The Indian Chronicles III

Hello All!
In my hopes to debunk some of the floating allegations of abandonment and or death, I want to present this chronicle for all of you to be rest assured, I am still flying high. I must admit—taking on a few more commitments—I’m denied some of the time that once was devoted to the Chronicle. I promise, once I leave Delhi and start more rigorous traveling, I will once again, proliferate.
Tonight, the diary opens on the eve of Diwali—India’s most anticipated and arousing holiday. With the same contagious rapture Christmas time brings to the streets, Delhi’s marketplaces and residential neighborhoods are brightly festooned with vibrant stringing lights. The homecoming dash of family appears no different than the “there’s no place like home” attitude during the American holiday season; and might I add, where congestion and chaos already vegetates the flow of movement, “Gee… the traffic is terrific!!” Even more impressive than the traffic however, are the exploding skies. For the past week, the deafening crackle of recreational fireworks shakes the powdery dust off the ground. The spattering eruptions and choking smoke would honestly lead you to believe that Hitler’s Luftwaffe reemerged—air-striking Delhi’s skyline into sheer smithereens. As well as fireworks, other dicey activities such as card-playing have seeped into the popular tradition of Dewali. Leading up to the holiday, friends and family gather around tables, hoodwinking one another, while chancing their heard-earned rupees in various poker sequences. This year, sadly, the celebration’s celestial potential is dampened by the hardship of the year’s terrorism and economic languish but if you ask all the shell shocked, whimpering canines—they’d be sure to tell you that Diwali is as ballistic as usual.
To bring all of you up to date—I have begun working for a highflying and snowballing Delhi-rooted NGO, by the fetching name of Goonj (www.goonj.org) In the late 1990’s, the founder of the organization Anshu Gupta, spent one curious afternoon following his local mortician on his daily route—only to discover that this mortician during the colder months of winter, exercised a small business on-the-side. Despite what you may have heard of India’s inexorable heat, Delhi, especially around Christmas, can be a chilly place—and for those that live on the streets—it is at times unbearable. So unbearable, this mortician earned an extra stipend by leasing freshly diseased bodies to the shivering homeless—all of whom relied on the fleeting warmth and increased weight of a corpse to survive the bracingly cold nights. Aghast, as I assume you’re as well, Anshu was struck both by how tragic such an unfathomable reality was but more, how possible a prevention could be. That New Years, after stuffing their car full with the heaviest clothing and blankets they could find, Anshu and his wife drove around Delhi, distributing a less- macabre source of warmth. Goonj, from that point on has addressed the fundamental necessity of clothing—which surprisingly, is often grossly overlooked in the grand scheme of India’s development.
Owing to Goonj’s clear-vision and creativity, the organization recently won the World Bank’s “Development Market” award and more impressively, “India’s NGO of the year (2007).” For you all who were in my Social Entrepreneurship seminar, let it be said, Anshu is also an Ashok Fellow. Above all, I assist with writing: writing anything from newsletters, reports to catchy slogans but in the next few weeks, I will take on a responsibility much more engrossing. With Goonj, I’ll volunteer in the far-flung villages of rural Bihar—an area of northern India that always has been unrivaled in poverty and disarray but as of late, a result of a catastrophic flood, is in an unprecedented state of crisis. Take some time to check out the website and find out how you can “spread the Goonj.”
November, already in mid-bloom, has yielded much reason to celebrate. Needless to say, Obama’s victory made crashing headlines as Indians and expats alike, expressed fondness to America’s radical make-over. I will happily report that already, the reception for the American abroad is on the brink of a grand renovation—and as sad as I am not to be in Washington for the momentous inauguration, I am equally delighted to travel with my head up high; dangling, not burying my blue-covered passport.
I’ve recently ran the Delhi ½ marathon—by far, the most disproportionate running event I’ve ever taken part in—where police outnumbered spectators 20 to 1. Nevertheless, to run freely on the regularly clogged roads provided a rare opportunity—but running in Delhi is like swimming in the Hudson—withstanding the pollution, in itself, poses the greatest challenge.
The longer that I am here, the less noticeable the debacle-du-jour’s seem. I’m sure the debacles still spring up, but constantly blending together, they have lost all episodic distinction. In order to reside in a place as different as India, maintaining both your composure and concentration, you mustn’t continue to dwell but rather, desensitize yourself to the never-ending unpredictability. In essence, you must submit yourself to India. At first, her every whim will unstitch the very seams of your patience, the threads of your temper, but once it rips, let it rip entirely. You’re then free—free to be at peace with her mercurial nature. Free to gaze in the eyes of the unicorn and accept her as just another horse.
I realized something ripped when the other day, jogging, I ran past a man pedaling a bicycle with a washer machine tied around his back. When before, in America, I would take a second, maybe even a third glance to the occasional mattress tied around someone’s car roof—I looked at this man, as devil-may-care as he was, performing perhaps the greatest display of strength and balance the world has ever seen, with deadpan indifference. Stomping elephants, horse and buggies, pet monkeys on motor scooters, a man lassoing a cow—it’s as if you woke up every morning front-row at the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus.
