In India - A White Girl's Story of Travelling Home

The first chapter of my book "In India".

The rickshaw was dusty and noisy. A thin dark driver with uncombed dusty black hair was maneuvering through pits and holes, animals and people, bicycles, motorbikes and cars. The airport was getting further and further away.

A breath of relief left my lungs. I arrived home.

Delhi heat was thick with dust and pollution, and strangely assuring. Air waved like being fried by the sun. Rickshaw suddenly halted making bright red cotton bells attached to the roof above the driver’s head uncontrollably swing back and forth.

Saji was waiting a few metres away. Seeing white hands from the un-doored and un-windowed rickshaw frame, he realized that the package arrived.

“Where’s your luggage?” was the first question. I expected “Hi” or at least “Nice to meet you” or something like that.

“That’s all I have” I pointed at the school-sized grey and blue backpack that was so stuffed that threatened to explode at any time. The bag was dusty from the bumpy ride. Me too.

“For six months in India? That’s impressive” followed his words, backed by a puzzled and interested face expression.

He grabbed my explosive backpack and I followed him upstairs.

The apartment was spacious and very basic. A true student bachelor’s pad. Except that Saji wasn’t a student, but a government employee. He was a bachelor though.

He hosted a guy from Switzerland when I arrived. Saji loved hosting foreigners and showing them round his beloved city �" that’s how I was introduced to him. But above all, he loved hearing different points of view, which helped to see the world in different ways that would be useful for his plans to become a president.

The apartment had dark red shiny old floor, with white age stretchmarks here and there. It had gloomy darkish off-white walls that were unevenly carved out, which gave the whole apartment a rustic look.

I got a room with a mattress on the floor. That’s all the room had.

Perfect. My Indian adventure has started just the way I expected �" without any things guessed. I expected the unexpected, I prepared for the unprepared from the very start, but little did I know that India had another trick up her sleeve, the trick which would suck me into its thick blood and give birth to the new me, the me totally different to the breathing and walking being I was at the time.

Heat was swirling in the air with occasional flies, and a huge heavy old fan tried its best to shake it off. Air was unwillingly swishing around, but the swishing was of hot air still; air just lazily swished in circles throughout the spacious off-white apartment darkened by white curtains to protect itself from the merciless heat of sun.

My eyes and ears jealously captured everything in this alien experience. It hungrily swallowed and pleasantly digested uneven floor, a blue plastic jug used as a toilet flush, Saji’s Indian-English accent, Saji’s small moustache, a man singing never-heard Hindi tunes outside, dusty apartment smell, screeching doors. Everything.

Saji was surprised to hear I wasn’t exhausted after a flight all the way from London. Little did he know that when my feet touched India, my blood came alive (it was stagnant before then, all my life) and rivers of energy and life gushed forth through my body. I was at home. What a relief.

The first taste that touched my tongue was classic �" a severely overswetened sugar-thick chai. It tasted vomitingly sweet and painfully homely. Saji showed where he kept spoons, forks, knives, cups, pots. How to turn on and turn off the giant metal gas capsule. How to use the cooker. I broke the gas knob accidentally a few days later. Saji wasn’t angry; he was just really surprised how could this possibly be done. But anything is possible in India �" he should know that better than me visiting it for the first time.

“Anything is possible in India”. I heard this line so many times in my three years of life at home.

But what most importantly happened when the rickhaw touched Saji’s pavement wasn’t the tour of the kitchen or the way the apartment felt �" it was a new string being formed between two souls of opposite worlds. Which wasn’t really a string. It was more like a net with uneven holes.

My western heritage at the time still dictated my thoughts, and the bud of my core was just starting to grow. I guess India was a fertile soil for it and so I felt the urge to come.

I was often caught up in dilemma �" to give into the western woman’s actions, or to stay true to Self. This struggle was misinterpreted by people as depth, unpredictability, artsy nature, not belonging, shyness or strangeness. It was none of that. It was a struggle for the green bud of self to flower into a flower. At that time, however, the bud was small and whitish green, scared of all the dark weeds threatening its existence, the weeds that didn’t belong to the garden but lavishly used it.

