It’s good to be back! This wasn’t originally written to be published, but it had too many rich and interesting tidbits to throw away. Let me know if you enjoy it – I might also publish some thoughts from Hanoi and Singapore.
The flight from San Francisco was like a sanitized 16-hour preview of New Delhi’s cultural complexion – Aunties huddled in the back of the cabin sipping coffee, motioning exuberantly to the stewardesses for more – people standing and talking and laughing loudly to each other across the plane – food wrappers crinkling open, filling the cabin with wafts of unidentifiable spices. The air was easy, warm, and informal; the American sense of propriety, tension, and boundaries slackened.
My seat neighbor was an endearing older man who enthusiastically engaged me in conversation and – dare I say – lacked any sense of personal space. At one point I was craning my head to look out of the window seat when his phone slid into the 3-inch space between my head and the window to record the scene, as he straddled me with his chest and placed his opposite hand on my shoulder. It was so outrageous that I couldn’t help but smile.
Later, when I was pacing around the cabin talking to Vasu (my travel companion), Mr. Personal Space appeared next to me, wide-eyed and exuberant, beckoning my attention. At first, I couldn’t tell what he was saying… “hem allias, hem allias”… Himalayas. We were passing over, and he’d gotten up to let me know – My boy, the mountains we were talking about!
The snow caps gave way to a wide, flat valley, which began to steadily fill with smog. When the city appeared, you could barely see the outlines of the roads. As we descended, my nose started to sting; some of the kids started coughing and sneezing. Close to the ground, buildings loomed out of the blur, and I was filled with terror and excitement. The plane hit the ground with a messy thump and rumbled to a halt, dropping us straight into the belly of Delhi.
Chaos bleeds into the airport in small ways – the lack of signage, strewn furniture, stray dogs roaming around the parking lot – but once you leave the garden of the airport, it smacks you in the face like a wall of hot seawater, invading your ears, nose, and pores.
Going into traffic for the first time was an adrenaline-inducing shock. A 5-“lane” highway would hold 10 braided streams of cars, rickshaws, bikes, and people, which would give way to a sea of roundabouts, where people criss-crossed at ridiculous speeds. Occasionally someone would be driving in the reverse direction, and traffic would flow around them. People walked into the road willy-nilly, and aggressive beggars weaved through the clumps of vehicles at stoplights, targeting tourists like me. (Once, in a rickshaw, one put their hand on my thigh – high – and really gripped. That was the last we took.) Cows and dogs roamed around, at ease among the people, who respected their space. Even through our car’s closed doors the smell of acrid smoke was unbearable.
A honk as a woman holding a naked baby cuts off a sedan.
More honks. And more. Honking was incessant. It was like being buried in a flock of geese. Honks to chastise, to announce presence, or just to apply pressure and create space, like sticking out an arm into a crowd. People rarely used signals – instead, they slowly applied pressure in the direction of their intention and traffic would adjust. I thought we would be T-boned at every exit and intersection. The only rule seemed to be: no sudden and unexpected movements.
Our driver takes a wrong exit on the highway. Without any hesitation or visible expression of “Oh, I fucked up,” he comes to a slow stop, puts his arm on the passenger headrest, and backs into oncoming traffic. He then switches to the correct ramp.
The road is a good microcosm of a culture – everyone has their own destination and needs to adjust around the needs of others within limited space. One thing that struck me was that, despite the honking, the constant cutting off, the drifting, there was very little frustration and never any shouting – live and let live.
In the U.S., honking is a signal of self-righteous anger. You honk from a sense of entitlement – a sense of I AM A VERY IMPORTANT PERSON WITH PLACES TO GO HOW DARE YOU. This has been a constant theme of this trip – a sudden awareness of that toxic aspect of Western culture where everyone expects an open, wide road on front of them, with clear signage and a generous shoulder in case they need to fix their car. In New Delhi no one worried about stepping on toes or having their toes stepped on, because they had at least one other person standing on each toe at all times.
On foot, there was a similar lack of self-organization. Lines were not a thing, even in places like ticket booths and museum entries. To get food, you push to the front of a mass of people holding out rupees – the right amount, because you shouldn’t expect change. Of course, I felt quite exhausted after a while – and simultaneously more at ease. The looseness went both ways; people didn’t pay too much attention to rules and didn’t expect any rule-following from you. They were pushy but unbothered by pushiness.
