Almost Home

I am in Delhi now, thankful to have found a fantastic little guesthouse just west of Connaught Place, with a cozy bed and very hot shower. I tune into the television and find an old episode of Grey’s Anatomy aired in English. Pure bliss. Other than this bright moment, and the discovery of Delhi's surprisingly clean and efficient and all-around phenomenal metro system, I am left with a negative impression of the city. I feel as though I am cheated and lied to at every turn. No one seems to be helpful. People constantly point and lead me in the wrong direction. This is a city where everyone - rickshaw drivers, taxi drivers, shop owners, even the monkeys - seems out to get me, intent on screwing over the lone-traveling foreigner. And so I walk aimlessly along the street, disoriented and lost as I usually am here, and suddenly a monkey leaps in front of me, bares his teeth, and with a menacing glare sets his eyes on the papaya spear tucked away in my hand. With a scream and a heartbeat I throw the fruit in his direction and watch him scamper back up into the tree, a smug look of victory plastered across his little monkey face. Damn monkey.

I haven’t been fair to Delhi, I know. I will barely scratch the surface in the two days I will spend here. I have no doubt that endless delights and treasures can be discovered in this timeless and historic city, that its many layers must be peeled back slowly and with great patience and interest. And I have faith that the people of Delhi truly are good and kind. I am sure the interactions I have had are the exception to the rule, and likely my next visit will be a more positive experience. Regardless, I am tired. I am filthy. I am sick of drowning myself in insect repellent, and having dirt under my nails and clinging to my face. I am fresh out of steam and in need of a good night’s sleep.

So if there is one thing Delhi has given to me, it is a very strong and profound desire to get on a plane and go home. That in itself is a gift.

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