random thoughts...

Recently I’ve taken to working out at a sports complex called Siri Fort. It was the site of the 1984 Asian games, and is now given over to rich guys to run, swim (pool’s closed, by the way…who in their right mind swims when it’s only 90 degrees out?) run, hit a bucket of balls, play a game of badminton, or cricket. The running track is one kilometer, and at one stretch goes along the golf ball driving range. I’m doing my laps, taking in how nice the place is, and thinking, “India. What was it that ever threw me for a loop here?” I see the guys whacking away at balls, and then I see something else. Here at Siri Fort, the balls are not picked up by a special cart with a protective cage. Oh, no. There’s like eight guys walking around with rusty old dented buckets, carrying umbrellas to shield them from the rain of incoming golf balls. Depending on your point of view, this place is as much a driving range as a shooting range. What we have here could be termed target practice. But, interestingly enough, the boys under the umbrellas were smiling, cracking jokes. One guy just sat against the fence…maybe take a nap.
Every day on the way to school (and back) I’m hit with evidence of the harsh side of life in a big city in a developing country. Some dude sleeping between the gas pumps at a filling station. Kids squatting on the sidewalk to pee…young mothers squatting on a brick wall for the same reason…people feeding twigs to small fires on the sidewalk to boil their morning tea…the smell of garbage and sewage that actually burns the eyes. Buses with big jagged gashes in the sides, on the corners, belching smoke, playing cat and mouse with me. People under blankets on the street, rolled up tight against the morning moisture. Kids in clean white and blue and grey school uniforms, on the back of a scooter, or waiting for the bus monster. Temples. Mosques.
Maybe you can guess where I’m going here. Through it all I’m peddling along, and I’m, like, going through this whole range of thoughts and feelings and emotions. Someone cuts me off and I want to tear his eyes out, then someone else passes me and smiles; amused at the white dude on an Indian bicycle. Of course, when I finally reach school, it’s madness: A torrent of kids working their way around construction holes and in and out of trucks and buses, people honking and yelling, some guy selling tea. And every kid that catches my eye gives me the, “Good morning, sir!” and a big smile. Every one. In the building, the staff are lining up to sign in, and they’re all reaching out to shake my hand, to see if I remember any of the Hindi they taught me (I suck at Hindi, by the way), and asking after my health. (Earlier this week at morning assembly I was stung by a wasp and my hand swelled up like a softball with fingers. I looked like Popeye. Kids in the hall were asking about my hand. Everyone with their can’t-fail-cure.)
At some point, I’ll leave this place and go home. I miss the Hell out of Rebecca and the kids, and of course every one and every thing else that makes up my home. I’m anxious to be there with them. But I’m seeing, too, how I have been cursed with knowledge. This isn’t my home, but it’s opened itself to me in a way that has allowed me a glimpse of what it would be to live here. To be from here. I recognize there are flaws. Problems. But I see, too, a tangle of energy that is almost intoxicating. Last night, while eating dinner, Tom blurted out, “I love Delhi. It’s so real. Where else do you see a Mercedes honking at a herd of goats to get out of the way?” True dat.
OK. Time to go. It’s Saturday night. I’m going to take a nap, and maybe we’ll go out for a beer. Tomorrow is a no work day. Cheers