The word “pressure” kept popping into my mind. If a place like New York is a city of hot air, New Delhi is a plasma, where the heat and pressure are strong enough to break the most tightly bound molecules of order, all the way down to the food, where you’re lucky to pick out a fennel seed or chickpea.
I’ve never felt more viscerally swallowed by a city. The air was thick enough to sting the eyes, the people were loud, and there were tons of smells going around, most of them either extremely unpleasant or extremely aromatic and intoxicating. We needed to be on our toes the moment we left our rooms, even in a nice hotel, where the lobby was filled with the sound of a loud waterfall fountain, blasting dance music, and a rather aggressive piano man.
When we got into our first Uber, there were no seatbelts. “Seatbelt kahaan?” The driver didn’t seem to register, so Vasu repeated – it became clear that he was simply ignoring him.
To different extremes, almost everyone seemed to have that same “You’ll figure it out dude” attitude. Signage was short, even in state-sponsored places like the National Museum of New Delhi, where loose furniture was everywhere and constantly being dragged around by mustachioed beret-donning guards across rooms that bore no resemblance to one another.
At the wedding, everyone exuded a “Welcome to the party my friend!” attitude – exuberant and touchy even in their kindness. The host parents and their friends didn’t seem to bat an eye at seeing a Korean guy in Indian garb wandering the premises, and gave me sincere and heartfelt welcome with plenty of firm pats on the back and motions to join in on the dancing.
The wedding was conducted in a large park with a few different venues – for dancing, food, and ceremonies. Over the three days, there wasn’t any distinct leader and rarely any announcements besides the initial itinerary – information about different ceremonies would diffuse through the plasma. Proclamations wouldn’t have done much anyway – trying to get everyone in one place was like herding coked up cats on fire. During any individual ceremony, even during the equivalent of the wedding vows, there were always at least a few people talking and laughing at full volume. One especially belligerent Grandpa (who closely resembled the tall old ant in a Bug’s Life) FaceTimed his companion on speakerphone. People would stand up and leave to get cups of chai in the lounge area, or to welcome their friends.
It was a true celebration.
The trip had a bit of a “hometown tour” effect on Vasu – with our two sets of eyes, he could see his motherland in three dimensions. He’s always been a bit ambivalent about his heritage, after a childhood largely overshadowed with its dark side (which is his story to tell). Strangely, it’s often been my job to remind him of the positives.
At different points in my life I’ve been a more-or-less extreme introvert, and I continue to struggle with putting my emotions in the open. The people who understand me have really pushed to get to know me – and not accidentally, many come from an Indian background. It was beautiful to see him bask in his culture’s life-affirming splendor, surrounded by the love and generosity of Anmol and Soum (the wedded couple), and roaming among the wildly effusive populace of New Delhi.
One of the main things that brings us together as friends is our emphasis on warmth, generosity, and sincere expressions of love. These are three things that India does perhaps more intensely than any other place. The wedding was a perfect example: a lavish, drummed-up, spice-doused, firework-peppered celebration of two families letting down their guard in the name of a loving union – not with a solemn contract but with a raucous bang.
Seeing this attitude play out at scale, with fever-dream-like intensity, was hilarious, shocking, and revealing. It deepened my love for a culture that has made my world a warmer place, bringing in just the right amount of chaos.
Isn’t that the spice of life?
✤
Some related art with commentary
Everything from the film composer A.R. Rahman is magic – but this song especially shines with his unique sense of upbeat playfulness. Please dance – Uncle insists.
Album cover from The Doors’ album Strange Days. Chaos.
Four Tet’s music took me a while to enjoy. Like all truly original stuff, it really exists on its own dimension. I love how minimally he processes the samples – they’re like little portals into different environments, and they come together to form a messy, dark, intense stew of melody and ambience.
Wonderful thoughts, experiences written with joy. Loved it!
My favorite article of your’s is always the last one I read. Your writing is increasingly elegant, vivid and with this one humorous and easy to follow. Love it Miles!