point we reached the majestic Birla temple and Bishal offered to watch my bags while I toured it on the inside, as there were, according to him, no bags allowed inside. I wanted to take him up on that offer, but I hesitated for two main reasons. 1) He was fully aware of the amount of valuables I had purchased from the gift shop from hell and we both knew they were much more than whatever I was going to pay him at the end of the day. (Of course, the rationality of that did not stop me from feeling a tinge of guilt for being obviously uncomfortable with entrusting him with my things.) 2) I was not entirely sure I would be welcome, or even allowed, inside a temple in my hijab. I had heard from a Desi friend back home that Muslims were not allowed in the Hindu temples, and I did not want to risk offending anyone. I kept trying to find out the truth from Bishal, but I did not want to be offensive. A few minutes after departing from the Birla temple, I decided I was foreign enough to pull off the question.
“So Bishal, anyone is allowed in the temples?”
“Yes ma’am, everyone.”
“…even Muslims? I had heard somewhere that Muslims were not allowed inside…”
“No ma’am, everyone allowed.” He said.
A few moments of silence passed.
“Ma’am, this is India, Hindus and Muslims no problem”
I smiled and nodded, but my mind instinctively flashed back to photos and videos of deadly riots that said exactly the opposite. Although it was hard to believe such a simple generalization, it did make me think of the implications of my American background. Surely, there are some Hindu/Muslim tensions in India, but was I allowing my upbringing in the US to force me to mentally fit this society into an Americanesque racialized dichotomy? It is a question I continue to ask myself now, 2.5 weeks into my stay…
Around 2 pm, Bishal asked if I was getting hungry. In fact, I had absolutely no appetite despite hardly having touched my room service the night before or my breakfast that morning, but I wanted to see where Bishal would take me so I feigned hunger. He promised to take me to a great restaurant, and I was excited to see what he had in store. I imagined a stand on the street with piping hot pakodas and samosas or a little hole-in-the-wall that made up in food what it lacked in décor.
I was disappointed when we arrived at a posh restaurant with AC and a set up that reminded me of a typical fine dining place in Ann Arbor. Before I could protest, I had already been led inside and seated. The food was overpriced and mediocre; the wait staff was overly haughty and irritating. I spent my time inside itching to go back outside. Afterwards, Bishal asked if I liked the restaurant. Irritated with him for having taken me there, I forewent the option of a courtesy lie. Instead, I shrugged and said “it was just like American restaurants. I thought you would take me somewhere more...”I searched for the appropriate description “...a place with less tourists."
“You will not like to go there, ma’am. Food hurts stomach and very crowded with people sitting around.”
Bishal seemed to know a great deal about what I wanted and liked, and neither of them involved interacting with locals or seeing anything that did not attempt to replicate the place I had just left. It was frustrating, but I knew that with just a few hours in Delhi, I had to take what I was given by fate and my rickshaw driver.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
The Ideal Customer
Wednesay 10:30 am
*switching to past tense here*
It seems that everything I do here is an event. I stopped by a random shop to ask for a current converter and about a dozen men and young boys gathered around to watch me do it. For God’s sake, I thought, it’s New Delhi, am I really the first tourist you’ve ever seen? I was more amused than irritated. Everywhere I went men would stop me to ask if I wanted a rickshaw or an auto-rickshaw. “No, thank you. I’d like to walk” I kept repeating. This was apparently unfathomable because most kept repeating the question. One driver even followed me around.
At some point one driver offered to take me to the market and return me to the same exact spot for 10 rupees. That’s like $.25, I thought. Either he’s going to kidnap me and sell my organs or that’s a really sweet deal. I decided to hop on. As we drove past I found out my trustee drivers’ name was Bishal. Bishal took me immediately to a gift shop which was obviously geared towards tourists, it wasn’t until later that I realized he would get a commission on the ridiculous amount of money I would spend there.
At first I was led to a room on the right of the store where they kept all the hand-knotted Kashmiri rugs. Inside, to my surprise, I found the student group from U of M who had been on my plane the day before. This must be where they take all the tourists, I thought. The salesman approached me: “Assalamualikum”, he said. I felt a rush of emotion: comfort, familiarity, reassurance, peace. “Wa’alaikum alsalam” I grinned. His name was Nasir and he was from Kashmir, he brought the rugs that sustained 60,000 people in his village over to Delhi to sell. He wanted me to buy a rug, but also he wanted me to buy a weave of Ayat Al-Kursi. “It’s the best definition of God”, he said. “Think of the blessings.” It’s too much money, I tell him. I can only get one thing, and it has to be small. “It’s just, you’re the ideal customer for this” he tells me. Oh hitting those soft spots, these salesmen are good!
