4.13.2008
India Journal: Part 6
All that remained for me was to say goodbye to David and get back to Delhi. The second day of Holi involves a lot of throwing of colors (in liquid and powder form) and a lot of drinking, so I was direly warned by the hotel manager about the dangers of traveling alone as a woman on this particular day. I had no choice, so I decided to jump on an early, deluxe bus and rely on my now well-honed “Piss off” face.
But, despite the assurances of multiple people, the buses were not running that morning because of the holiday, and a group of powder-stained drunk guys was following me around the station. I jumped in a rickshaw to the train station, which the driver also assured me was closed, and could he recommend a hotel? “Just take me to the station,” I growled, and we went. He was a liar, and I told him so after I booked my ticket and threw him his fare. Soon I was waiting on the platform with my backpack on and a cryptic ticket in my hand. Aware that I should probably not be talking directly to men without my brother with me, I asked a group of Muslim women in black robes if I was in the right place for the train to Delhi. They stared at me, giggled, and turned away.
I was baffled as the train finally pulled into the station and grateful for the guy with a roller suitcase and a blackberry in his hand who showed me where to get on. He spent the next four hours beside me, telling me about the instant connection he had felt to me back in that train station and the desire he had for me to meet his mother. Sadly, he had to get off before Delhi. At which point the cute guy across the aisle struck up a much more interesting conversation. He was one of the famed Indian IT workers living in Delhi, bringing his young niece and nephew to visit their aunt, his sister, for the holiday. He was not yet married, he confided, but would be in a few months. His parents and sister had chosen a bride for him, and he liked her, though he had never actually met her. I asked him if that wasn’t weird, and he said he thought it was okay. “My parents have more experience, so I think they know what is best for me,” he said. Huh.
Outside the train, villages passed full of pink and green and purple people, covered head to toe with the Holi colors. Whenever we neared inhabited areas, the windows of the train would slam shut, as open windows invited bucketfuls of colored water and fistfuls of powder. As we neared the city, the slums backing up on the tracks were winding up the holiday, with some people crouching by the water taps, scrubbing the colors out of their hair. I liked this as my last vision of India: colorful, riotous, a mess that is slowly getting cleaned up.
But, despite the assurances of multiple people, the buses were not running that morning because of the holiday, and a group of powder-stained drunk guys was following me around the station. I jumped in a rickshaw to the train station, which the driver also assured me was closed, and could he recommend a hotel? “Just take me to the station,” I growled, and we went. He was a liar, and I told him so after I booked my ticket and threw him his fare. Soon I was waiting on the platform with my backpack on and a cryptic ticket in my hand. Aware that I should probably not be talking directly to men without my brother with me, I asked a group of Muslim women in black robes if I was in the right place for the train to Delhi. They stared at me, giggled, and turned away.
I was baffled as the train finally pulled into the station and grateful for the guy with a roller suitcase and a blackberry in his hand who showed me where to get on. He spent the next four hours beside me, telling me about the instant connection he had felt to me back in that train station and the desire he had for me to meet his mother. Sadly, he had to get off before Delhi. At which point the cute guy across the aisle struck up a much more interesting conversation. He was one of the famed Indian IT workers living in Delhi, bringing his young niece and nephew to visit their aunt, his sister, for the holiday. He was not yet married, he confided, but would be in a few months. His parents and sister had chosen a bride for him, and he liked her, though he had never actually met her. I asked him if that wasn’t weird, and he said he thought it was okay. “My parents have more experience, so I think they know what is best for me,” he said. Huh.
Outside the train, villages passed full of pink and green and purple people, covered head to toe with the Holi colors. Whenever we neared inhabited areas, the windows of the train would slam shut, as open windows invited bucketfuls of colored water and fistfuls of powder. As we neared the city, the slums backing up on the tracks were winding up the holiday, with some people crouching by the water taps, scrubbing the colors out of their hair. I liked this as my last vision of India: colorful, riotous, a mess that is slowly getting cleaned up.
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