April 2007
The morning of December 3rd, 2006 found me riding in a beat-up motorized rickshaw and wearing a faux wedding ring. Hindi film classics blared melodramatically out of makeshift speakers behind my seat, and the mustachioed driver paused tospit a graceful arc of crimson paan while swerving to avoid a particularly lackadaisical cow. Traffic, as usual, was impenetrable... or would have been for anyone except an Indian driver, who could (and would) fit a tractor-trailer hauling
kerosene between a wheezing donkey's thighs.
"What your country, madam?"
I hesitated, gaping at the magnificent Red Fort as we passed it. These days, being an American citizen abroad is one of those secrets I keep close to the heart, like favoring the Jackson Five over Franz Ferdinand.
"The US," I admitted, "but I live here. In Delhi. India. This city." I wagged a curry-stained finger unconvincingly at the circus of grit and humanity that engulfed us. Repeating myself ad nauseum, I had discovered, was almost as important as establishing India as my place of residence. Otherwise, locals would completely misunderstand me, cheat me outrageously, or totally ignore me- all with a gracious bow.
I thought back on my arrival, one month earlier, at Indira Gandhi International airport. Although it was the day before Thanksgiving, the thermometer oozed over 85. The locals were in saris, kurtas, or thin oxford shirts that they paired with anything from traditional Indian bottoms to distressed Levis. Sandals were de rigeur.
In my black pants and leather boots, I might has well have been arriving from another planet. In fact, I can't think of a more appropriate analogy. Cacophony reigned supreme - a frantic jumble of horns, fiercely melodious voices raised in anger or supplication, threats and prayers overlapping in a mad overture of tones and dialects. Battered cars, tenacious mopeds, plodding mules, and fearless cyclists wove in and out and over each other like a colony of furious ants, moving in some unfathomable but intricate pattern.
While any self-respecting woman of the 21st century would have focused on finding a job and a Pilates studio, I had a more immediate concern. Ayurvedic yoga, the Taj Mahal, and the eligible grandsons of maharajahs would have to wait. As the quintessential white girl alone in incredible India, my first order of business was the survival of the least fit.
I had much to learn - the timeless art of price-haggling with the rickshaws, the small talk that necessarily precedes any request, the importance of wearing a beautiful scarf to cover the chest. Taking taxis alone at night is discouraged, as rape is common, and shaking hands with men can be inappropriate. Having a prepared response regarding your "husband" is also expedient. The fact that I am unmarried, at the practically geriatric age of 28, causes appalled Indian acquaintances to assume that either I can't make a decent veg curry, or that my parents were too miserly to hire a competent matchmaker.
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