GETTING HERE AND THERE

When I walk down the hall I hear where he is. The Boy always turns the TV on in the room while he’s cleaning. He leaves dusty slippers outside. He washes white marble floors on his knees with a tired rag. I’m guessing he’s The Servant’s grandkid. I try not to peek inside the room as I pass by. I can’t help it. The Boy is facing the magical screen while his arms rub the floor mechanically, with eyes to a world of thick-haired heroes in front of exploding buildings, needy women with heavy eyeliners, and unconditional love challenged by gangsters with cared-for moustaches. He suddenly senses that I’m passing by and our eyes meet. We both smile. I do it politely and slightly embarrassed. He must think I’m totally weird. As I walk down the stairs I realize his smile was different. It was only another chore.

Walking down the street in Delhi means just that. There are no sidewalks. Since traffic pours in from all directions all the time, taking a casual stroll is an exhausting ordeal. It gets worse. Drivers honk their horns. Nonstop. Over and over again. ALL THE TIME. Even at 4:23 in the morning when traffic jams can’t be an excuse. Traffic means more than just cars. There are bicycles. I haven’t seen anyone riding a bike with a helmet. I have seen bike riders cross multiple lanes and cross sections while I put both hands against my chest in a gasp and worry for their lives with a mother’s discomfort. Then there are cycle rickshaws—a big tricycle with a front seat for the rickshaw puller and a wide seat at the back for what looks like one person, but I usually see three people squeezed in back there. There’s also the auto-rickshaw, a small vehicle without doors or seatbelts. Don’t worry; the right side is bound by iron rods to prevent passengers from falling out. Picture theme park rides and you get the idea. Again, there’s a single seat in the front for the driver and a wider seat in the back for 3 passengers. Now and then I see at least ten people (kids on laps and people hanging on the sides included) riding a single auto-rickshaw, so I figure as many as possible is just fine.

I choose to ride the subway. Delhi is host to the Commonwealth Games in 2010 (sort of a miniature Olympics for past British colonies) and the city is under pressure to be the expected modern metropolitan host. The subway system is brand new and is expanding to reach the entire city by the time of the Games. A few construction workers just died on duty. Riding the subway in Delhi is like checking in at the airport. Before I slide my card I get frisked by a female guard. They don’t smile a lot. Good news is that, as a woman, I get to use the express line in comparison to how long the men have to wait. Then I drop my bag off at the next security check point where it gets scanned. Once it comes out on the other side I must be quick to pick it up before someone else does. This is the procedure at every subway station! Then I’m off to catch the train. The subway is a free haven in this loud city. The trains are AC cool and blocks out the street noise. People are calm and reserved. The announcers sound stewardess friendly in a male and female voice. They present every stop in both Hindi and English. Between stops they command men to leave seats for women passengers.

I live five stops away from the central point in Delhi, Connaught Place. It was designed by a British architecture back in the 1920’s. This architecture aimed to build an impressive commercial center in the capital with wide boulevards and colonial architecture suitable for international visitors. Although familiar signs of MacDonald’s and United Colors of Benetton are found here, Delhi appears as a retired English gentleman stubborn to preserve its old ways rather than to move along with the developing nation it belongs to. I can count how many westerners I’ve seen in the past two weeks on my left hand. The dress code is overall conservative Indian. The commercial center is covered in sun dust and smells hot incents mixed with sweaty street vendors. Many office and retail spaces are shut down or difficult to locate without proper signs outside. Pedestrians have no choice but to intermingle with reckless traffic (life threatening for visitors). I disappear into endless flower stands. Where did they come from? Problem solving has become a daily routine.

I have come to realize that I kind of dress like the city’s less conservative university clique. Whenever I hit the streets I pretend to be one of them. I pretend I know exactly where I’m going (off to some trendy coffee shop that pops up everywhere – a youth revolution against this tea drinking nation) when I have no clue how to find my destination. I show no interest in the intense madness of street life and pretend to be bored with it; beggars without legs, guards with automatic machine guns, women wrapped in stunning saris, white cows sniffing garbage bags, howling dog packs from house roofs, boiling pots stirred by toothless men. Delhi is one of those crazy ol’ ladies you see on the subway in any urban area with uncombed hair, repulsive odor and naked skin under a coat that opens up. You pretend not to notice her and hope she won’t come up to you, but you’re still curious to hear what she’s talking to herself out loud about. When she gets off you relax a little. And life goes back to ordinary again.