to riveting tales of India and other exotic lands from returning travelers. Ever since, I lay awake at night, my veins pulsing with excitement as I thought about all of the places I hadn’t yet seen.
I left a phone message for Kamla, letting her know I was heading her way. As soon as I hung up, a cocky American guy who came to work on John’s farm started telling me horror stories about traveling in India. “You know, they drug your water and steal your bags over there. I have a friend whose money belt was taken right out of her pants while she was sleeping on a train. Another friend was in a crowded market, when a guy pretended to bump into him from behind. Before he knew it, the guy had slit his backpack with a razorblade and stolen his stuff right out of it. Then there’s the ‘drop the baby’ trick, where a mother will pretend to drop her baby, and when you try to catch it, she grabs your daypack and runs. You’re going to have to watch yourself and your stuff every minute that you’re there.”
Now I was terrified about backpacking through India alone, especially as a single woman. I began having vivid nightmares about each of the scenarios he described. I bought a piece of metal mosquito screen, lining my backpack with it so I could hear a razorblade scraping metal on metal if someone tried to rob me. I also bought an extra money pouch, one for inside my pants and one to be hidden elsewhere. Even with these precautions, I was filled with anxiety.
My fear always shows up right on time, just before I have to do something risky or important. The conversation goes something like this:
Fear: “You know you really shouldn’t do this. Something bad is going to happen.”
Me: “Yeah, so you keep saying.”
Fear: “No, this time I mean it. Don’t do it; you’ll regret it, maybe forever.”
Me: “You could be right. Now, if you’ll just step aside, I have something I need to do. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”
Sure enough, Fear is always waiting for me the next time, right where I left it.
But as scared as I was, nothing was going to stop me from seeing the world.
Leveling with Each Other
No One’s Purpose Is Greater Than Anyone Else’s
Kamla received my phone message twenty minutes before my plane was due to arrive in New Delhi. She and her husband didn’t own a car, so she scrambled to borrow one from a neighbor and rushed to the airport.
Joining the hordes of people in the arrivals lobby, I was bombarded with sensory overload. Women in colorful silk saris and men in designer business suits hurried past me, elbowing each other out of the way. The airport loudspeakers blared with flight departures in three different languages, two of which I’d never heard before. I hadn’t gotten a call back from Kamla before I’d left, so I moved to Plan B. Scanning my travel guide for a cheap backpackers’ hostel, I couldn’t find an affordable one that didn’t have warnings about bed bugs and theft.
“Laurie!” Kamla called out, grabbing my arm breathlessly from behind. “Oh thank goodness, here you are!”
I felt as relieved as she did. We gave each other a big hug.
In New Zealand, Kamla had worn sweaters and jeans, but here, she had on a long, loose tunic with narrow-cut pants, which the Indians call Kurta pyjamas. Her husband was wearing a white, linen kurta.
“My name is Dalbir, but everyone calls me Dolly, he said, extending his hand. “I hear you’re another globetrotter like my wife. Do you like skydiving? Besides my grandchildren, that’s my new hobby!”
A grandpa who jumped out of airplanes. I immediately liked him too.
“We’d better go, ladies,” he said, walking toward the baggage claim. “There will be more time for catching up once we get home.”
I clung tightly to Kamla’s purse strap as we pushed our way through the throngs out to the car.
The roads were just as crowded and chaotic as the airport. People honked, shouted, and shook their fists as we wove our way through roads packed with cars, bicycle rickshaws, two-seater motorcycle taxis, ox carts, cargo-laden elephants, people riding camels, and hump-backed cows wandering aimlessly wherever they pleased. A thick cloud of diesel filled my nostrils and lungs when I opened the window to let in some air. Although it was December, the weather was still sunny and spring-like.
Everything looked brown. The soil was brown; the dusty roads and sky were brown; the buildings were brown; even the people were brown. I found that color to be somehow grounding. Bouncing along in the back seat, listening to Dolly and Kamla chatting in Hindi, my fears about being in India disappeared.
Because Dolly was a retired army officer, the government gave his family a small house in a military compound twenty minutes from downtown. All of the buildings there were the same: square, cement block houses. The inside walls and floors were also made of cement, streaked white from being washed clean. The furnishings were simple, but tasteful—polished, carved wood with richly colored, sequined pillows on the couches and chairs. There were only two bedrooms, one for them and another for their two adult sons. I offered to sleep in my sleeping bag on their living room floor.
“No, no, no!” Kamla said, horrified. “Only servants sleep on the floor!”
“Absolutely not,” Dolly said, “You’ll sleep with Kamla and me.”
I strongly preferred to sleep by myself on the floor, but they wouldn’t hear of it. After protesting three more times, I finally had to give in.
For two months I shared a bed with the sixty-five-year-old Indian couple and their big, farting dog. I didn’t mind sleeping with Dolly and Kamla so much, but that dog almost killed me.
Among the many things I learned while living with my Indian host family, I discovered that Indian fathers can be extremely protective of their daughters. Dolly, who called me “his American daughter,” wouldn’t even let me go downtown by myself for the first two weeks. When I told him that I soon wanted to explore other parts of India, he insisted on doing a test run, agreeing to let two servants drive Kamla and me on a day trip to the Taj Mahal.
As I stepped out of the car and approached the mammoth white structure, my mouth dropped open. For the first time in my travels, reality exceeded my expectations. The huge marble dome, with its towering minarets and mosaics of iridescent jewels, was even more impressive in person than it was in pictures.
“It’s stunning!” I turned and said to the first servant, Chedi. He lowered his eyes politely to the ground.
“I mean really, I’ve never seen anything like it!” I exclaimed, stepping toward the other servant, Baghwan. He took a step backward so that he was again two steps behind me.
I couldn’t get the hang of the Indian caste system. I was trying to respect the local culture, and I understand the history behind it, but I didn’t feel comfortable treating anyone as less than equal. I never understood why certain groups were supposed to be “higher” or “lower” than others. It’s not that I don’t respect someone’s accomplishments or position in life; I just don’t believe there’s a hierarchy of human worth.
When I interact with people, the only “level” I note is the depth of their communication. I’ve
