First Night In India
The New Delhi airport was not the Indira Ghandi Airport it is today, with beautiful golden mudra statues greeting you as you enter the arrival hall. It was hot and dusty and oh, so crowded. And the minute you stepped outside, you entered another world. “Madam, best price.” “Madam, you have taxi?” Bodies pressed forward on my best friend Brandon and me, like paparazzi on a celebrity. The smell of sweat and hair oil was everywhere. It was oppressive and you needed the patience and fortitude of St Joan to get through it without yelling at someone or just laying down to die. We had been warned, however, and I had done my research, and knew to look for the “Pre Paid” taxi booth. This was an oasis for the Westerner as it was one price. There was no haggling and it was usually the cheapest option. Brandon’s eyes were as big as saucers as we lurched forward with dwindling confidence. Finding the Pre Paid Booth was like finding the fountain of youth. Luckily, an Indian doctor who had been on our plane, and had seen our confusion, offered to guide us to the booth. The whole thing was amusing him. Minutes ago, I was self assured and strong and not going to be swayed by aggressive rick shaw drivers. Now, already beaten down and near tears, I was more than happy to appear the helpless woman with gay friend close behind.
It was 3 AM when we finally got in the taxi. We had vague directions to my friends apartment in an area called Greater Khalish. The sky had the eeriest golden glow, like the fog of old London, where figures and shapes moved, came into view, then disappeared like specters. This mystical fog, as it turned out, was air pollution and Delhi is one of the most polluted cities in the world. It smells like wood smoke everywhere and it stings your eyes. I was shocked to see people squatting in abandoned hotel lobbies or apartment complexes stoking fires to cook or keep warm.
The driver assured us he knew the address I gave him, however when we got to Greater Khalish, he became unsure. It seemed the gated community had several entrances, none of which seemed to be opened at this hour. I did not have a phone and had no way to contact my friend, Amreen. We circled around for about a half an hour. A low level panic had started to sink in, until finally we found one guard shack opened. The driver gave him the address. The guard looked in at us for a long minute, then waved us on. Whew! We made it. However, we could not find her house number and the driver had no idea where he was going. (Tuk Tuk rides and getting lost in India are some of my best memories). From a process of elimination we narrowed it down to one or two buildings with no visible numbers in between buildings of similar numbers. The driver let us off and then was gone. We were scarily on our own. If this was indeed the correct building, Apt 3 was on the top floor. We dragged our things up the stairs, (There was no elevator) and debated about ringing a doorbell or knocking or just waiting until a decent hour. It was 4:00AM.
We were both already bedraggled from just that cab ride and a little intimidated by Delhi. I rang the bell and we waited. No one came for a little bit, but I didn’t want to ring again. What if this was the wrong place? I didn’t know how to apologize in Hindi. Then a young woman answered the door and stared at us. “Hi, Namaste. Does Amreen live here? I am her friend from America.” She stared at us and then looked inside the apartment . She clearly didn’t know if she should let us inside or not. Then Amreen, sleepy eyed, appeared behind her and said “You’re here! Come in!” The lovely girl opened the door, I introduced Brandon to Amreen, hugs all around, and we were shown our room. We walked through the kitchen and noticed a straw mat in the corner of the dining area where a young child was sleeping, the daughter of the girl who let us in. “Are we taking her room?” I asked. I felt bad. “No, she and her daughter sleep on the mat. Shiobana is from my village and came here to be my cook.” It took me awhile to wrap my head around that, but, I later learned, it was an opportunity for the young woman and her daughter to be in the city as a cook, earning money on her own, in the protection of Amreen. Sleeping on a straw mat on the floor was what she was used to. Brandon and I took the lovely room with huge bed and attached bathroom with a shower. In a matter of minutes, Shiobana brought us a tray with chai, steamed milk, biscuits and a candle. It was heaven. There is nothing like that first cup of chai when you get to India.