Delhi in a nutshell

Yesterday, I went back to the Tibetan market, which is located within the Tibetan Refugee camp in Old Delhi. Don’t think Rwandan refugee camp; it’s more like the Little Italy community in New York. (I couldn’t bring my self to compare it to China Town—though I suppose the China Town in NYC is not directly related to the problems in Tibet…)  The other day my friend and I ventured to this market and saw the beautiful yak and wool shawls. Unfortunately, I was low on cash and couldn’t buy any. I decided yesterday to go back, even though I couldn’t find anyone that was free in the afternoon to go with me. I actually really enjoyed having the chance to travel through Delhi alone and take complete charge of getting to the market and back home by myself. (Mom, it was safe. I didn’t get raped, kidnapped, or murder.) Having now gone to the Tibetan community twice, I think it may be one of my favorite areas in Delhi so far. It’s not particularly pretty or clean, it’s not 100% quiet or friendly, but there aren’t many foreigners around.

In fact, I always walk the mile or so from the metro to the market and back; I find the walk exposes me to a raw and unfiltered view of Delhi life. There are people milling about the streets, children walking to and from school, cows and pigs digging through trash—I really like it. There was this group of piglets digging through a pile of trash. All of a sudden they started playing like puppies do. It was basically adorable…Along the street sidewalks, which are impossible to walk on because shops, parked bikes, and people line them, are various stores. I like the motorcycle-bike-auto repair shops because as you walk along there will be mechanical parts lying everywhere and usual some guys talking in Hindi about how to fix something (I like to think that’s what they’re talking about).

Once I actually arrive at the Tibetan market/refugee community, I always feel like I’ve stepped out of Delhi and into somewhere else. Tibet maybe? People don’t speak in Hindi, of course that’s because they aren’t Indian/from Delhi. In this market, you can find pretty much what would be found at any other market. Except, I don’t know of any other market, yet, where you can find such beautiful, plush, wool and yak shawls and scarves.

As I was leaving the market, many auto and taxi drivers asked me, as always, if I wanted their services. This brings me to something I have noticed about Delhi, and Indian culture—the loudest words are spoken the quietest. What do I mean? For instance, when I wanted to tell the auto/taxi drivers “no,” I merely bobbed my head once to the side and put my hand out as if to say “enough.” (Head bobbling is done by most people as a sign of “yes/okay,” but also as sort of an all answer kind of motion.) You would be surprised how often this works. I do it when beggars come to my auto at stop lights, and use it all the time when auto drivers are pestering me to take their vehicles. If I say “no” verbally, I find it is not respected as much, especially when people come up to me for money.

In a similar way, I find Delhi to also be a quiet city. Of course, it’s a city, and the horns of cars and clanging metal in cooking pots fills up the crowded streets. But honestly, because I can’t understand most—okay basically all Hindi being spoken, there actually isn’t that much for my ears to pick up. If I’m walking through a crowded, noisy, market, I feel peaceful and calm, just as if I were walking down a nature trail.

This being said, there is certainly noise in Delhi…take the area outside and above my house. For some unknown reason, the person that lives above our apartment always, always, finds five in the morning a great time to start doing construction on their house. God knows what on! I’ll hear hammering and running water and just the universe being created! Also, right outside my bedroom there lies a small public courtyard, and in this courtyard is a Dhobi, which is a person who washes clothes. Actually, I think the person outside my bedroom irons clothes… Nonetheless, this person likes to get an early start— five am—and will start filling his buckets with water. The best one, Oh, the best one is on Sunday mornings. Sunday is the one day I, usually, get to sleep in. And by sleep in, we’re talking like 9-9:30 thanks to the fact that my body is used to waking up at 6 during the week. However, Sunday also happens to be the day this trash man comes to pick up the trash. I’m not talking the American style, where the huge stinky blue truck drives around and throws people's trash into the back mouth part—I’m talking Indian-style! This guy rides around on a bike for one, maybe a couple hours, yelling at the top of his lungs for people’s trash. And this starts maybe around 7 or 8…

P.S. So guess who took another mildly cold shower with like only ONE gallon of water!! Me! Yay! Okay so here is the reason: in Delhi, pretty much everyone has to pipe in fresh, good, water into their house. The water out of the faucets you can’t drink, but it’s okay to bathe in. However, there are these tanks where you have to pipe in your water from, and they sometimes get low on water. When this happens you have to press a button and bring more water into the tank. But this morning when I woke up and went to the bathroom, I didn’t realize the water level was low. So I put my bucket under the faucet and turned on the hot water. I got a little water in before the water thinned into a small little stream, but the water hadn’t really heated up yet.  Anyways, it was all okay because I got to talk with my friend Dorris and was like, “Hey girl what up!”