After two grounded months in New Delhi, the starting gun will sound this weekend. For the next 6 months, easing in gradually, I will start to shed the ties of fixed residence. In the company of “The Stray Dogs” my ultimate Frisbee team here in Delhi, I’ll be headed to the southern port of Chennai for India’s one and only ultimate beach tournament. I’ll also spend a day and a night in Pondicherry. A place that owes a lot to its French settlers, Pondicherry hopes to offer a much more laid-back, congenial version of India. Once I return to Delhi, it will only be a few days until I head north-east, to Bihar, where I’ll experience firsthand the same grueling reality that almost 70 percent of all Indians experience—rural subsistence. Not long after, I’ll join the rest of my sister’s family for a white Christmas—be it, white sand—on the southern coast of Sri Lanka. Naturally, in the days leading up to New Years Eve, I’ll rush to the world-famous beaches of Goa to join the spate of dreadlocked hippies and recently discharged Israeli’s for what’s to be the wildest NYE celebration in all of Asia. If still standing, I am to meet my mother and Richard in Mumbai, fritter rupees away in India’s largest and most flourishing city for a week or two and hop a flight back to Delhi. Saying my goodbyes in Delhi, just in time for its unpleasant cold, I’ll runaway again—beginning in Bangkok. At first, while my bank account seems strong, I’ll swagger around Thailand, Malaysia and once my money runs low, I’ll stagger through Singapore and Indonesia. Along the way, we’ll be sure not to lose touch. Squiggling in a journal and trawling internet cafes, I will do my best to keep all of you abreast.

While I have your attention, I want to report about my loyal friend from A.U., Aaron, who some of you may know, others may not. Aaron Susman, following through with his plans to join Peace Corps, has safely arrived in Burkina Faso—a north-western nation of Africa, that, in top contention for the poorest country in the world, will promise to provide an exceptionally demanding assignment. Over the course of his first month and ½, we’ve spoken frequently via my Skype account to his cell phone—by the far—the only way to reach him (+22675525060).. Shockingly, Wi-Fi has yet to infuse his mud-hut. Currently, he’s amid his 3-months of intensive language and cultural training but after Christmas, he will decamp to his post to begin his two years of service. He will live in a northern Burkina village, a stone’s throw from the Mali border. Far removed from any city, he’ll subsist as the only Peace Corps representative within 70 kilometers, in one of the most arid, futile and sulfurous desserts in all of Africa.
Once he arrives to the village, Aaron’s to head a project that encourages sustainable independence through a fuel alternative known as “japropha.” Despite his already bedridden outbreak of Malaria, sharing his bedroom with lizards and cockroaches of comparable size, and accepting the fact he’ll only eat three variations of millet for the next 25 months, he still expresses crisp commendation for his decision to join.
And to think, it was my sparkling idea that one day, he and I should join the Peace Corps together that ultimately led him, literally, to muffle in the African bush. So in all fairness, let me announce here, once everything is all said and done in South-East Asia, I’ve decided to uphold my end of the deal. If all goes as planned, next Fall will witness the launch of a two-year Chronicle Series. Set where? To be announced but chances are, I’ll be like Aaron, whom, after receiving initial word of his host-country and capital, frantically sprinted to the nearest computer and kindly asked Google where in the world is Ouagadougou? Three weeks later, he now calls it home.
If we could rewind a few weeks, I’ll gently put this chronicle to rest with a bittersweet story of my visit to the Taj Mahal...
Seeing as the outward bound train from Delhi to Agra, the homeland of the Taj Mahal, was booked full for the next 22 years, I opted for the bus. The buses in India always prove to be the more inexpensive mode of transport, but even here, where rationality has little role, there is a clean-cut reason why the buses are the cheapest. A train is attached to the track, a plane is eventually bound by gravity, but when you sit in an Indian tour-bus, you’re the foolish coachman who forgot his whip. In the hours to come, the fickle horse had free rein.
