$12 hotel room

The flight to India was delayed by three hours landing us in Delhi at two in the morning. The air was dusty, or foggy, who knew, but a fuzziness hung stiffly in the distance. Trekking through the terminal I overheard a Swede commenting "Last time I was in Delhi my daughter proclaimed 'Dad, everyone in the world is here!' when she came through the doors." It seemed true, and even a child could see that this place was unlike any other. The terminal was packed for how late/early it was, and no one was effected as they energetically loaded luggage, sold from shops, or hurried through customs and security to catch their next ride. Such excitement for that specific time amazed me.

We prepaid for our taxi and headed out the chilled but heavy air to find our black and yellow cab. While making our way over to the stand, we were bombarded by a group of men coaxing us to take their taxi instead. After much confusion, we finally climbed into a small taxi, luggage tied to the top, and set off into the Delhi night.

Smooth roads are as non-existent as well as suspension systems in Delhi, and as we bounced violently over each pothole I prayed that we would arrive in Majnukatilla in one piece. The taxi driver effortlessly maneuvered around and between large trucks armed with nothing but the frail beep of his horn. Through the dark I could make out dilapidated buildings and shacks of small slum communities--my anxiety heightened.

We pulled into Majnukatilla at half past three, and the area was nothing more than several buildings strung together half hazardously with the only reassuring aspect of the place--a small gate painted gold at one entrance stating: TIBETAN COLONY. The cab driver said "Your stop," but I had some doubts. He pointed in the direction I needed to go and following the line of his hand was nothing but a long dark alley. I was reluctant to move. My mom persisted that I should go ahead and get a room, and she would stay with the bags (and with the safety of the only streetlight that existed on the road.) I walked up, but stopped suddenly when another man came out of the darkness and exchanged words with the cab driver. Another man appeared at the sound of this conversation, and then yet another showed up on a rickshaw. The conversations rose, and the cab driver was trying to persuade me to leave and go to another hotel at the grins and nods of the other men. Something was strange in their smiles. During this time a Tibetan man had joined the argument as well and spoke clear English to me asking where my reservation was. I admitted that we had no official registration, but we were trying to get Mcleodganj on the bus the next day. His excitement grew, and he told me to come with him and shooed the other men away. We paid the driver, grabbed our bags, and followed the Tibetan into the alley while our driver still tried to convince us to go to another hotel. I trusted the Tibetan, something about him just made me more comfortable.

We hurried through the alleyways, stepping over sleeping dogs and watching carefully to not trip on misplaced stones and potholes. During the walk, the Tibetan explained that we must have reservations in Delhi, but we were very very lucky because he had a cancellation in one of his rooms and we could stay there for the night. He kept repeating these words "very lucky, very very lucky." He also exclaimed that the cab driver was trying to cheat us. The men were in discussion about how to take us to another hotel far away and charge more money and receive commissions in bringing us to a hotel that overcharged rather than letting us stay in Majnukatilla. "Try cheat you" the Tibetan said. I felt better knowing that I was right to trust my instincts and go with this man rather than the driver.

We arrived at the Peace Guest House, and the Tibetan man had to wake up a boy who was asleep on the pull out mattress in the lobby to unlock our room. The Tibetan picked up our luggage and dashed up the stairs. To see strength such as his at such an odd hour of the night seemed unearthly, and I could hardly keep up. He switched on the electricity to the room in the hallway, gave us our key, and said goodnight.

Once inside with the door locked behind us, we took in the our surroundings. The walls were stained black where people had leaned against giving a ring of dirt halfway up each wall. The curtains were also stained, and poorly covered the pane-less windows behind them. One tube fluorescent light attached close to the ceiling on one wall flickered as it illuminated the room. The blankets were nothing more than left over tapestries that covered sheet-less beds and were thin and bare in some areas and fraying at each end. I had never seen a room so unkempt, filthy, and uninviting. I had never been so thankful for a room in my life.

However, sleep was impossible. Easing my mind from the night's events was in vain, but I read until I could no longer hold my eyes. I fell into a restless sleep only to wake twenty minutes later by the sheer cold blowing in through the screens bringing a bite of shivers and disturbing commotion of the streets below. I curled into the tightest ball my body would allow, and would muster some warmth for a few moments, but as I came close to sleep I would be awakened by chanting, aggressive chopping, clanging, yelling, music, and water spraying from the street merchants preparing for the day. At times I would look over, and my mom would be in the same pain trying to shut out the world outside our walls and achieve the sleep we both knew we were in much need of. The cold was relentless, and I could see her body shaking through the thin sleeping bags we had brought with us. I grabbed my coat and beanie out of my luggage and draped it over her, tucking in the sides around her body and securing the hat over her head. Within a minute the shaking subsided and she fell into the heavy rhythmic breathing of a deep sleep.

