Arrival

A very funky chipmunk-like thing just ran across the electric wire that runs in front of our house. Wait! He’s back! Really scraggly long tail and the coloring is off—light brown with blond strips. He looks kind of creepy. I initially ended up on the back terrace overlooking the alleyway between two rows of houses with a view of mangy dogs, kings of the early morning hours, not a person to be seen in this upscale part of town, though the scaffolding and dust belie the wealth of the neighborhood. Of course I gravitated to the kitchen and the area where women dominate. You learn so much more about the day to day functioning of life from this perspective. However, now that I’ve found the front veranda, I am happily perched on the third floor with an overview of the guard in his blue button down shirt, seated on his red plastic chair willing the day to begin. He has yet to notice me. Even so, this side shows signs of life. I’m getting ahead of myself!

Last night I arrived after 20 or so hours of travel to a modern, enormous and stream lined airport with surprisingly few people. Granted it was almost midnight, but this is Delhi! I had expected hordes. When I opened the doors and found a quietly waiting crowd, I was greeted by a night thick with smoke from unseen fires and dust, signs of construction and recent human upheaval. At last I finally found my driver—the last one in the line, quietly holding a battered cardboard sign. I was very relieved to see him.

My driver this night has a boxy dented car with a clean dashboard and vacant never used slots where things like a radio and glove compartment should be. The car is not devoid of decoration however, as several items line the upper part of the vehicle. My favorite is an antique photo just above my head on the ceiling that states it is a genuine photograph from 1916, though it looks like a copy to me. Manad Singh is decidedly old school in his driving technique. Rather than commit himself to one lane over another—here as opposed to Africa, there are many—he holds steady following a line between two lanes, sometimes swerving to avoid another swerving driver or one with no lights or another who has decided (or whose car has decided for him) that this is a reasonable place to stop. The highway runs through the city and I am surprised when we suddenly exit to the back streets which alternate with Christmas light festooned buildings snuggled next to those that lack electricity entirely. We enter some gates and the labyrinth I now call home and he expertly follows an invisible trail that leads right to my front doorway.