I hadn’t seen the worst of them yet though. After the rug area I was led through to the Pashmina section, then the jewelry section, then the crafts section, then the paintings, then the sculptures, then the tea, then the sarees…In each spot I was told why buying this sculpture of a goat or this painting or that decorative dagger was going to be an investment and not a purchase, a thing with which to remember India. In each section, the persistence was astounding and at each section I thought it would be the end of my trip around the store, until another salesman, in perfect English, asked me to please not leave until I saw his art.
“I’m afraid my rickshaw driver will leave me,” I said, desperate for an excuse to get out. They laughed.
“Your rickshaw driver will never leave you, ma’am.”
“…I’ve been here for a long time.” I said.
“No, no, it’s a different custom. Besides, we give them a little gift…” he said.
Now it all made sense, this is why Bishal offered to take me here for just 10 rupees. A Kashmiri rug, a couple of paintings, a saree and some decorative boxes later, I found myself back on the rickshaw and asking Bishal if we could visit the Red Fort or Jama Masjid, which were the sites that interested me most in Delhi.
“Ma’am, you don’t want to go there. Very crowded-not good place”, Bishal said.
“Well, how long would it take?”
“At least 1 and half hours, traffic very bad” he said.
“Hmm…I really want to see it.”
“Ma’am, I take you good places in Delhi. Temples, buildings. Then some good shopping…”
I smiled, too exhausted to answer. Afterall, I only had a few hours to spend in Delhi, a tour from the back of a rickshaw was all I could really hope for, right?
“Mandir? Right? That means temple..?”
He smiled, “Haan, very good!”
*switching to past tense here*
It seems that everything I do here is an event. I stopped by a random shop to ask for a current converter and about a dozen men and young boys gathered around to watch me do it. For God’s sake, I thought, it’s New Delhi, am I really the first tourist you’ve ever seen? I was more amused than irritated. Everywhere I went men would stop me to ask if I wanted a rickshaw or an auto-rickshaw. “No, thank you. I’d like to walk” I kept repeating. This was apparently unfathomable because most kept repeating the question. One driver even followed me around.
At some point one driver offered to take me to the market and return me to the same exact spot for 10 rupees. That’s like $.25, I thought. Either he’s going to kidnap me and sell my organs or that’s a really sweet deal. I decided to hop on. As we drove past I found out my trustee drivers’ name was Bishal. Bishal took me immediately to a gift shop which was obviously geared towards tourists, it wasn’t until later that I realized he would get a commission on the ridiculous amount of money I would spend there.
At first I was led to a room on the right of the store where they kept all the hand-knotted Kashmiri rugs. Inside, to my surprise, I found the student group from U of M who had been on my plane the day before. This must be where they take all the tourists, I thought. The salesman approached me: “Assalamualikum”, he said. I felt a rush of emotion: comfort, familiarity, reassurance, peace. “Wa’alaikum alsalam” I grinned. His name was Nasir and he was from Kashmir, he brought the rugs that sustained 60,000 people in his village over to Delhi to sell. He wanted me to buy a rug, but also he wanted me to buy a weave of Ayat Al-Kursi. “It’s the best definition of God”, he said. “Think of the blessings.” It’s too much money, I tell him. I can only get one thing, and it has to be small. “It’s just, you’re the ideal customer for this” he tells me. Oh hitting those soft spots, these salesmen are good!
I hadn’t seen the worst of them yet though. After the rug area I was led through to the Pashmina section, then the jewelry section, then the crafts section, then the paintings, then the sculptures, then the tea, then the sarees…In each spot I was told why buying this sculpture of a goat or this painting or that decorative dagger was going to be an investment and not a purchase, a thing with which to remember India. In each section, the persistence was astounding and at each section I thought it would be the end of my trip around the store, until another salesman, in perfect English, asked me to please not leave until I saw his art.
“I’m afraid my rickshaw driver will leave me,” I said, desperate for an excuse to get out. They laughed.
“Your rickshaw driver will never leave you, ma’am.”
“…I’ve been here for a long time.” I said.
“No, no, it’s a different custom. Besides, we give them a little gift…” he said.
