The Interposition of Passing Through or Away We Go

I know this is late in coming, but as they say better late than never at all. I'm predating this entry to approximate a linear time line . . . blah blah blah . . .

Before leaving for India this novice traveler would wake in the mornings, head all full of cobwebs, and sweating from the pseudo-nightmarish dreams that the anxiety of going away for so long and so far would induce. Most of these fearful revelries were visions of an India with zombies chasing after my leaking brain, but some took on a realistic hue in which my subconscious was processing my natural fear of the unknown. Just what I actually agonized over will be spared here, but suffice it to say I didn't have any tangible idea of how I would be received in someone "else's" country. Would I say the wrong things? walk the wrong way? eat with the wrong hand? scratch in the wrong place? . . . ? Burning self-conscious questions like these can only be doused once the plunge is taken. To take the analogy further still; how can one expect to get her feet wet when he's always hopping around the puddles. The visage I wore as I lifted from the States was one of an eager and confused child's. Like looking through a kaleidoscope of probably, maybe and "Hindi to me" realities. A week before I left I asked Andy for his most pearly piece of advise as he'd traveled to India quite extensively. He informed me that my slate would be blanked, etcha-sketched, he said, "Forget what you think you know about the world and yourself." "That's helpful Kleev." I murmured. "And Preparation-H." He added.

We stayed a few days in Delhi getting accustomed to this giant puddle I’ve fallen into. With over thirteen million people, Delhi’s easily the most populated place I’ve ever been. It’s amazing how many feet trample these dusty streets everyday. I ask myself where everyone goes at night. A walk down the street answers that question for thousands. I read somewhere that there are 14,000 people per square mile. For being a sprawling metropolis the city is not very vertical. Cows with curly horns and protruding ribs rummage through piles of trash, munching on paper and brown sludgy material. Women in red and orange colorful dresses dig in these same piles in search of plastics, metals, glass, anything that can be sold by the kilo for recycling. Young men in flared jeans and long-sleeved patch laden shirts strut coolly past on their way to here and there, their necks unscrewing at the sight of a “Westerner.” Leaving the complex of the YWCA the first night was like walking out into the sea; at first it’s exciting and overwhelming but the initial shock of chilled water quickly subsides giving way to a renewed sense of courage and daring. There’s four of us and we reach a fork in the road and have three options: rightish continues down this main thoroughfare and doesn’t appear to get too far from shore, left appears to curve in an arc that might lead us back to the hotel eventually (at least in theory) but the dimly lit street darkens in the distance inciting an “afraid of the dark” thrust in my left then right ventricles, the last option is back on the sand and safety of the air conditioned YWCA lobby watching Bollywood music videos eating American Style Sour Cream and Onion chips. We’re caught between the Devil and the deep sea. Let’s go swimming. Around the corner music blares from a number of makeshift shacks that run along the boulevard. Out from the pulpy darkness within their portals I spot sleeping ankles and stiff feet. A man selling dosas from his pushcart eyes us as we pass, his beard awash in shimmering light from the growling propane burner. We trudge on down an alley increasingly populated with curious eyes. I feel like an elephant in this room or driftwood at risk of being carried away in a riptide. Then, before our eyes rise the blue and red glowing domes of a Sikh gurdwara. Near an entrance we contemplate whether to attempt a holy midnight tour. Somewhere in the distance we must have heard the bellbuoy calling us back to dry land for we opted to retire for the evening.

Rising with the morning light my new friend Ely and I visited the gurdwara after all. With a token to retrieve my sandals we wash our feet, cover our heads, and unhurriedly enter the great marble temple. Whirling white ceiling fans hang twenty feet from the ceiling amid glittering chandeliers. Hundreds of men and women sit cross-legged praying in silence. A procession of recent arrivals press their hands together as they enter then bow to kiss the floor or fully prostrate themselves in front of the centralized shrine containing the Guru Granth Sahib (the Sikh holy book). We meekly position ourselves along a wall in order to stay discreet and out of the way. Dozens of minutes pass as we sit listening to the dola beats pumping into the chamber from large modern speakers around the perimeter. The men all have large beards and wear colorful turbans. The women wear kortas (long shirts) and pants. All press together their hands blessing one another as they pass through the seated crowd for an exit or vacant slab of carpet to pray. In this gesture I see “hello,” “excuse my pass,” and “God bless.” It is as peaceful as incredibly foreign.
Later on we had an orientation session where someone in the group asked Rimaji (our program director) how cows are viewed in Delhi as we had all by now dodged a patty or two. She informed us that here in Delhi they weren’t really revered any longer, though they aren’t consumed, but they are still holy animals in the villages where their symbolic nature of fertility is still worshipped. She added that in Delhi people aren’t even held as sacred any longer. With this utterance the sands of my inner etcha-sketch exploded some of what I thought I knew.

A tale: Once there was a young couple deeply in love, star-crossed lovers in Shakespearean terms. One day they were separated and the young man decided to devote the rest of his days to finding his long lost love. He wandered aimlessly; endlessly searching for the love he cherished so. One evening he walked right through a group of Muslim men praying toward Mecca. “Excuse me,” said one of the men, “but can you not see us praying here?” The young man turned half surprised and softened his features. “Oh please forgive me I’ve been looking everywhere for my lost love and I didn’t even see you there.” The young man was so enthralled in his search that he didn’t notice the men praying on the ground before him; had they been as engrossed they wouldn’t have noticed him either.

In the many puddles I’ll trample through over the next few months will be worlds beyond imagination that a towel from here to the Himalayas wouldn’t ably dry up, I’ll just have to mind where I splash with each step.

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