“We need to head straight for Delhi,” Tom said. “I want to get you to a doctor.” I simply groaned. I didn’t want to miss Rajasthan, our next planned stop, but I was miserable and scared. (page 281, Wherever the Road Leads)
This illness in early March of 1973, set the stage for my return to India in the winter of 2001. Twenty-eight years after the trip described in Wherever the Road Leads, I would finally see Rajasthan.
Several months before, my older sister mentioned to me that she wanted to visit India, but none of her friends were interested in traveling to such an exotic location. “Well, I’ll go,” I responded. “As long as we can go to Rajasthan and to Pune to visit the Girl Scout World Center.”
Soon Una and I were making plans. We would travel with Elderhostel (now called Road Scholar) for two weeks, then plunge into India on our own for an additional week. Because we would both travel using Frequent Flyer miles, we had to take different flights and would arrive at different times. We would meet in New Delhi at the hotel designated by our tour group.
Thus, on January 14, 2001 after more than 24-hours travel, I landed at the old Indira Gandhi International Airport. What a contrast from the beautiful, new Changi Airport in Singapore where I had enjoyed a four hour lay-over. Changi had soothed me with delightful shops, WiFi, orchid gardens, a meal of satay, and a shower at the immaculate transit hotel.
Now, at ten o’clock at night, I found myself alone in an airport that couldn’t have been more different. Indira Gandhi International was dirty, noisy, crowded, confusing, and seemed to shout, “I am India. Remember me?” The tour representative who was supposed to meet me did not appear waving a placard showing my name. I would have to get to the hotel on my own.
I shouldered my heavy backpack and trundled to an office that displayed a sign reading, “Pre-paid taxis.” A tall, handsome Sikh stood behind the desk. I was reassured by his distinctive turban and neatly groomed beard, Sikh characteristics I had learned to trust back in 1973. He nodded and smiled broadly as he read the name of my hotel from the tour information and took my money. Then he waved me toward the exit door and indicated he would meet me outside.
Thankfully, he appeared again on the busy sidewalk crowded with touts waiting to accost tourists and offer them the best deal in town. He waved me toward a small, open, jeep-like vehicle at the front of the line of taxis. A slight, dark Indian with a woolen scarf wound around his neck waited nearby. This man loaded my bulky pack into the back of the jeep. Then another man appeared and jumped into the driver’s seat. As my Sikh helped me into the cramped back seat, he leaned over and spoke softly. “Will you give me something as I’m your porter?” Pretending not to hear, I clearly repeated the name of the hotel several times. All three men nodded and smiled, the Sikh gave the driver directions, and we were off!
Once we left the terminal, the two-lane road became totally dark, devoid of street-lights or buildings, though still crowded with small black cars, a few white luxury sedans, jitneys, and huge trucks. We zipped along, often squeezing between lumbering trucks and the center divider of dinged and broken concrete. The driver gleefully beeped his horn each time we began and succeeded at this maneuver.
In the intermittent glare of passing headlamps, I studied my driver. Neatly dressed, slender, with greased, combed back hair, and a well-trimmed mustache, he seemed friendly and curious in a way I knew to be typical. He asked if I was traveling alone, if I was single, and if my hotel was expensive. Beyond that, he concentrated on his driving.
After a while the traffic thinned and nothing could be seen along the road. Black night stretched out on both sides. Far in the distance, a few pin-points of light glinted. There was nothing to suggest we were approaching a city. If I had not been familiar with the roads of India, I’m sure I would have been terrified. Even so, I couldn’t help but think that I might soon find myself roughly deposited in the middle of a field, stripped of my luggage and my money, and left alone in the dark countryside. I clung to my seat, tried not to panic, and peered out the glass-less window.
We passed an army base, a Navy installation (very strange so far from any body of water), a few shops selling tandoori chickens and Bengali sweets, and occasional venders who pushed their carts as they headed home at the end of a long day. Gradually, the shops and the traffic began to increase again. Now, rather than trucks, the road filled with bicycles, bicycle rickshaws, and motor-scooters. The familiar sight of a helmeted, motor-scooter driver with a female passenger riding side-saddle on the rear brought back pleasant memories. The lady clung to her companion’s waist. As they passed, the folds of her sari flowed with the air currents.
We drove near a rubble strewn construction site where a row of tall piers of re-bar and concrete reached into the black night sky. My driver pointed at the tall structures and said with a touch of pride, “Metro train.” I reasoned that a new metro train would only be built leading to Delhi so we must be heading toward town. Perhaps I had escaped being kidnapped and stripped of my possessions.
We had been driving for a long time, yet the road remained dark and lined with non-descript, window-less walls. I wondered when I would begin to see hotels or a business district. Finally, the driver slowed down, pulled his jeep to the far left and waited for traffic to pass. Across the street, I saw one light, an old wall with a wide gate, and behind it, a white building. My driver found a gap in the traffic and drove through the gate into a paved courtyard. On one side of the courtyard, a man and a young woman, both elegantly dressed and draped in flower garlands, stood on a platform surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers. On the other side of the courtyard, a wide stairway led up to open doors that overflowed with light and the sounds of music. It seemed I had arrived.
I tipped my driver, adding more when he asked, and entered a wood-paneled lobby. What a relief to find a desk clerk who spoke fluent English and, best of all, had my name in his ledger! He showed me to a large room with a huge bed, a desk, a wooden wardrobe, a lumpy couch, and a spacious, tiled bathroom with an ample, old-fashioned tub.
It was after mid-night and I was exhausted. I settled on the bed and reached for the phone to order tea from room service. My tired hand nudged the bedside lamp, which produced a shower of sparks. An instant later, all the lights near the bed and in the bathroom went black. I leaned back against the pillow and sighed. I was indeed in India for a second adventure! But it seemed that electrical problems were to be expected whether one traveled in a Volkswagen van or stayed in a hotel.
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