Mr. Manoj

My instructions are as follows: “Meet Mr. Manoj at Delhi airport and his phone numbers are... he will spot you.” My communication with the Volunteer company has been somewhat limited, and this is all I have to go on as far as directions. Customs, money exchange, bag reclaim, and I'm outside of Gandhi International Airport surrounded by dozens of people holding signs. There it was, my name, being held by a young man dressed almost completely in Reebok gear. He doesn't speak much English; he says my name as if to check and makes a comment about my delayed arrival, and we're off, me pushing a trolley of baggage. About half way down the corridor we meet a thin man, whom I judge to be Sikh by his black turban. Meet Mr. Manoj. As far as I can tell, Mr. Manoj doesn't speak English. He seems only peripherally aware that I am there, but occasionally glances back at me with his dark eyes. Through a maze of walkways and into a parking garage, I'm following the silent and somewhat scary Mr. Manoj and the nearly equally silent Reebok, all the while wondering what the hell I'm doing here (and vaguely if I'll be living through this). We finally squish my luggage into the back of a compact car and make our way out into traffic to the sound of a radio station playing tunes that remind me only of Bollywood. The cheery music helps to lessen Mr. Manoj's somewhat Jafar-like presence. And we're off.

Sensory overload.

We immediately move into traffic that defies no stereotype. Lines marking lanes seem to be as meaningless to the drivers as the metric system is to Americans. There are cars everywhere; quite often there's less than 6 inches between us and another car. We're zooming left and right, into the pathways of other cars and then off go the horns. We're swerving, honking, zooming by bicyclists and motorcyclists and rickshaw drivers and pedestrians- oh, the pedestrians! They're everywhere, even on the highways, stepping in front of traffic like some kind of terrifying game of Frogger. The landscape is dusty yellow-brown and red, the flora fairly tropical, and everything is alien. The cars and the people are both decorated, the former with flowers, tassels, cheery images of Krishna and other deities. Some are packed with people to the point absurdity, as though preparing for the clowns-in-a-minicar gag. If there was a foot-and-a-half space between us and a bus, a motorcycle is trying to squeeze into it. Every so often, I catch a man in a truck working his neck for a glimpse down my shirt. It's warm, it's smoky, its utterly chaotic, and I'm sitting there thinking something between am I going to die? and this is so awesome.

It takes almost no time before I start to see the poverty, the things that every Western visitor to India describes as “breaking the heart” or “unbelievable.” Now, the areas that surround just about any airport are generally loci of poverty; its all marginal land, places that no one really wants to occupy. Knowing these things meant absolutely nothing at this point. In fact, just about any intellectual understanding I had of India went right out the window the moment I arrived.

First it was a small group of women in these beautiful vibrant saris. They were standing just a short distance from the road by construction equipment. How gorgeous! I thought. Genuine Indian culture! I thought. It wasn't until we paused in traffic a moment later that I began to understand.

At first it was just the men. They carried large toy airplanes and were knocking on car windows idling in traffic. Then she came. She appeared to be about 13 or 14 years-old, hair neatly combed and dressed in a beautiful sari. She was dusty. Everything about her was dusty. She carried an infant and an empty bottle, which she tapped against the window of the car. She came right to my window and said something I didn't understand. I looked down, ashamed. I was still considering what I could give her a few seconds later, when we drove away.

These girls were everywhere. The trip from the airport in Delhi to the New Delhi railroad station was like a spectral microcosm of the life of India itself; from the heartache poverty, to even more extreme poverty, then past wealthy areas, shops, beautiful architecture and flora. Suddenly there are cows on the side of the road, suddenly big hairy pigs, suddenly monkeys just chillin', as nonchalant as the group of men next to them. 

There were so many people. Neither New York in the Spring nor DC during Forth of July weekend can compare to the sheer quantity of people who were out on the streets, just being. Some were clearly homeless, sleeping on the sidewalk, while others were doing laundry, talking, playing games, shopping. Children were everywhere, from the vibrant and playful to the frowning and dusty. In most American cities, people outside (with the exception of parks and other approved areas) appear busy. They're on their way to do something, to meet someone, they're wearing their too-busy-to-deal-with-you-so-this-had-better-be-important faces. But I wasn't in an American city, I was in Delhi,where the social realm has busted out to the streets, where people actually touch each other while they interact.

Meanwhile, Mr. Manoj is still driving us to either the railroad station or our doom in this never-ending game of chicken. Finally, when the traffic congestion reaches its worst, he stops and lets Reebok and I out. Apparently we're here.

Reebok and I drag my bags up to a large building, where I follow him between pauses in which he looks confused. The sheer number of people is overwhelming, and I feel like a southern bell with a touch of the vapors. There are a group of men in the crowd that seem to be following us, occasionally talking to Reebok in Hindi; eventually he seems to give up and hands one of the men my bag.

