The Sound Here

Morning Dust- Taken with a disposable Kodak camera- Photos by Grace

The sound rises up, instead of the sun. It fills the air with its strange warmth. I can't tell what direction it is coming from. I open the double doors from our bedroom, and step out onto the balcony. Just a wet dark mist, and the sound, but I still can't tell from what direction it is coming. The corner that our balcony overlooks is still sleeping, as I should be. It's is 6am on New Years' Eve, and all the trees are filled with the sound of singing. It is a choir of chanting, praying perhaps, and no other sound in this strange busy city has yet to compete with this melodic enterprise.


It is often there are sounds emulating from some corner of New Delhi, and I can not tell what it means, or the direction it came. We are living in an orchestra pit, and I am newly blind musician, never sure when those around me will play, and I am still unable to play along.

I took a walk the other day, my first real exploration outside by myself. I am feeling nearly well, but TG is slower on the recovery side. The air smelt of fire, and the dust was exceptionally thick. I walked my soled feet down the dirt streets, my eyes pointed straight ahead, my head low, as not to interact too much with those around me. I have found I have a habit of looking too much at people, and they in turn try to sell me the world. "Rickshaw, Rickshaw! Food, Food!  Sarees, flowers, pots and pans...! " and it goes on. The thumbing drive of any great city, consumerism, and it is strong and alive here, but I am not buying into it.

http://chanderifilm.com/blog/seeyousomewhere/index.php/somewhere/055b-lajpat-nagar-delhi-jpg

Fruit Stand- Taken with a disposable Kodak camera- Photo by Grace

The central market is one of the oldest markets in New Delhi. Found in Lajpat Nagar, it is just a stone's throw from where we are staying. The day I visit, it is busting at the seams from all the feverish Holiday activity. Overflowing with women in heavy shawls, dark veils, bright sarees, and western jeans, they each stop, pause, then walk, and chatter. Each telling the other of their lovers and problems, while discovering some trinket along the way. There are men, some with heavy full beards and turbans, some barefoot, some wearing suits, and they are much more casual then the women, with their hands in their pockets and their comfortable western dress. If they have found a bargain, you can not tell by reading their faces. Families and couples, and teenagers, all funnel about examining the Holiday wares. It is like the street traffic, and we all find our own way, through the close crowds and the sparkling valuables.

I step into a couple dress shops, in an effort to find something that might help me blend in, but after several examinations of the same heavy brocade and silvery intricate threads, and price tags that do not seem so reasonable, I relinquish my search for local attire. I am not taking part in the busy consumption, not finding exactly what I am looking for, whatever that may be.  I meander a while longer, but un-accostomed to the crowds and the aggressive manner of the locals, I trudge myself back home. I do buy a couple of bowls of noodle soup from the chinese restaurant down the street, for the ill one still in bed, and I fill my colored cloth sack with the hot salty goods. The light is beginning to fade. It becomes dark quite early here.

On the way home, I encounter something lovely; a small boy, half my height. It is hard to tell how old he is, for he is so tiny, and his features so delicate, but he carries on down the road with his back straight and his head high, and he seems older for it. His feet are bare and muddy, and in his small hand he grasps a silver pail, which I assume is filled with some edible treat, and the other hand, he holds a bag of milk. The hood of his sweatshirt is up, hiding most of his face, but it does not muffle the sound. He is singing. Bright and loudly, a simple melody I don't know, and using words I don't understand, he sings, happily, as he makes his way back home.

I smile wide in response, and forget myself for a moment and look at him. He stops singing when he catches my glance. We both walk on, silently, but as I pass him, he opens his mouth again and continues to sing, unperturbed by the interruption. We both separately carry our simple dinners back home to our loved ones. There is always sound here.

First Glance

HIS -  12/11/2011  11am
The pigeons are always having sex. Just like the dogs, and the insects, and all of god's creatures. But the people fuck only with great and beautiful inhibition. At this point I could launch into a diatribe about India and the stigmas amongst the sexes, but I will save it, and describe the Metro.

Arriving in India after 72 hours without more than a wink of sleep, the airport was eerily deserted, and I cast about for the most inexpensive way to reach the city. Eventually I stumbled upon the underground mausoleum, which is the new Airport Express line of the Delhi metro system.  Their halls, of which any great city would be jealous,  were all but deserted in the early afternoon.  Escalators carried me down to a shiny new commuter-train style empty capsule that, with a cheerful honk, shot me to the New Delhi station. The new line cuts through long shallow forests covered in dust with the occasional laundry adorned apartment building rising enigmatically above the tree tops. 


As soon I dragged my wheelie suitcase out of the metro and into the smoggy noon streets of the city, I was greeted by three, and approached by six, gentlemen wishing to offer me their assistance.  Auto-walas each had a different official government tourist information bureau that I should visit for maps and other essential information. I turned them all down, but had no idea where I was, and just rolled my suitcase down the honking, sidewalk-less boulevard, until an entirely friendly and un-salesmen like middle-aged man took an interest me, as an English experiment, and walked down the road with me a few blocks. When he realized that I had arrived five minutes ago, he too directed me an official government tourist information bureau, but out of kindness instead of commission. The tourist information benefactors inside allowed me to use their internet and telephones to find the numbers and emails of my friends in the country.  They also shared tea and a meal with me, and so I felt obligated to take their suggestion for a hotel that night, which was clearly over priced, but what are you going to do? 

First Glimpse - views from our balconies- more to come - music from Iron and Wine & Lynx

HERS - 12/22/2011 9pm
Lines, lines, and paperwork: that is what the Indian Airport is about.  But, I have learned patience, almost. I pass through the Duty Free, and he is on the other side. We awkwardly run toward each other, and embrace in a strange collision of remembers and precursors, too overwhelmed by the moment for our brains to know what to do. I ride that metro with him, the one that is like a space shuttle, and we arrive in the dark and fog of another land.

New Delhi opens up to me, first in the worn, dark faces of the rickshaw drivers and the Auto-walas, and as we load up our belongings into one rickshaw, the rest of the city begins to speak. The cool wind rushes past us, as we dodge honks, animals, and vehicles.  We are all racing in the wrong direction. Not one person knows what is the right way; they only know their way. The crumbling forgotten buildings and glowing signs of questionable hotels loom in slow roaming fog that seems to be the product of car light, kilos of dust, and constant movement. Perhaps it is just my mood, but I find this land bound dust cloud magical, and it makes the arrival all that more momentous for me. It easy to imagine that it is a different time, in some undiscovered country, and all that lay ahead is unknown except for adventure and romance, which is always guaranteed in stories such as ours.

The driver takes us through the crooked alleys, the garbage stained, and vendor filled side streets. I am enthralled. This place is more than I could have imagined. I inhale the layers of poverty, spice, decay, and color, and it all wraps around me like some bright jeweled sari, and everything is different. I am different. I can't wait to wake up new, in New Delhi.