Not Yet South

The air in Delhi is heavy, hard and thick. Breathing is a chore. Sweat pours from the forehead, forming salty-clean streams through a layer of tire grime and road sludge. I took to wearing a bandana on my right wrist to wipe the shit from my face. Unfortunately, something resembling a boil has emerged on my forehead – I’m not sure why, but if I had to guess – it’s from inadvertently drying my face with Delhi-dirt. I’ve been told the air is not nearly as bad as it was three years ago, before the dirty city busses were replaced with a cleaner alternative.

* * *

I spend a lot of time wondering about normality and adjustment. How long can a new place instill awe? You might see a mother and her malnourished children slumming in dirt and trash beneath a bridge; a dozen times in a ten minute rickshaw ride. Does this eventually blend into the background, like familiar architecture?

* * *

In the back of a rickshaw with two other Fellows, I’m soaked with sweat, breathing fumes, waiting for the light to change. Two filthy-ragged children, too thin, approach my side. A boy and a girl. The girl wears a makeshift drum, string-slung across her chest. It looks like she’s done this many times before. Her eyes convey mechanical resignation. Her hands daintily tap each side of the drum. I see it but I hear nothing. She looks directly into my eye and does not blink. The boy now has sat down on the hot asphalt and has pressed his knees to his chest. In his hand is a small metal hoop, a foot in diameter at the most. I watch as he squeezes it over his shoulders, around his arms, and down past his hips. He does it again. Again. Again. If there was a right response or appropriate action to be taken there, I could not, did not, think of it.

* * *

There are 16 Fellows with me in India. Six of us will work in southern India. The rest will be placed in various cities throughout the north. Last week, we were supposed to split along these lines, the southerners traveling to Hyderbad for Telegu lessons (the language of Andhra Pradesh), the northerners returning to the mountains for coursework in Hindi. The eve of our departure, two bombs exploded simultaneously in the Hyderbad. 40 were killed in two separate parts of town. We were scheduled to board a train for this city in less than 24 hours.

The television images were far more graphic than what we see it home. What I saw was sickening, and naturally, I couldn’t help but think what could have been, had we left a day earlier. Later in the week, six of us crammed into a one-bedroom apartment, we learned that 19 additional bombs had been found; had failed to detonate. I’m under no illusions that I’m totally safe in India, but the threat of terrorism hadn’t crossed my mind.

We never went south, staying instead for four days in the small apartment, in a situation that could aptly be called the Real World Partners Fellowship. See what happens when people stop being polite…

So the five girls and I rejoined the rest of the group up north at an idyllic language school. We’re learning Hindi, which will serve no purpose in the south, but will surely pay off as India continues its rise to prominence in the coming years.

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