New Delhi Nasir

The train eased into the New Delhi station assisted by my own ease and I ‘got down’, which is what the Indians refer to when one disembarks, with confidence that I am guided, directed and protected. I pitched my bag down the two-foot drop onto the platform. I paused on the platform to get my bearings looking for a coolie (porter) to carry my luggage up the many stairs and over the catwalks to exit the station. As I stand there I feel the breeze created by what seems like an entire Indian population rushing by and with my left hand I spin the ring on my right ring finger that says, “Expect Miracles.” I take a deep breath and locate a coolie by the common uniform of red shirt, dirty white pants or a male sarong type-diaper and loosely wrapped turban. I ask the coolie who appears many years older than myself, yet is five times stronger, “How much?” He replies with the obvious ‘tourist price’ of “60 rupees.” Most ‘service providers’ in India automatically double or triple their price when they see the fair skin of a Westerner. I want to tell him “I might have just stepped off this train but it certainly isn’t my first.” but I resist knowing he wouldn’t understand. After about three weeks in the country I began to ask for the, “Indian price!” before they have time to answer, which often avoids the sometimes-stressful ‘bartering dance.’ Not this time, instead I reply, “30” and he says “No.” I walk toward the stairs knowing I have no intention of carry my bag up and over the catwalks, which are in most station and move passenger traffic up and over the many platforms. New Delhi station is huge which is another reason I wish not to carry my bags. But alas he yells at me as though I’m deaf, “50,” and without turning, still heading for the stairs with my Osprey rolling behind me, I yell back “I pay 40,” using the economical English, leaving out the extraneous words we Americans use when speaking. I must get right to the point when speaking to an Indian with a limited English vocabulary. He does the India head bob which indicates we have reached an agreement. But I’m not done yet; I have to close the deal tightly before I allow him to put my luggage on his head. I tell him, “40 rupees, no more when you get outside the station, tikay?” (Hindi for ‘okay’). He responds with, “Okay.” I watch him heave my heavy-to-me Osprey atop his head thinking that his turban might actually help him balance the load. It’s a shorter distance for him, as he stands no more than 5’4”. I’ve seen coolies balance two to three suitcases on their heads, and a handle bag on each shoulder while briskly leading his temporary employer out of the station to waiting transportation. I’m still in awe of their unassuming strength. This is where it’s obvious that life in India is hard on so many, especially to the lower casts/class.

I reached the exterior of the station and realize I’m over-dressed for the warmer Delhi weather. I’ve got my day bag packed heavy with books and laptop, which prevents me from taking off my warm black vest. I put my favorite golf hat on and like flies to a bowl of sweet milk the touk-touk drivers descend, all yelling at the same time, “Auto Rickshaw ma’am? Where you go ma’am? You need guest house ma’am?” I’m laughing to myself because they aren’t giving me a chance to respond. All of a sudden I hear the familiar voice of my Kashmirian friend, Nasir, “Traussee!” I look up and see him penetrating the crowd of touk-touk drivers. He reached to the center of this mob and grabs the handle of my Osprey with one hand and my sleeve with the other and said, “Come, Traussee.” He intentionally reached for my sleeve versus my hand, as the only public display of affection you see in this country is between the men, who walk while holding hands or arm and arm around each other. This behavior makes it easy for the homosexual boys and men to blend in while showing affectionate to one another in public.

I meet Nasir on my first official day in India. I had a few hours to spare before my first experience on an Indian train that would take me to Chandigarh so I took a taxi from my Palace Hotel, which should have received a hefty fine for putting “palace” in the name of this hotel. I can only assume that they name hotels using 'palace' or 'mansion' to get more guests, in any case, that’s how I came to stay there. I am as green as a chickpea, which as you know, don’t come from chicks. But I am more aware now that I have duped by this one; okay twice. The Green Mansion in Chitwan, Nepal was the first. Yet I won’t count that as a dupe since I hold a mansion-sized affection for the place, the people and my extraordinary experiences in the Chitwan National Park.

