Thursday, April 2, 2009

April 2 (7:22 pm New Delhi time) (6:52 am CA time)

I am truly not in Kansas any more. Oh what a day I've had. After a large, complementary break-fast at the hotel, the plan was to visit Red Fort, then the market in old Delhi. But as we all know, plans don't normally get carried out as we thought they would.

 After bargaining the price of a taxi ride to old Delhi, we embarked on hour long drive. First, there is one thing you must know about Indian driving. Driving is a lose term for it. The lines on the pavement are mere suggestions of where you should drive, not markers indicating lanes. There are no lanes in India. The white lines on the roads are a rough approximation at best. Honking is part of driving. Buses and trucks have signs on them saying "Please Honk" and not for some stupid reason like "honk, it's my birthday!" No. They were there for survival. Cars are going every which way, and in order to alert other cars of their position, honking is key. Each car has its own honk, and they seemed to blend together, in a deep honk harmony. 

The rubberneck traffic slowed to a halt. Suddenly, there was a face at the window of the taxi. A small impoverished child, with matted hair and scraped lips. He held brightly decorated flower bouquets, and pressing them against the window he said something in Hindi, and touched his mouth, the international sign for food. My dad looked out the window and shook his head with a stern no. We would not like to buy his flowers. We would not give him money. The boy bent his head to the window, as if praying to us for help. We had to say no. Next he came to my window, I looked away, then back, smiled and shook my head no, with an accompanied hand gesture. He pleaded. I said no. The starving child moved on throughout the traffic, looking for someone who would give him some rupees. After a few more minutes without any movement, a young women came to our window. We said no. Then, the traffic started to move again, and we continued our journey to old Delhi. 

Since then, many more young children and mothers have begged at our windows. Trying to sell what they have. But the first is always the hardest. The image of that boy will stay with me my entire life. His dark face burned into my mind. Since then, it's been easier to say no to the women begging for milk for their babies. To say no to the dying lepers on the street corner, with their mangled limbs on display. It's has been easier to say no, but harder to deal with. I live in a giant house, with beautiful things, and everything I could ever want. My friends complain about not being able to buy a new dress, while the starving boy begs for money. You simply can't understand how amazingly well we have it, until you go to a third world country. Even the worst poverty in the US is nothing like what I saw in India. The next time you wish you had money to buy a new gizmo, and you feel so upset you can't, be thankful that you have a place to return to everyday, and more than just the clothes on your back. It's hypocritical of me to say this. I wish i had more money to buy new, more stylish clothes. Why, even after seeing what I saw, could I even think of myself as poor. Because it's human nature. We are greedy and always want more. Just because my neighbor have a $180 jacket, I want one too. But then I think back, back to those children sleeping on the side of the road, and my want vanishes. 

When we reached the parking lot, or what I guess you could call a parking lot, my family and I were instantly rushed by Indians offering their services as guides, drivers, and more. One man, Assu, managed to latch on to us and said he would take my family and me to where we wanted because it was right near where he worked. We agreed, and  he led us through the markets of Old Delhi. The sights and smell were mind blowing. Our fist trip was to the electronics market, a place where my dad has wanted to take since he first came to India. Wires hung from everywhere, crowded alleyways boasted "new" ipod nanos, sitting on top of their cases, with "mp 4" written on them with black sharpie. Men were selling the guts of CD player's speakers, everything. 

India doesn't smell like incense, or Indian food, or cow poop. It smells like an amazing combinations of all of them, in a smell that you would never expect. That unplaceable, the unmistakable scent of feces, mingled with the aroma of incense burning at shops. Mixed with the scent of thousands and thousands of people.

Our next stop was a walk through the shoe district, where shoes hung from stalls everywhere, and through various markets, the color street, spice market, and many others. 

The sheer density of people was absolutely mind boggling. People, people, everywhere. Bicycles pulling carts going every which way. Motorcycles and three wheeled taxis share the road with pedestrians, never waiting for you. It is very easy to get run over in India. Wires hang from from more wires, hanging from the roofs of two story building, like a rat's nest. Then, our guide, Assu, took us to a Jane temple. We walked through an alley of beautifully painted houses, hundreds of years old. At the end of this alley, was a spectacular marble temple. This was a Jane temple. We had to take off our shoes and wash hands. No cameras allowed, sorry. An Indian man led us up a very steep stair case to the upper level. Every square inch was covered in beautiful painting, or magnificent marble. The priest boasted that the building was built over 1,000 years ago, and the gold paint was made from real gold flakes. This temple is the most amazing, extraordinary, magnificent, beautiful, words cannot describe, thing I have ever seen. I wish you all could be here.

India is very beautiful at parts, but it is so extremely sad. Everywhere you go, you see stray dogs, goats, oxen. The dogs have terrible skin conditions, flea bitten ears and hardly any body besides bones. Their bodies lie all over the streets, hopefully sleeping, but some dangerously dead looking. It is so heart braking seeing these helpless creatures in this condition. Goats hide behind motorcycles, trying not to get run over. Skin, and bones, skin and bones. Matted fur carries a terrible stench with these poor little things. Oxen hang out on the road. The sea of cars parts and flows around these sacred cows, and they look up sleepily without a word of thanks. Children are begging at every corner. Terrible poverty, so much that I cannot believe that my hotel and this land are in the same dimension. Starving children selling things, weeding out plants for rupees (the Indian form of currency, one US dollar = 48.58 rupees). I finally broke down in the hotel. It sickens me seeing the conditions that these children live in. 

2 comments:

  1. Powerfully moving observations R. It's a lot to take in, process, and make sense of given who you are and your experiences so far in life. Keep on writing; it's one way to make some sense of your experiences.
    Ms. C

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  2. R. This is very intense and it is very interesting to learn about sights you would not see in Tiburon. You are a great write and your pictures on some of your other pages are amazing!

    A*S*

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