Chai tea, 3 a.m. strolls, and Pizza Hut

Hello-

I’m not dead, nor even seriously injured. Where to begin? Well, on the ride to my place from the airport I was delighted and slightly frightened to learn that all Indians drive as though they are on their way to the hospital with a pregnant woman in labor. Constant and angry horns blare from every direction. Pedestrians do not flinch when cars pass within inches. Auto-rickshaws, tiny moped-like taxis, squeeze in-between larger cars with a bravado that I can only envy. Every car, without fail, has multiple scrape marks. Insanely brave Indians will ride their bicycles in the midst of this. Not in a bike lane, just weaving through traffic like everybody else. And yet, despite all of this, I saw a rickshaw operator texting while driving.

I have purchased a phone of my own, for the humble price of Rs 500, less than ten dollars. It is fascinatingly primitive. I have literally picked it up while in the middle of writing and thought to myself, ‘Wow. What a piece of junk. It’s awesome.’ Because it is, really. It’s cool to have an indestructible Nokia brick, to eat homemade Indian food for every meal, to sleep on a hard mattress with no air conditioning.

It’s fun to play at poverty, to pretend to ‘rough-it.’

Until, that is, you look down from your safe apartment one night and see people sleeping on top of a dumpster.

Jetlag had me up at 1 AM, so I read in this little makeshift room we have on the roof. I finished it at 3. So, as the mentally adroit might have guessed by the title of this post, I went for a walk.

From the cities of America, where convenience is a priority and the cities never sleep, it was difficult for me to comprehend the dozing Delhi. Everything was fairly quiet. Yes there was traffic, but it was completely subdued. Moreover, all of the stores were closed. Starbucks here does not open until 10:00 A.M., and it is one of the earlier risers. It is such an incredibly frustrating feeling to be thus trapped, like a child awake too early at Christmas time. You cannot go anywhere or do anything, because everyone is asleep and wants you to be as well.

The streets were hazy, bathed in an unhealthy yellow glow from antiquated streetlights. Everything was slightly eerie, and I felt myself holding my breath and walking quietly, for I did not want to wake anyone. There were people sleeping on every single corner. Some were homeless, yes, but others were supposed to be on the job. One uniformed man was precariously leaned back in a chair, napping peacefully and cradling a rifle like a baby might hold a stuffed animal. There were construction workers still awake, and they stared as I passed. I admit, it must have been strange to see a scruffy-looking white boy wandering around the streets at 3, but still it unnerved me.

What I really should have been concerned about, however, were the packs of stray dogs. I was sitting on a sidewalk somewhere, minding my own business and pondering my own sanity, when suddenly I hear loud barking. At least twenty dogs come racing around the corner of the street and rush past me, only to slow down and come back to where I was sitting. I’ll admit, I was more than slightly afraid when they surrounded me. Even more so when they kept barking, but eventually they left me alone.

I suppose what I mean by this is that India is not meant as an adventure for privileged white boys. It is in fact a real place with real people, and problems more grave than any I have previously encountered. Mass poverty, corruption, pollution…this, in addition to what is most likely the most grievous violation of human rights still existing in the free world: caste.

Despite these problems, despite (as one Indian put it to me) the sense of despair that permeates the city, Delhi is a wonderful place. I sat in the office where I am now based, drinking Chai tea one morning, and everything seemed perfect. My coworkers were extremely kind, the morning sun had not yet reached full intensity, and I had an entire country to explore. Chai is not some elaborate ritual, but it is slightly more important than just a drink. It is an offering of peace, an extension of community, and I had been welcomed.

I learned that at least part of this had to do with my skin color. On Friday I went with a new friend to the outskirts of Delhi, where the streets were full of manure, the air was clogged with flies, and cows scavenged for food in the trash heaps. He took me to a literal hole in the wall, about 10x5 feet where a man had a small store. We went inside, where it was dark and cool, with a tiny fan pushing the air around. I was offered the only chair. Eventually in that crowded room, filled already with shelves and various small goods, there were 17 people. I made it a point to count, because I was so amazed. My American closet is bigger than that space. The friend I was with had organized a weekly meeting for women and children in that area, where they sang and he read from the Bible among other things. It was amazing really, everyone sitting knee to knee, and I in the only chair. My friend translated at one point for me, had me introduce myself. When I said where I was from, they said “We love Americans!”

I’m not sure that we deserve that love. Maybe other Americans do, but I certainly don’t. In the end, these incredibly impoverished people served Chai in fragile paper cups that burned my hand. I was served first. They also served cookies. I was offered seconds several times.

I was welcome in that place. I was significant by merit of my very presence.

I must say, it’s a bit of a burden. Some of you may scoff, may criticize me for not appreciating being respected simply as a result of my skin color. More on this in the future.

When it comes down to it, it’s really very easy to feel at home somewhere. For me, I needed Pizza Hut, Air conditioning, and Lord of the Rings (director’s cut, of course), courtesy of Pam and Isaiah Sardar, and to whom I am very grateful.

There is an overwhelming number of things to be done here. I expect I shall have no shortage of stories to tell, though of course that rests on my own initiative to find them.

From Delhi with love,

Tristen