A sharp ringing rose me from an forgettable dream. I took a second, as I let the surroundings focus and remembered I was in Delhi. I look at the noise of the telephone, and picked it up. A fast talking and heavily accented voice came over the receiver asking for our passports. I grabbed our documents and headed downstairs. The lobby was small with a reception desk in one corner that face a large sectional couch with a white lace coverlet laid across looking like an over sized doily trying to hide the stains and years of a couch passed its prime. The only people in the lobby were glued to the television mounted in the corner, six eyes transfixed by the dancing and music of a Bollywood film. The dizzying bright colors reflecting in their eyes. The woman behind reception was Tibetan, and the other two were Indian boys who both stood a foot shorter than me. They were hardly disturbed by my presence. The woman only shook herself back to the reality of the lobby when I placed the two passports in front of her and asked how much I owed for our room. She said 450 rupees--the equivalent of $12. I arranged our bus tickets to Dharamsala, but the bus didn’t leave until 6:00 that evening. Four to five hours to explore Majnukatilla.

Walking into the streets we took an alley that led to the back of the row of buildings that housed our hotel. The opening looked over a river that was lined with wood and straw huts. Trash and sewer paved the way to the river and we watched as children play, and some headed off what it appeared as school, since they were dressed in checkered shirts and dark pants--the standard uniform. We sat in disbelief as many of the children, left behind as the others parted ways for school, played in the rubbish that led out to the river. The living conditions were unbelievable. For a second I caught a glimpse inside one of the huts as one of the woman, who strategically balanced a basket on her head, pulled back the sheet that acted as the door to reveal several faces--I could see at least ten to eleven people maybe more crammed into a hut big enough to house comfortably maybe a maximum of four.

I had to walk away, and headed in the opposite direction taking the narrow alleyway back to the main street. In the daytime, Majnukatilla transformed into a maze of shops and markets, which also formed a feeding ground for beggars. One by one as we passed each shop, we were bombarded by beggars in every shape and form. Indian beggars are different than beggars in any other country. Relentless and free from shame, they parade their deformations and misfortunes with the most enormously wide grins on their faces--as if they could not get more joy from tugging on your sleeve with a baby tied to theirs asking for money, milk, etc. Such smiles are hard to turn away from, but what proved harder was to look these people in the eye. I knew what to expect--I had read so much information on India and knew beggars such as what I experienced existed. But research and stories cannot express the feeling to see such people in person. To have them touch your eyes were rough hands, to pull at your shirt, and talk in smooth waves of perfect English--nothing can prepare you for the overwhelming guilt that cripples your own heart at the sight of their wide smiles and unwavering eyes. The conditions these people lived in would never be tolerated nor would they be subjected to the streets in the country I was from. Yet I felt overcome by shame.

The same boys we saw playing in the garbage by the river asked me for money and food tugging on the edge of my sweater--they were no more than 8 yrs. old, and dirt clung from head to toe. We strolled carefully through the streets looking at several tiny shops built from tarps and scraps of wood. We finally settled into a cafe tucked away from the street and down some stairs. We drank tea trying to decide what to do with the time we had left before our bus. We still had about four hours, but had already walked the community of Majnukatilla. I was exhausted from the amount of physical and emotional energy the beggars had taken from me, and wanted to stay off the streets for awhile. So we sat in the cafe. My mom dosed off after awhile, and I wrote in my journal. I had the feeling I was being watched and glanced out of the floor to ceiling windows to see an old man clad in brightly embroidered green robes, holding a cane and adorned with a beard that ran the length of his torso, leering at us. I broke away from his stare and went back to writing, but he remained with eyes fixated. I could feel his piercing stare through the pane of glass and held my pen steady determined to discourage him with my dismissal of his appearance. He remained. He stood there for another painful five minutes. I looked from the corner of my eye, and this small twitch provoked him more. I ignored him for another two minutes--sure that he would tire and leave, but instead he began to tap his cane on the window instead.

I was looking forward to the bus out of Delhi. I was asked so very often if this was my first trip to India, which I always replied with a “yes,” and looking back I can see why so many people wanted to know the answer to that question. I believe they are looking for my reaction, because they know what India offers for a first-time visitor, and wanted to size me up to see what I thought of the country that so many hold so dear. Was I a fighter, lover, and survivor--the essentials of living in India? Or merely another tourist afraid and repulsed by the disorder round every corner in most cities across the great country?

Looking back on that day in Majnukatilla I was a scared tourist, sickened by such poverty that was allowed to exist in the world, and angry that there was nothing I could do to change the situation or more so angry at the inability to make sense of the people who seemed content living in such conditions. I wish I could say it wasn’t this way, and that I took the surroundings in with the delight and curiosity I usually displayed when visiting new places. Instead, I retracted, ready to leave the place behind me and hoping for an escape from the pains of shame and disgust that poisoned my stomach and chewed the thoughts in my mind--All while the robed man watched over me, tapping at the glass to catch my attention for a few rupees. In India I've heard the rich fear the poor, the poor fear authority, and the foreigners fear everyone. The bearded man left a half hour later.