III. The Depths of Delhi

Even if you manage to let go of the idea that the way you have grown up doing things is the RIGHT way, it may be impossible to get over the belief that it is THE way – the template from which everything else is an alternative. It is not even a "belief"; it is just – there.

Take, for example, the Toilet.

I ask you, which is cleaner: a couple of handfuls of toilet paper or a sharp spray of water? The spray of water, of course. Still, I am disoriented by a washroom without TP, embarrassed by the obvious practicality of the hose, afraid of being marooned in the cubicle... And even though I acknowledge that it is a cleaner way, I still marvel at the way India has come up with an "alternative" to THE way.

In the same way, we think we have no accent, but everyone else does, right? Isn't it marvelous how others have made changes to OUR language? Oops – Canada is a borrower, too.

Dancing at the Hindu party

 On our second morning in Delhi, I heard the distinct noise of a sound check in the courtyard below Rajni's apartment. Somehow during our sleep, a sturdy square tent had been erected, draped in satiny reds and golds. A Hindu birthday party or anniversary is celebrated with a live band and then worship service (Is this my happy place..?!). "Would you like to come?" asked Rajni, knowing that we would be welcome, both as friends of apartment dwellers, and also as foreigners. So, my first time in an Indian suit she had helped me buy in the market and wearing its matching "dupatta" or scarf, I followed her into the carpeted interior, removing my sandals as she did. The singer was surrounded by tabla players and singers, all kneeling on a raised, carpetted "stage" - and he was quite a showman. After Hindu songs of faith, encouraging the gathering of women, men and children to join in from time to time, he invited us to sing a Sikh song and a Muslim song. Dancing began at the front and before I knew it, the woman song leader walked over and took me by the hand to come and dance with her as she sang. All I could do was follow.

at the Red Fort with Rajni

Mid-afternoon we found our way to the Red Fort in Old Delhi. It took Bhushan a full hour to park the car – and it would have taken us a long time to pay for our tickets into the Fort, but the foreigners' line-up was infinitely shorter (with a wide difference in admission cost, which I don't begrudge). India Gate followed – a white marble 'arc de triomphe', on which were inscribed the perhaps thousands of names of all those lost in recent major wars. 

Girls surrounded Nicole and me, inviting us to have our hands henna-ed, which we declined, however the woman with them would not hear "nay" and "bas" (enough) and actually began to squeeze a tube of the brown liquid onto my hand before I could slip free. Rajni made the girl scrape it off. This is the only insistent touting we have experienced so far.

The junior Jonsson-Goods have slipped into travel mode with a grace that is beautiful to behold. Though tired and confronted with so much difference, they have fallen into step with the visiting, the extra interpreting of cultural cues, the need for graciousness not natural to North American youth. Patrick still doesn't like getting up in the morning, but he joins us for meals, visiting with our hosts, trips on the town. Nicole remains her shy self, settling into the India diet as if it were her own, demurring at the expectation of being a Canadian ambassador. Isaac – who has been excited and unworried in all our preparations for this trip – is now tired out by jet lag and the pace, socialising and the sheer stimulus. Of course when we are 'home', he craves his electronics constantly. However, his survival mode on the streets and alleys of Delhi is to do constant dance routines from our "Just Dance" programme. Repeatedly, I have had to ask him to rein it in as we walk through crowds, as he risks gutting a passerby with a hip-hop double-arm slice.

Nicole has lunch

We caught our early morning train by the grace of God only, running with backpacks bobbing, dragging our one rolling suitcase of gifts and music supplies, and I with my daypack on my front - hopping onto the coach at one minute before scheduled departure time. This was not really because of the writhing Delhi work traffic and it wasn't really because of the car jam close to the station. It was because a single male like Bhushan cannot fathom how long it takes for a family to actually get on the road even after they have said: "Right! Out the door!" He booked our cabs based on normal time.

India Rail

India Rail is understood to be a reason in itself to visit the country. With bucket seats, tray tables and the India Times, (and having got over the super-yogic breathing to stay calm in traffic) we were comfortable and being served our breakfast: a small bread omelette for us non-veg eaters, and a small thermos and cup with packets of tea and sugar and skim milk.

I must admit that, after having not been out of the sight of our very protective new friends, we felt a slight twinge of satisfaction to be doing something on our own in India. Not for long, however, as I was greeted on our destination's pedestrian overpass by a man with bright eyes and warmly welcoming smile. This was Samuel, assistant to the chaplaincy, and the first face of the Christian Medical College of Ludhiana.