This bag belongs to a friend of mine, a Tibetan Dharamsala native who I met during my time at the Buddhist Meditation Center. I'll be arriving in Dharamsala just in time for Losar, the Tibetan New Year, and I offered to bring with me any presents she wanted to send to her family. Little did I know that these presents would come in the form of a bag that comes up to my hips and just barely makes the weight requirement for the flight. A situation which turned out to be more of a novelty than an actual problem.

It's a massive bag, to put it lightly, but it's on wheels. No problem. But this man, to whom Reebok handed over the monster, casually places a scarf on his head and follows that with the bag. He takes my duffel bag and puts it over his shoulder. So here is this man, this stranger in a crowd of strangers, balancing the majority of my hundred pounds of luggage on the crown of his head. He starts to walk away and we follow, and he is fast. We walk for about a quarter of a mile, during which I see dozens of men performing the same balancing trick, some stacked two or even three suitcases high. Not only that, but dainty women in elegant saris are carrying their own head-loads. Finally, we arrive at the furthest platform, where Reebok and the man settle me in a Ladies' Waiting Room. “You pay him 50 rupees” said Reebok, and I hand over 100, roughly $2. Instead of leaving, the man takes out change and hands me 50 back. No tip. Services rendered.

My train is not due for another three hours, so Reebok leaves me in the Ladies' Waiting Room and says that he'll be back. After the chaos of the station, I've never felt safer as I did in this women-only room. I can finally relax and spend the next few hours people-watching. The room is quite full, and the women sit close to each other and often lounge on each other or are touching each other in some other way. I'm the only non-Indian person I've seen at the station, and I'm getting quite a few looks. Most are curious, and the glancers generally lose interests after they've been in the same room as me for a quarter-hour or so. Some of the middle-aged women look a bit annoyed, but I can't tell if that face is because of me or caused by something internal. A few girls play a guessing game pertaining to my country of origin (Thank God there wasn't instant consensus). To be fair, with my pasty face, visible tattoos, dishevelled travelling clothes, and hiking boots, I probably seemed as out of place an adventurer as Arthur Dent in his jammies.

Next to me, a small boy is being doted upon by a half-dozen young girls, women, and grandmothers. I have heard stories of female affection toward male children in India, and it's clearly the case here. The girls compete to play with the child, to feed him, to touch him. A female toddler, however, is not so lucky. In a confusing spectacle, a middle-aged woman paraded the child, pants around her ankles, from the bathrooms, screaming something I could not understand while the child cried until she finally kicked her on the bottom on their way out the door. To my relief, the other women's faces showed signs of disgust and pity.

Every so often, I peak out of the door onto the platform, which resembles nothing I have ever seen before. There are dogs running everywhere, men pushing wooden carts filled with various bushels, bags, and other items. To get to the other side, men simply jumped off the platform and walked across the tracks. Trains come by filled with people, to the point where many are outside of it. On other cars, men are holding on the exterior ladders for a ride. There's so many people, so much life, that I only have the vaguest idea of what's going on. The Women's Waiting Room is quite a comfort.

Finally, Reebok returns and puts me on a train to Chandigarh, my ultimate destination. After a few hours of wondering how I was going to balance my luggage on a standing-room-only train (and if I would fall out!) I learn that he has bought me what equates to an Ultra-Premium First-Class seat. The car is air-conditioned, the seats big and comfortable. As we're waiting to depart, the people on the platform come over and peer into the car to see who's inside. Reebok gives me my ticket and refuses my tip. All of this for $10.

So what do you get for $10 on an Indian train? Comfort, to be sure, and an easy four-hour trip. But that's not all! I thought the service would never stop. First, a giant bottle of water; I wanted to hug someone. But then, a box of mango juice. How about some dinner? Sandwich, samosa. Masala flavored crackers. Sweets. Here, Madam, a teapot just for you. How about a newspaper? Half way through the journey? How about another? Meanwhile, I don't know what's going on. Why are you giving me free stuff? That doesn't happen in my world.

As the train rolls through the country, India rolls by. First, we travel through the city, passing what I can only describe as Hoovervilles and many, many people. There are children playing on the tracks, men squatting next to them. With all the excitement over the World Cup, people are playing cricket in just about every open lot. A young boy sits in a field of garbage alone, huddled by a small fire. Occasionally, we pass by buildings that seem luxurious in comparison, by a small shrine or a statue of a seated guru. Then, everything becomes calm as we travel into the country; the fields are mostly plowed and planted, the Hoovervilles replaced by small houses resembling Native American longhouses, made of some reedy material. Groups of people collect near herds of pigs, goats, and cow-pies are lined up in piles, presumably fuel for burning. It gets dark and I fall asleep.

Chandigarh. Last stop. On the platform, the volunteer company's owner, Pratima, waits for me with her son. She is a friendly, modern-looking woman who asks me questions of my family. She leads me out into the street, where in the chaos I am hit (okay, tapped) by a tuk-tuk (motorized rickshaw). Unharmed but fazed, Pratima's comment of “Stay alert!” seems almost comical. A short (but yes, terrifying) ride later, I am home.