Finding Happiness on My Autorickshaw Commute

I rushed out the door on my way to work, obscenely late, as usual. (Stop it. I can hear your snickering through the internet void.) As I emerged from the gate, an autorickshaw driver who had already taken me to work a few times waved at me wildly, encouraging me to walk past the other three such drivers who were trying to get my attention and beeline straight for his rickety wheels. I complied. He was fast, less rude than most, and seemed to take the quickest route through the least congested parts of south Delhi. I hopped in, and he looked at his watch and remarked that I was later than usual. I grunted. As if I hadn’t noticed. We sped off, weaving and honking our way through other weavers and honkers. As we approached one turn, I braced myself, gripping the railing of the rickshaw with one hand and my stuff with the other. I had learned on previous days that this road was traumatically bumpy, with potholes and craters the entire length of two city blocks. It didn’t help that most rickshaw drivers didn’t feel the need to slow down to accommodate the conditions. But today there was an excessive amount of traffic on the approach. When I realized that the clog was due to steamrollers and other construction equipment working its way down the offending block, my heart sang. I know it sounds a bit extreme, but literally — the sense that I had been in this town and traveling a certain route long enough to figure out which parts of it drove me nuts and then to see it through a positive change (in Delhi no less) raised my spirits for long enough to temporarily forget that the traffic jam meant I was going to arrive at work sometime after lunch. The recognition that roads do get better, one block at a time, in at least some parts of the city, was a bonus. And to top it all off, for the first time in four months and a result of this strange and fleeting connection I had created with Delhi public services on my way to work, I felt like I actually lived here.

Musings

I’ve been collecting a stockpile of uniquely Indian oddities in the “Huh?” compartment of my brain to share with you. Rather than let another day pass (since many days have already escaped me), I’ll just present them here as succinctly as I can:

1. Scene from stuck in traffic (there will likely be more of these): A fence divides traffic traveling in two directions along a stretch of road near Lajpat Nagar. A group of young boys, say around 12 years old, clad in shorts and not much more, are painting the fence green. But something seems off in the painting process. A closer look reveals that the boys don’t have paintbrushes. Each boy leans over, dips his entire hand in the bucket of paint, and attempts to slosh it all over the bars of the fence. I guess somewhere between the local government project, the contractor, the painters, and the boys who somehow came into the picture, the brushes were “misplaced.” In this country, “child labor” is a term used by the international media and NGOs, and pretty much no one else.

2. Warding Off the Evil Eye:

These ornament looking things hang all over the place — on the back of a car, rickshaw, or truck, in some corner of an office or home, or in this case, on the railing at the entrance to a hair salon. Apparently the string of green chilies and lemons wards off the evil eye, protecting a place, thing, its contents, or its patrons from the evil eye. That’s all I know.

3. A random thought from KA: “Some people love the Indian lifestyle because if you have money, you don’t have to ever lift a finger.” The servant will serve you tea, breakfast, and whatever else you may fancy in the morning, either that same servant or some other servant will have washed, ironed, and folded your clothes, ensured that the geyser is on so that you have a constant stream of piping how water for your shower, and confirmed that your chosen selection of daily papers is in your hand every morning. The driver will come in and carry your briefcase to the car, battle the mayhem of city streets to get you to work in one piece, and park and take care of the car in your absence. When you walk into the office, more people carry your stuff, serve you edibles and drinkables, present you with pertinent information, solve any technical problems your phone, computer, or even home television may have, make arrangements for your lunch… and so it goes. For people like KA and I, each step of this process is laden with varying degrees of discomfort. How could I possibly pass my dirty clothes along to someone twice my age and not think twice about what it takes for him to return them to me, clean? Why am I not clearing my own dishes? Or running to the fridge to grab some hot sauce during dinner? If I don’t carry my own bags, my arm muscles will degenerate and fall off!!! OK… time to move on.

4. Water Isn’t a Drink. When you walk into someone’s house, you’re immediately offered something to drink.

RD: Um, no thanks. I’m fine.

Host: You must have something!

RD: OK, just a glass of water would be great.

Host: Well you’ll obviously get water! What else? Tea, coffee, soda, juice, beer?
RD: Really, nothing. I just had some tea a little while ago.

Host: [Calls out to someone in the kitchen to bring water]

The next part is even more awkward. A servant brings a glass of water on a tray. I pick it up, thank them, and take a sip. He or she doesn’t move. I look up and start a conversation with my host. The person is still standing there. Until I’ve finished my fill of water and put the glass back on the tray, the servant usually won’t leave. Water is apparently not a drink. It’s a refresher, to be presented to anyone the moment they walk in the door, but it doesn’t count as “having something” when you come over.