I was to board the bus at 6:30 am at the travel office I booked the ticket in Connaught Place—Delhi’s largest commercial district. I learned fast when I arrived, at 6:20 am, the long line of eager tourists I had expected were nowhere to be found—but still, the office was eerily open. Inside, homeless and half-clad Indian men slept on the very same desks I had just purchases my ticket on the day before. I was literally stepping over bodies as I looked for clues to where my bus was. I walked back outside to the empty sidewalks and metal caged markets; astonished that for how lively the streets are during the day, New Delhi was currently sound asleep. Except for the monkeys trapezing from the rooftops, I was surrounded by more snoring men outside—most of them—ever-so reassuringly were security guards. Eventually, around 7:30, still alone, I almost resigned; but right before, a man approached me, who in broken English, claimed to know of this mythological bus. “Come to me” as he pointed towards his car. I followed him and so did a new comer, who just arrived on the scene—an Indian fellow who knew to arrive one hour and ten minutes late rather than myself, who arrived ten minutes early. After 15 minutes or so, we approached a block congested with long rectangular buses. Again, ungrammatically, he verbalized and pointed to a particular bus. I hopped aboard, experiencing the shameful limelight that a person who is late and lonesome, receives when walking down the aisle of a bus. As the only non-Indian to be seated, I was a walking wellspring of curiosity for most. Discovering an empty seat, I gestured for permission from a pot-bellied man but like so many Indians, especially the thousands of rickshaw drivers I transact with, he propped up the same inconclusive half-nod, half head-shake. So I sat—if he wanted me elsewhere—I assumed he would have snubbed more convincingly.
The bus sat idle for about another hour. Once we began moving, we of course had to stop for fuel—why would anyone ever think to fill the gas-tank before embarking on a 4 hour drive? Continuing on, now almost half past ten, we drove beyond the ostensible city limits of Delhi and merged onto the thoroughfare. As soon as the self-appointed tour leader delivered a verbose instruction in Hindi, without the customary follow-up in English, I knew I was on a tour catered exclusively to the preferences and peculiarities of the Indian-born.
What followed was a day of shall we call—bustration: optimal frustration evoked by a bus. After a luncheon on-the-fly and intermittent road-side urination, we arrived in Agra just a few hours before sunset. Without delay, I was thrown into a frenzy of peddling predators—unable to bare— my distrust succumbed to my restlessness and I paid some hapless swindler to advance me past the queue.
When you visit the Taj Mahal, you’re not to lay eyes on it until you walk beyond the barricades and take your first left. The moment it comes into focus, you feel you have just arrived in Candy Land. The Taj Mahal’s magnificence, call it ethereal, call it surreal, but in my opinion, it’s in its ability to appear entirely fake. Photos always project it more as an optical illusion, but even with your naked eye, it renders the same untruthfulness as a two-dimensional backdrop does of a Broadway stage
I made earnest efforts to avoid the possibility of being left behind; but as I should have predicted, such hurry would pan out as another superfluous act of punctuality. At long last, the passengers returned to their seats, including the customary hitchhikers. As a tourist in India, you learn quickly that one person’s tour bus serves as another person’s public transit. What you may consider a site visit, the fellow dangling out the backdoor, considers his stop.
That evening, I promise you, we paused and resumed more than a San Francisco trolley. It was the birthday of Gandhi and I suppose in a special salute to a preacher of all faiths, we stopped at every place of worship between Agra and Delhi. Somehow 8pm gave way to 10pm and 10pm summoned midnight and we hadn’t traveled more than 25 miles from the Taj Mahal. At one point, at 2am in the morning, our recent progress convinced me we were finally homeward bound—but once again, implausibility prevailed—and we stopped for dinner. Nearing sunrise, we entered a lifeless New Delhi. Almost 24 hours had elapsed on my trip to the Taj and my state of mind, had it not been so sluggish, would had been murderous. I was awoken by one of the driver’s helpers, a husky man of sort. While jostling my shoulder, he asked me where I lived. I responded listlessly, “Golf Links”—
“Number?”
“91” I told him--too tired to reckon why he asked. Shutting my eyes again, I faded back into sleepy hatefulness but before long, was awoken by the sudden stillness of the bus. I straightened my slack neck enough to view out the window—and not yet differentiating reality from a dream—I felt the presence of something very familiar. I will never know why or for what reason, but in the morning mist of that early autumn morning, a tour-bus literally keeling over with Indian men, women and children pulled directly in front of my residence.
There I was—both shocked and flattered--having never felt so special nor embarrassed in all my life. How should I approach this I wondered? As a walk of shame: droopy, on my tiptoes? Or was I to strut, boasting a big chest as if I were on a red carpet? I gathered my things, which of course proved disruptive, as my camera, Ipod, photos and trash were scattered helter-skelter beneath and between seat cushions. Rising to my feet, I treated the moment—as I treat most of my moments here—once-in-a-life-time. Out I went. At first, marching, but as my sleeping security guard came into view, I made sure to lighten my step.
If a tour leaves three hours after its scheduled time. If tour-buses pick up hitchhikers. If 250 rupees can advance you past an entire line. And if I can be dropped off at my personal address in a bus of over 50 passengers, wouldn’t it sound silly to you to wake my security guard while he's sleeping on the job?
From that October morning and every passing minute since, I've discovered the obvious answer in India is not often the preferred one.
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I wish everyone a succulent Turkey! To my usual Thanksgiving crew, I'm stuffed with envy.
Attached (or below) are some more photos. I know, the laundry basket costume returned once again but I thought, being on the other side of the world and all, it had one more Halloween left in it.
Will some one let me know how the Bradyless Patriots are doing?