When I was in my early teens (1979ish) I was one of the first generation of post-Beatle Beatlemaniacs. I loved every Beatles song there was.  But, I suppose like many others, I failed to connect to the post-Beatles Beatles, as individual artists.  Paul with his sappy love songs. Please. And John with his naive calls for peace.  Hell, even at 13 I knew peace had no chance. Ringo. Enough said. And George, clinging to some Indian bullshit.  Together, they balanced each others' extreme tendencies.  Separately, they were caricatures of people who fell for schemes, dreams, and worse.  What a bunch of rubes.

Last week, I went to India.  Forgive me, George.  You were no rube.  Who could fail to be caught up in the swirl that is India?

Friday, Day 1 -

We land in Delhi and are met by a guide and driver. All is secure, even my mind. It is past midnight as we drive through the streets.  We can see little. Our guide chats about his love of languages.  We exchange phrases in Spanish.  He helps us into the hotel.  The hotel is a hotel, no better or worse than many others we have called home during our previous frenzied year of travel through America and Asia.  We focus on sleep. Yes, the children must sleep, I must sleep, Jimmy must sleep. Otherwise, some travel disaster surely awaits.  At this point, we still clearly believe that one can be prepared to confront India.

I love E.M. Forster.  I read and re-read "Howards End" and delight in the muddles.  The things said, but more importantly, unsaid.  The ideas and urges that people suppress at great cost to themselves, until they are overcome and it all comes bursting out.  And finally they pursue their own desires with as much abandon as they can muster (hey, they're British) and life is good.  But I have tried and tried to push my way through "A Passage to India" and repeatedly failed.  I always get bogged down. The language is rich.  The suppressed feelings are dangerous.  What can possibly pull true emotion to the surface?  Apparantly, India can do it.

Yes, it can.  And who is prepared to confront India?  Not me.

Jimmy is possibly more prepared than I am.  He booked this trip.  He negotiated with the travel agency.  He read the books.  He talked to friends.  One Indian friend said, "India is China squared."  We live in China.  We think we have seen crazy traffic and crazy people. India is China squared.


Saturday, Day 2 -

We hit the breakfast buffet hard.  Yay, there are waffles for the kids.  Sambar and idli for breakfast? Oh yeah!  Coffee? Okay, it sucked but contained caffeine.  Bring it on, India.  We drift out the front door.  Destination: National Museum.  We are museum people.  We need the exercise, so let's head there on foot, okay?  Only 3 kilometers.  Nice day. It is late January and the temps in Dehli should top out at 75ish Fahrenheit. How could it be better?

Our first hint that India is different should have been the close inspection given to our car the previous night as we entered the hotel. Cleearly, the Indians are worried about security.  As we set out down the street we note that everything is behind gates. We can see little. Tuk-tuk drivers want our business.  They stop, they offer. One of them follows us on foot.  You are going the wrong way.  The shopping is the other direction.  Oh, the museum is very far.  We chat with him, then ignore him. Geez, dude, 3k is far?! Eventually I am rude.  I'm always the first to offend.  Jimmy blanches.  

Then I realize that the local is right.  Nothing here is set up for pedestrians.  In front of a temple, my children are stepping over sleeping homeless people and I have no idea what to tell them.  All the intersections are roundabouts.  Crossing a street comes down to dodging cars and tuk-tuks rounding a semi-blind corner. There are dogs everywhere.  Shit.  This is no place to be a pedestrian and this is no afternoon stroll.

By the time we make it to the India Gate, I've settled a bit.  Traffic is thinner, pedestrians greater.  People begin noticing my pasty-white daughters and smiling.  They're cute.  Yes, they sure are.  Along the Rajpath, there is no sidewalk, just a dusty path.  Welcome to India's capital.

 India Gate, a tuk-tuk, and a car

The museum needs help, but the stuff they have is un-freaking-believable.  Artifacts from Harrapa, the Indus Valley Bronze Age civilization.  The place is swarming with school groups.  The schoolchildren, all in uniform, are not clean, not rich, likely poor.  But here they are surrounded by the richest culture I have ever seen in situ.  God bless whoever dragged them out this Saturday afternoon to see their heritage.  They stream by and I say hello, hello, hello, hello, hello.  Hello to you, little dirty-faced, greasy-haired boy.  Hello. Namaste.

Miniature paintings. Textiles. Carvings.  God, I think I might love this place.

We hail a tuk-tuk back to the hotel.  No point in torturing ourselves.  Dinner is okra and tomatoes, chicken tikka masala, vegetable biryani and a never-ending supply of Kingfisher beer, lassi for the kids.  Oh, dear, I know I love this place. 

Time for bed.  Clearly all that one really needs to take on India is a full belly and a good night's sleep.  Right?

Bonus footage: a stream of boys.