The Inevitable Delhi Belly

I had to catch it at some point, the inevitable Delhi Belly. You’ve probably at least heard of it, if not experienced it yourself. I’ll spare you the details, since they’re not pretty, but my weak stomach knocked me out for the entire day, just as long as I needed to break the several-day-long hiatus I had taken from the blog. The unfortunate part is that my Delhi Belly came along with a Classic Hangover — the terrible puckered parched pounding kind — and the realization that I had drunk dialed my parents, of all people, upon returning from the wedding Sangeet that put me in both conditions of poor health. Now, on to more interesting subjects than the state of my stomach:

K and I weren’t the only ones with a wedding to attend here last night. The city is nuts with wedding fever. Apparently, there were over 10,000 weddings in Delhi yesterday.

Wednesday was seen as one of the best days to tie the knot. “The Gods wake up from their four months’ sleep. The whole day is auspicious,” Daya Shankar Prasad, a Hindu priest, told the Times of India, referring to the first wedding season day.

It took us one hour to travel about 4 kms, even though our taxi driver rode the shoulder the whole way alongside the white horses being directed from one barat to the next in all their finery. I assume we can look forward to the same kind of traffic every night for the next few weeks while the gods are awake from their slumber and the auspicious wedding period continues.

“People here are so HORNY!!!”*

Photo courtesy of Flickr

Yes, you read that right, but like the rest of this country, let’s practice creative use of the English language. What’s spoken here is actually Hinglish, a language that bears a mild resemblance to any other form of the language, but that’s a different topic for another day. I’m lucky enough to be one of the few women new to Delhi who hasn’t yet had a run-in with anyone’s overactive/underutilized libido, so I didn’t mean that kind of horny. This title references the sights and sounds of the streets of Delhi, which, to my surprise, are reminiscent more of a beautifully (or tragically) choreographed circus act than a (dis)organized component of transportation infrastructure. Allow me to explain.

The population of the city is around 13 million, with an “extended” population (kind of like an Indian extended family, maybe?) of about 22 million. About 60 percent of the city travels by bus, which means that the other 40 percent resorts to private cars, motorcycle, scooters, auto-rickshaws, bicycles, bicycle rickshaws (a.k.a. the Indian hybrid), or their two feet. So despite the fact that there are some very impressive and shiny lines painted in the middle of the road, the term “lane” is not in a part of the Hinglish vocabulary. As a result, cars, buses, rickshaws, cows, bicycles (need I go through the list again?) take advantage of every little nook and cranny of road space, which extends from the fences (and the people taking a break from their long journey home to urinate on them) on one end, right up to the front door step of the homes or markets or shops or little booths or Cold War-era concrete office buildings or whatever else might be on the other end.

Here’s where the neatly choreographed circus act comes in: imagine that you’re approaching an intersection, and the light changes to yellow. People alongside you are honking like crazy, encouraging or demanding that the person in front of them, to their left or right, or dammit anywhere else in their way, forge through. You don’t make the light. You stop, about 6 inches from the person in front of you, with anywhere from 6 inches to a couple of feet between you and the person on either side. You wait. In a few moments, an autorickshaw chugs up alongside you, maximizing those two feet. On your other side, a scooter put-puts up, taking full advantage of those 6 inches on your other side. Slowly but steadily, motorcycles, scooters, and bicycles wade their way to the front of the pile of people waiting at this light. The autorickshaws squeeze in behind them. You’re surrounded, with about two inches of your own space to spare. The light is still red. Cars shut off their engines. A small child with a painted moustache sidles up to your window, knocks, does three backflips, and knocks again. The gentleman (more creative use of language) to your right, on his motorcycle, turns to his side, coughs up some nasty stuff, and launches it as far as his oral muscles can manage. Another knock on your window. This individual is selling Spiderman masks and boxes of tissue paper. The light changes to green, and the scene changes to something akin to a Nascar race. Everyone starts up their motor, revs their engine, honks their horn for no reason at all (or maybe there is a reason… anyone have any insight?) and takes off. Beautifully orchestrated scene, no?

While we tried to interpret some of the road etiquette (or lack thereof) on our ride home last night, K’s cousin Little C gave us a few tips:

1. “Law” is another flexibly used term.

2. The horn is your voice to the road world, best used to say “I’m here.”

3. It’s ok to stop anywhere — on an overpass or underpass, in a right turn region (remember, there are no lanes), just because you feel like it.

4. If someone yells at you, perhaps because you cut them off, stole their parking spot, or otherwise raised their ire, the second best response is to look at them and mouth, with a twist of your wrist, “Kya hai?” (“What?”) The best response is just to feign ignorance.

5. If you give anyone else the right of way, you’ll never even manage to leave your driveway. Just go.

* This quote is attributed to Dr. CP, whose exclamation during a visit to India as a child elicited many giggles from her relatives, but is so incredibly appropriate.