Barely an hour passed by when we were cutting through the thick air, walking down the stairs of his apartment into the embrace of the merciless noon’s sun. Saji came out first and headed to the garage below the apartment. His motorcycle which was simply called “bike” in India (which caused many later confusions) was waiting neatly squeezed into the gap of its fellow dusty bikes.

I adjusted my large cotton head scarf to form into a semi-umbrella, to protect my faint skin from the grabbing heat. Then I thought sun would still burn my nose, so I made something out of the scarf that was supposed to resemble burka, but really didn't. It was more like a messy scarf carelessly rolled over the head. Large dark sunglasses hid the last part of the bare face. Saji was shocked by my sudden transformation when he turned around to see if I was at the back, and then this shock turned into an uncontrollable laugh. I laughed too, constantly explaining myself - that my skin wasn't used to so much sun. He remarked that I looked like a terrorist, barely containing further splashes of laugh.

My inner rivers of energy started surging more forcefully. For a life lived with complete predictability and squashed with soul-squeezing rules of London, this new experience made my blood sing and boil. Each new experience drowned me in life and awareness, and now I was going to cut double-speed through this unknown city. If only Saji’s dark eyes would read the uprise that was happening below the white skin of a calm blonde girl. He literally couldn't - I was camouflaged; but even if I wore no glasses or scarves, my still expression could hardly be read as excitement.

Saji had some difficulty maneuvering the dark beast out of a tiny gap. I heard it finally roar, and Saji’s eyes told we’re ready for the ride. I got on the back of the bike, tightly gripping Saji’s waist �" a big “no no” in the Indian society, and a big “don’t know” in a foreign girl’s mind.

The already bustling Delhi life of fruit-selling men, cows, stray dogs, dusty old bikes and dark people got on fast-forward. Saji skillfully, almost psychically maneuvered though impossibly crowded streets and tiny garbage and urine-smelling alleyways. Delhi was awake, alive, breathing with colors, showing all it had raw, beggars, pink sugar candies, terribly fried snacks, too much to take in at once, and the grey, orderly and highly predictable London quickly rubbed out its 6 years of footprints from my soul.

We got on the motorway. Saji’s eyes saw my brightened face though the dusty bike mirror, and to rise my excitement to the tipping point, he pushed the speed pedal way down. He played my feelings as a skilled flutist, knowing exactly how to unclog all the holes that poured forth the excitement and life.

The rushing inner rivers got crazy with delight and an orchestra in veins translated into crystal-clear awareness of the present moment, the lush dance of life. I was so deeply grateful for the spirit of life to had given me such a beautiful gift, that I could hardly contain my tears. The package called ‘India’ looked small and simple, but the opened box had no end to surprise at each look �" I still haven’t found its bottom. Is it even there?

You feel so small when something so big is channeled through your being. It feels so limitless to find yourself a speck in the river of life that never stops flowing. It’s so hypnotizingly delightful to be taken up from the ground to be thrown into the birthplace of life. India. 

Author's Note

Some terms you might not be familiar with, like "rickshaw", which means a three-wheeled taxi with no doors or windows except for the front one. Please let me know if the story came alive in your mind with images, and how you felt about the story.

Reviews

[lakki]

You asked about the picture I had when reading your story. Well I can assure you that it was a crystal clear;) I loved the precise descriptions, the true feelings. It was amazing, really! By the way, are you a flower'lover? I've noticed your excessive use of flowers, it is not an exageration, but it reveals maybe your love for them :) I have to ask you about one thing in the story. In this passage"My western heritage at the time still dictated my thoughts, and the bud of my core was just starting to grow. I guess India was a fertile soil for it and so I felt the urge to come." is it at the time or at that time?

[Simona]

I would appreciate any comments!