Now it all made sense, this is why Bishal offered to take me here for just 10 rupees. A Kashmiri rug, a couple of paintings, a saree and some decorative boxes later, I found myself back on the rickshaw and asking Bishal if we could visit the Red Fort or Jama Masjid, which were the sites that interested me most in Delhi.
“Ma’am, you don’t want to go there. Very crowded-not good place”, Bishal said.
“Well, how long would it take?”
“At least 1 and half hours, traffic very bad” he said.
“Hmm…I really want to see it.”
“Ma’am, I take you good places in Delhi. Temples, buildings. Then some good shopping…”
I smiled, too exhausted to answer. Afterall, I only had a few hours to spend in Delhi, a tour from the back of a rickshaw was all I could really hope for, right?
“Mandir? Right? That means temple..?”
He smiled, “Haan, very good!”
Maneez
New Delhi, 1:00 a.m.
My cab driver texts while driving. There’s a Gold’s Gym for Men right outside a dilapidated army housing complex on the outskirts of the city. I see empty rickshaws on the sides of the road, until the cab pulls up closer and I realize there are people sleeping there. There are people sleeping everywhere, sometimes alone but mostly in groups; under trees, in makeshift huts, on the dividers between the roads. We’re making a U-turn and there’s a little boy wearing shorts and carrying a t-shirt crossing the street.
There are beautiful trees here next to empty, closed off buildings. Buildings with haphazardly placed signs all over the fronts, they remind me of a picture collage, each little sign seemingly an add on competing for attention. I wonder if 12 hours from now they may be full of life like their accompanying fruit-bearing counterparts.
It’s hot but the wind is blowing in from the open cab window. It’s bumpy. I wonder if it’s the cab or the road. I ask Maneez, he laughs and says “yes”. He points out the metro lines every 5 minutes. It’s the same line, I picked up on the pattern, but he likes to tell me about them. “Metro all way from airport” he says. I’m impressed, he’s pleased. I say I heard the metro system was really good. His smile brightens.
“You married?” he asks. I pause and for a moment remember all those who told me to answer yes to this question for the purposes of safety. “Engaged,” I lie. “Huh? Married or not married?” he repeats. “No, no…uh..engaged” I struggle to think of the Hindi word. Baad Bhaki? Nikkah? I’m too afraid of being wrong to try either one. I try to explain “about to be married, engaged” I point to my ring finger. He shakes his head. Silence. Awkward. He probably thinks I’m just unmarried and in denial or trying to explain myself. Aren’t I though? Note to self: the truth is always a safer bet.
The trees are so beautiful. After a few moments of deliberating and ultimately deciding that I’m already as foreign as it gets, I pull out my camera. Maneez jumps at the flash. It’s hard to capture anything in the dark. He reaches back for the camera and I give it to him. He tries to take pictures as I worry about the merging traffic. The driving is indescribable but reminds me of Egypt. Terror and nostalgia make for a weird emotional mix. “No pictures of India in night, India dark at night,” he says and hands the camera back. The truth is, though, he never found the capture button. I tried to explain where it was…then I felt like a prick. I tried to explain that there was a night vision setting…then, again, I felt like a prick.
It seems like Maneez has no idea where we’re going. We’ve made a couple of U-turns and he keeps slowing down to look around. I tell him the person from the hotel said we could call if we are lost. He says “No problem”, smiles and speeds up. A couple of U-turns later, he stops on the side of the road and asks two cops on a motorcycle for directions. The three of them talk back and forth for about 10 minutes, consulting the address on my print out, looking around, etc. I keep trying to butt in, but Maneez always silences me with a “No problem” and continues. One of the cops is staring and smiling. At first I smile back, then he winks. Awkward. Do smiles send the wrong signal here? Do winks have a different meaning here?
Eventually we get to the hotel, which as it turns out, is literally down an alley. It is much, much shabbier than its internet postings made it out to be. At first, I sit around and mope. Everything seems dirty and/or broken and I hated every bit of it, from the stained sheets on the bed, to the faucet knob that comes off when turned, to the pushy door man who keeps trying to come into my room. After passing out for 2-3 hours though, I feel better in the morning, more able to laugh at the little oddities found in my hotel room, the tiny balcony, the bucket in the bathroom, the swan-shaped light, and the fact that it reminded me so much of Egypt. When even that does not help, I find comfort in knowing that I paid very little money to be here. Even here, it seems, you get what you pay for is the bottom line.
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