I F*cking Love India

So we fly into New Delhi, deciding immediately to take the rest of the day off from travel, as the baby squirmed, fussed and whimpered the entire two hour flight. We used our trusty Lonely Planet India — a tome, which I only pull out when I’m day dreaming about where to go next — or like now, when I’m sitting at the New Delhi airport with a fussy baby, lugging all my belongings, with no backup plan.

We shut the book, thwamp. Shuffle. Whoosh. “How much?” Vrrrrm. Slam. Click. Mmmm. Creakkkk. “Thank you.” Slam. — and we’re deposited in Paharganj, near the train station. We pick the more expensive room of the two offered and fill our refrigerator with Fanta and bottled water. It’s hot in Delhi. I strip the baby down for his nap. He’s cherubic and giggling, thrilled to lay in bed, and quickly slow blinks his way to sleep.

Out on our balcony, I snap pictures of the street view. Bicycle rickshaws with bone-thin men standing on the pedals weave around foot traffic, avoiding an errant cow, crowded by the fume belching motorized rickshaws and bleating motorcycles who blare their horn at everyone, almost as a mater of introduction, “Hello, sir, I am here, right next to you, in case you didn’t notice.” Or in other words: Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Beeep Beeep Beeep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. BEEP BEEP.

I’m being oblivious in my interest, face pressed again my camera, until I notice the coconut walla on the street below is trying to convince me to buy a coconut by miming throwing one up to me, in it’s green hull, like a football. I smile and shake my head no. Now he’s miming just throwing it at me, forget the sale, but it seems more menacing. He faints a throw. And another. I head back inside.

They bring us room service. We watch the Amazing Race on TV. Drew sops up dal malkhani in silence, the mound of buttered naan beside him rapidly disappearing.

Train tickets. Yes. Okay. Let’s go.

This is a the part where Drew and I fight. We make it down to the station, almost there, just a heartbeat away, and someone approaches us.

“You can’t buy tickets here. Follow me.”

Drew doesn’t say a word. He turns and follows the man. My mouth makes an O. He’s folded into the crowd. I shut my mouth and hurry up to catch him.

“Wait! Drew! Don’t just follow people!”

The man pulls out a laminated pass that says something like “New Delhi Official Train Guy” and I might have muttered, “Impressive!” and turned to leave.

“Wait, wait, let me show you.” He pulls out a tourist map. “Where are you going?” Drew answers, “Agra” and I shoot him a look.

“Okay, well you can’t take this train to Agra, you have to go here… other side of town, I can take you…”

I said, “No!” as I suddenly realized the scam — trick the tourists into driving somewhere, anywhere, in order to drum up business — “That’s it! No. Thank you. Drew, let’s go!”

I felt bad about that later. I was storming off towards the train station, retracing our steps, and I saw him again. I had noticed the man sitting on the street before but only in the peripheral, a single question floating into my mind, “was he?” and the thought released as I focused on catching up to Drew. Now, I saw him again and this time I knew. Just some subtle difference — I couldn’t tell you what it was — perhaps the way he was hunched over, or the pate of his skin or the flies or the blood. He was dead. A man sleeping on the street, with a gash on his arm had succumbed.

I paused, maybe only in my mind, maybe I just charged past, but I remember that pause. Should I do something? No, what can I do? And maybe he’s not. Oh but he is. Come on, let’s go.

Drew and I didn’t talk about it until later. We just pushed on, cutting through to the train station, deciding in the moment with barely a word to just book a driver instead. We inquired about prices. It was only $10 more than taking the train. We accepted the offer on the spot. We’re going to the Taj Mahal!

On the ride there, Drew said to me, “Did you see that dead guy on the street earlier?” Yeah.

We take a rest stop as the drive seems to be taking forever. Shouldn’t we be there by now? We follow the baby around a pretty little garden and order masala dosas and a bottles of water. The drivers don’t come inside. There are sinks for them to wash up by the car park. They smoke and chat and wait for their charges.

Finally we’re in Agra. It’s dark out now. The baby is sleeping on my chest and we’re circling around. So many pilgrims here. Men in white or orange. I can’t wait to see the Taj. I press my face against the window and look for a hint of it behind every turn, around every building, down every alley.

The driver asks for our Lonely Planet. We open it to the map of Agra, pointing to the Taj Mahal. “Our hotel is very close. Right here,” we tell him. He jogs into a hotel and we sit in silence, waiting.

“Here he comes.” I tell Drew for no reason.

“Your hotel,” he says pointing at the Lonely Planet map, “Is in Agra.”

“Yes, it is. Why, were are we?” I’m sensing a scam. Maybe he wants another $2 to drive us into town. Maybe he’ll pretend that the hotel is much farther than the city centre. Maybe he’ll become silent until we just give him the requested money.

“Haridwar.”

“Okay, so drive us to Agra.”

” … ”

Drew starts to say something. “You need to drive us…” I’m thinking. Wait… I grab the Lonely Planet. “Where is Haridwar?” I ask the driver and he says nothing. I flip to the map and find it.

It’s five hours in the opposite direction.

Haridwar. Agra. Haridwar. Agra. How could he have possible mixed the two up?

I pick a hotel almost at random. LP says it’s hard to find. Screw it. Couldn’t be any harder to find than the Taj Mahal, apparently. We roll with it. It’s actually okay. Whatever. It’s India. It feels like an adventure. Pay the man money and he will take you to some random location, approximately five hours away. Sounds like the beginning of a good book.

On the ride, I research…

“Haridwar. Holy city. Like Varanassi. The God Vishnu took a step into the Ganges river here, left a footprint. Sacred.”

Excellent. Here we go.