Delhi

First I had to make it to the airport. You may not give this a second thought in other cities; it may seem simple and straightforward that I should be able to make the 18km ride in a taxi, with four hours to spare before takeoff. But in this Good Bay, the city can grin manically, and guide you straight into crippling traffic jams. These aren't the traffic jams of the U.S. that can be solved with a few well planned lights and a bit of time: here, the cars and rickshaws flow through the roads like blood in your veins, constantly throbbing forward, then stopping to stare at the bumper inches away before throbbing past once again. Unfortunately for me, last Thursday the blood of Bombay was sick, thick, and slow.

It took three hours to make it to the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport. For those of you counting, over those 11 miles, my average speed turned out to be 3.7 miles per hour. I actually could have walked to the airport in less time. But no matter, because I was on my way.

On my way to see Aishani, my best friend. She had her birthday the week before, so I wanted to visit to wish her. Something I promised long ago. After Bombay slowly spit me out, I landed at Indira Gandhi International Airport in no time. This airport was quite the contrast to the Mumbai airport, and as I was soon to find out, the airports of the two cities appropriately summed up the spirit of each. At IGI, there was no moldy carpet smell, because white marble was everywhere. Huge white columns rose to a massively high vaulted ceiling, and even though it was past midnight, the air buzzed with energy. Anyone that says New York is the city that never sleeps has obviously never been to India. Here, the country never sleeps.

That included Aishani, as she waited in blue outside. And it also included Bachan Singh, Neil, Damini, Sangita, and Vinod Bansal. Aishani and I rode in a Toyota Fortuner around dark Delhi. Monuments like the India Gate and the Prime Minister's house whizzed past, and my mind reeled to try to make sense of where I was, in place and in time. We drove by embassies and museums, but didn't run into the insane traffic I was used to. In fact, the roads of Delhi are a lot like those in the U.S. They are nice and wide, well paved and lit. In addition, there are security checkpoints all around to slow people down and discourage drunk driving. The infrastructure was truly impressive.

Soon, we arrived at the Bansal's. Above the doorbell, there is a brown handprint of Damini. Above the door, there is the greek eye. And through the door, there is a wonderful family. After opening the door, I was immediately assaulted by the second best dog in the world (Brillo is still the reigning champion). Buddy, the black lab, jumped up and tried as best as he could to hug me. Having four legs and no arms makes this process difficult, but he was nonetheless determined because his big heart meant he loved me unconditionally, immediately.

The Bansal household felt so warm. There were small statues of Ganesh and cows near the entrance, and family photos lined the wall leading into the dining room. Old photos that showed small, still glimpses into the love this family shares. Photos of birthday parties and dance recitals, a black and white artsy self shot, and of vacations around the world. Even though I wasn't in any of these photos, I still felt at home. It was nice to see all those pictures, because I've thumbed through dusty old pictures of my own family, and to see a cultural connection across the globe makes me feel a bit more at home in such a new place.

But then again, India has a tendency of making you feel completely out of your element while making you feel warm and cozy at the same time.

The next morning, I woke up (late), and Mrs. Bansal (Sangita) had a breakfast made of chana and a home-made fried dosa, and a dal. I'm usually a big fan of the simple cereal and milk, but this breakfast was made for kings, and my stomach thanked me and Mrs. Bansal greatly. The food was quickly followed up by Whu-Yi tea, and before I knew it, I was full to the brim. Being full to the brim happened quite a lot on this Delhi trip. There was such good food all around, and such generosity, that I was constantly piling on food on top of food in my moody belly.

Again, the dichotomy of India; my stomach was begging me to stop and yet couldn't get enough.

At this point, reader, I could go on for quite a while. I could tell you in full detail about watching my first Bollywood movie in the theatre, going bowling, eating macaroons, going out and experiencing the Delhi nightlife, seeing old and new friends, and eating with more of Aishani's family (including the one and only Vuvi), but I'll have to save that for another time. This blog is getting a bit long, and I need to leave you with the image of Old Delhi.

Ahem.

We drove to the Metro Station first, and Mr. Bansal pointed out landmark after landmark as if he was a trained tour guide. Left, right, left, right, left my head would turn, neck straining, and eyes trying to keep up with all the information my ears were digesting. I'm still trying to understand just how much history I saw on that short trip, and I may never know. But soon we were out of the car, and heading onto the metro.

"Get ready." Mrs. Bansal turned to me and smiled. I threw my elbows out in preparation, and she laughed. We had both seen the Outsourced episode: "She'll respect you if you push her". As the train stopped, I looked around to see my adversaries, and was pleased to find the manageable amount of 30 or so wanting to get in. When it gets to be 50, elbows start flying.

When we reached the station at Chandni Chowk, I was excited to complete our mission: to find the best street food. I walked out of the station, and was shocked at the sight.

First, the power lines. They hung everywhere, and split and multiplied every few feet, tangling into a giant black mass. Maybe it was the work of a giant spider, who had an appetite for unsuspecting crows, and judging by the low lines that touched the ground, she may have ventured into human meals. Then again, if the power line web didn't do the trick, the traffic might. The well-developed Delhi roads hadn't made it here, or perhaps they were scared to come, but auto-rickshaws, cars, motorcycles, and bicycles whirred around in a more violent way than Mumbai. In Mumbai, there are more cars that slow down the pace of the traffic, but here in Chandni Chowk, the one-cylinder engines and their agile operators zipped into spaces God only meant for small children to fit.

After becoming at ease with these two eminent dangers, I noticed the people. There were shops that only had property of 30 or 40 square feet, but people were all around buying, talking, laughing, arguing, and standing. There were barbers with straight blades scraping black and grey hair off relaxed patrons, as the shaving cream was slung onto the dirty street. Small crafts were cramped in small but explosive displays, and bright clothing and jewelry was everywhere. People standing over the shaving cream spat paan, their hair orange from henna treatments. They were deep in conversation with the shop owner next door, who was arguing with the beggar outside, who sat with their hands out to me, as I stepped past the shaving cream.

I'm very sorry reader, but I forgot the name of the street food we ate. The first was served on a metal dish, and it was a soft dumpling covered in a sweet yogurt, with a red and brown spicy and savory sauce swirled around that. It was cool and refreshing, and the dumpling oozed yogurt as you bit into it. The second food was served on a thali, which is a big plate with an assortment of little plates around it, and it contained a yellow dal, some more chana, an aloo curry, and a pumpkin curry that was incredible. I ate all that up with a roti that had additional dal baked inside it, and finished it off with a sweet lassi. For desert, we had jalebi. This food from the gods is like a funnel cake, but fried in ghee (butter), then drowned in a hot, pure sugar syrup, and injected with more liquid sweetness. Biting into it is not for the faint at heart, as your blood may momentarily be replaced by the clear, heavenly syrup.

I was given some jalebi for the road, and after a roast duck lunch at China Kitchen, I was headed back to Mumbai.

Discovering India, as I'm quickly finding out, is like looking at the night sky through a straw. You can find a single star easily enough, and that star may fascinate you endlessly, but you could spend your life looking at the different stars and never fully grasp the concept of the night sky. This last weekend, I viewed the second star of the cosmos of India. I'm sure I have many more lights to look at, but I also have a feeling that this star, this city, this family is worth staring at more often than the others.