Before leaving for the USA, I like to take multiple solo trips along the all-too-familiar roadways of New Delhi.
Absurd as this tendency might sound, the discoveries that I make after every escapade have a distinctive flavor to them. Like a stubborn child who simply won’t let go of his stick of gum, I find myself positioning these findings beneath my tongue and wrapping my taste buds around them. Stored in the repository of my senses, these experiences unknowingly lend a memorable flavor to my everyday existence across the seven seas.
Today, I find myself on the water-clogged streets of Delhi, stuck in what seems to be an endless trail of traffic. I am in an auto-rickshaw, a mode of transportation that is enthusiastically pursued by the “middle class” of my country. As I look around me, the open-ends of the vehicle posing endless access to the world, I cannot help but be captivated by the culmination of contrasts that surround me.
Suddenly, these bulging contrasts burst into cacophonous conversation. As I listen intently, I find myself discarding the comforting cloak of a passerby and stepping into the deceitful drapes of a conniving eavesdropper.
The interaction begins with the truck on my left. Decked in shades of red and pink, it advertises funeral services to the general public. “Avail our coffin-lining services. We honor lives” it says, in a voice heavy with the whir of wheels.
A few centimeters away from me, I see a white Mercedes Benz glint in the sunshine. A chauffeur-driven car, I look into the tinted window and see a newborn baby wrapped in soft fur. Lapsing into lyrics of luxury, the Mercedes Benz emits a rude honk and demands the clustering auto-rickshaws to make way. “The roads belong to the rich” it smirks. “Even the raindrops fear the rich! Look at the world, soiled with the rampant residue of rain! Contained with my cushioned curves, only comfort dwells!” it adds.
Cuddled close to the Mercedes Benz, I observe a crowd of roadside beggars. For them, these ribbons of rain seem to be a plaything. With centipedes around their ankles, and soil in their hair, they burst into vernacular verses of song. Even though the crudeness of their language makes me flinch, I softly smile. This smile isn’t a grin that I can display with pride. It is a scar that I must stamp into the soles of my feet or I might be looked upon as a part of their clan.
Almost disgusted by my demeanor, a stray whiff of cigarette-scented smoke slams into my face. Instinctively, I clamp my hands over my mouth as the fear of inhaling second hand smoke scratches through my asthmatic senses. “What did I do to elicit this reaction?” the whiff of smoke inquires, spiraling around.
“You set the stage for illness” I respond through my net of fingers.
A moment later, I hear the local temple bell ring. The marigold-decked doors are opened for the devotees, and a floral scent sprints through the sky. Much to my surprise, this flowery fragrance does not overpower the cigarette stench, Instead, these contrasting aromas co-exist in a manner that is ominously amicable.
As I witness their unusual collaboration, I begin conversing with them in a tone that is much too high pitched for my liking. The puff of smoke had probably escaped from the scalded ends of a vagabond cigarette, whereas the exotic scent of the temple flowers had delicately dropped from the doors of decked-up divinity.
“You must separate,” I state, as the puff-of-smoke swivels around to glare at me.
“Separate. Why?” sighs the flower-fragrance.
“You— a puff of smoke— is bad… and you— a flower fragrance— is good. Good and bad don’t go together,” I respond.
“But we’re headed to the same place,” explains the puff-of-smoke, as it wraps a gray coil around the flower-fragrance. Merging into an ambiguously aromatic cloud, I watch them drift towards the funeral ground— where they dissolve into the wisp-like residue of a softly smoldering body.
Finally, in the far corner, I see the protruding arm of an emerging rainbow. Raising its indigo-colored edges, it urges itself into the vast expanse of sky. Transformed into an innocent spectator from an initially conniving eavesdropper, I appreciate this change of role.
As I sit back in my auto-rickshaw, watching the traffic jam groan and grimace before it finally takes a low-bellied belch and decides to move, the rainbow arches across the sky. The crowd of beggars that had initially been singing crude verses are now looking at the rainbow with eager eyes. Running across the stone-ridden streets with outstretched palms, they reach up to the sky— wanting to, as they put it, rip the rainbow off the sky and sculpt it into a necklace for their waiting mother.