It must have been obvious to the desk clerk that I was fresh Western meat as he phoned an auto taxi driver for me. What I know now, is that he and this taxi driver are in business together and share in what money they make on me. Auto taxis are simply cars and is what this naïve newcomers used to get me to Connaught Circle, also known as Rajiv Chowk, so that I could go to McDonald’s for breakfast. I was unsure where to get stomach-safe foods, so I picked the familiar so that I wouldn’t arrive at the home of Puneet and Anu with the runs or something worse. The taxi driver let me know immediately that he too had duped me when he said, “Ma’am, you pay an auto rickskaw forty rupees to take you back to the hotel.” I stood there in a daze and motioned for him wait to explain to me why he just charged me 120 rupees. I was still dazed when he left the scene, of what I thought was a moral crime. It was nine thirty in the morning on a weekday and McDonald’s India hadn’t opened yet. At every turn I’m reminded that, “I’m no longer in California.” Rickshaw drivers begin to circle this fresh new foreigner like vultures, as I look up to see a tall young Indian man coming closer as though he’s coming off the sunbeam from a sun that was slowly making its way to the highest point in the Delhi sky. “Hello, May I help you?” he asks with nearly prefect pronunciation. “Yes, I need a place to have breakfast and a cup of tea.” I replied. He attempts to take my bag and I pulled away motion that I’ve got it. “Come, I take you to a place.” he says, revealing his strong accent. We chatted about the usual information that most Indians want to know about me so that they can fit me neatly into a category. By the time we reached Baristas, an ill-equipped want-to-be-an-American coffee place, he knew where I was from, how much education I had, how big my family was and where in India I was going, and yet I knew only perfunctory details about my New Delhi ‘guide.’ We exchange emails as I questioned him about his family, education level, job and such over coffee and a muffin. My stomach was still requiring more food and planned to stop into McDonald’s later when I was sure it was open. I paid for Nasir’s coffee and my tea and muffin and we set out for a travel office to get a map of Delhi. Unbeknownst to me that this is the point when Nasir goes on the clock.

As for me, I just got on the Indian learning curve and will eventually catch on that pretty much all of India is on commission. Nasir, introduces me to the ‘head man’ at the travel office and we sit, he calls for a boy to bring us chai which is both a courtesy and what is used to keep me a person in place until they can be sold whatever the merchant is selling, in this case travel. As he’s telling me I should Kashmir and the Taj Mala his voice fades to white noise and my right-brain cautions, “Careful Tracy, you’re not here as a tourist.” And my left-brain chimes in and says, Yes, but It won’t hurt to see the sites in the area.” I drink my chai quickly and look at the map to see what’s close for me to see in the three hours I have left. I’m soon to discover that Nasir has a different plan. “Trassee, I want to show you my friend’s shop” he pleads. I follow him up some stairs into a small space where there are stacks for pashminas in plastic. The floor is covered with white muslin and there are four pairs of shoes in the entryway. I remove my shoes and crouch low so that my backpack and I clear the low doorframe. I am asked to sit and ‘take tea’ again! There’s a German couple-sitting lotus going through shawl after shawl covering the floor with beautiful fabrics and colors. Nasir takes a submissive posture and sits, allowing me to be the center of attention, second to the German tourists that is. I’m asked to remove my backpack and get comfortable. I refuse as I begin to pick up on Nasir’s agenda. Again, I finish my tea quickly and say my goodbyes. The proprietor says, “Look, look, looking is free.” I say ‘thank you” and put my shoes on and go down the stairs with Nasir following. I take out my map of Delhi and am determined to shake my new friend and go explore by myself. I ask Nasir to tell me where the India Gate is according to where I’m standing. He says, “Come, I show you.” But I insist on going alone. I have the business card of the hotel in my pocket and am confident I can make it back without incident. Nasir realizes that he must let this fish go. He removes his hook by telling me which way to walk and we said goodbye for now, knowing we would meet again on Facebook.