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In the restaurant, I order Bengali fish curry. The waiter asks if I want rice or naan with it. I say neither. He says I have to order one, that I can’t just have the curry, that it’s meant to be eaten with rice or naan. “Fine,” I say, not really wanting either, but knowing it isn’t worth the fight, “I’ll have the naan.” He says, “No, madam, it’s never served with naan. That’s not a good choice. You must eat it with rice.”

We’re trying to cross the street. I take one step forward, then jump back as a tuk-tuk nearly runs over my toes. My colleague has gotten halfway across the street. He turns around and sees me continuing to stand on the side of the road. He comes back, grabs my hand and pulls me. “You just have to walk. The cars will not stop.” I simply close my eyes and trust I’ll get to the other side.

I’m sitting in one of the government schools we support with a library and books. The children are seated cross legged on the floor in their classroom, no desks available. They smile shyly and giggle and avert their eyes when I look at them. I ask them about their favorite stories and one by one, they come up and recite poems or re-tell their favorite tale. They’re speaking Hindi and Telugu and I’m mesmerized. They recite with such intensity and such seriousness. The girls have matching onyx braids, plaited and looped to form twin pigtails with strands of jasmine tucked in. Their outfits scream with color – fluorescent orange, deep crimson, brilliant turquoise salwar kameezes and dresses adorned with gold thread and sparkling jewels. The boys sport identical short spiky hair cuts, their spindly arms and legs protruding from dingy short sleeve shirts and navy shorts that are too big, gathered at the waist with a rope or belt. Their dark eyes appear so big in their tiny faces.

After the last recitation, the teacher, a big serious man, calls a beautiful little girl to face me. She’s wearing an orange floor length skirt with tiny mirrors sewn along the hem. He stands behind her and lifts up her skirt above her knees. I’m taken aback. What is he doing? He jerks his head to her legs. “Look.” I see before me two tiny deformed legs, bowing outwards at unnatural angles from her knees. I lift my eyes to the girl’s face and she casts her eyes downward. I’m speechless. I don’t know why he is doing this. I want to scream, “What are you doing? Let the girl be. Why are you embarrassing her like this?” He says to me, “The water is contaminated. Fluoride. Her sister is the same.” This does not make sense to me. I sit there, still speechless, not sure what he is expecting or what is the appropriate thing to say in this situation.
After a minute or so of silence, he says, “You will help her. You will fix her legs.”

I continue to sit there, all eyes on me, all the children, all the school staff. I feel embarrassingly uncomfortable. I stammer, “Uh, uh…” How do I explain that I don’t have the connections to fix her legs? That I don’t know what her condition is, much less what could be done to fix them. I realize that they think I have access to unlimited resources. How do I explain I don’t? How do I respond to this request in a country where no one uses the word “no”? How do I not make promises that I know I cannot keep?

I wish I could say that I responded with a culturally sensitive, gracious response. I wish I could say that the tense silence was broken with the girl understanding that I wanted to help, but I didn’t know how. Instead, I, like the girl before me, cast my eyes downward.

We’re driving through Hyderabad. Krishnaveni points in a direction and says, “Over there is the Jew park.”
I’m not sure I’ve understood correctly. “The Jew park?”
“Yes – you don’t have the Jews in America?”
“Yes, we have Jews. And I guess sometimes they live in the same neighborhood.” To myself I’m thinking, this seems slightly strange.
Krishnaveni continues, “Yes, you can see the animals.”

It’s then that I realize she’s saying “zoo park.” This makes me feel much more comfortable with the conversation.

When these words are said, they usually have the opposite effect as intended. For one often isn’t alarmed, until told one shouldn’t be.

Halfway en route to Hyderabad, the pilot announces that everything is under control, not to be alarmed, but due to mechanical difficulties we are returning to Delhi. I wonder about this. We are one hour into the two hour flight. Wouldn’t it be more effective just to continue? Either way, it will take an hour to get to an airport. I’m assuming they have mechanics in Hyderabad.

I see all the passengers looking around with questioning eyes. The flight attendants come through the aisle, smiling, reminding everyone to buckle their seat belts. Several people ask questions, and I hear a Hindi answer with a sprinkling of English: technical, okay, new aircraft.

The return to Delhi seems more turbulent. Almost as though the pilot does not have control of the plane. We rock back and forth, and bump up and down. I keep telling myself that I’m imagining this , that it’s just a little turbulence. I see Delhi below us. We descend, and hit the landing strip with a thud. And don’t seem to be slowing down. We finally do, then come to a halt. It’s then that I notice the dozen fire trucks moving along side and behind us. And the dozens of jeeps with bright yellow “Safety Taxi” plastered on their sides. The flight attendants tell us to remain seated. I watch men in bright yellow and red helmets and orange safety vests examining the landing gear. Standing, pointing, nodding, walking around, stopping down, taking pictures with their mobile phones. After what seems like an eternity, we de-plane, board a bus, and are driven to another Air India plane. As we are walking up the stairs to board, the older Muslim man in front of me, white crocheted skull cap snug over his salt and pepper hair, turns to me. “God is watching over us today. Otherwise, we would have crashed and died. Thanks God.”

I smile. Yes, thanks God.

The guidebook showed a photo of a river with the caption, “Every evening at sunset, the river is full of lighted lamps, set afloat by the faithful.”

The text explained the evening ritual: at nightfall small lamps are lit, flowers are tossed into the river, and the lamps are floated onto the river with prayers. This sounded very holy. And very peaceful. And it appeared to be on the road on the way home from Agra, where we had just visited the Taj Mahal and Agra Fort. What better way to end the day than with a peaceful, serene visit to a lovely riverside village?

Everyone was up for it. The driver turned off the main highway. He slowed down and asked for directions. A few minutes later, he slowed down again, rolled the window down, and my colleague sitting in the front seat who also speaks Hindi asked for directions. I listened carefully and realized he was asking for the birthplace of Krishna. “No, no, no,” I interrupted. “Not the birthplace of Krishna, Vishram Ghat. Where Krishna rested. Look, here in the book.” Ahhh, the man pointed straight ahead. This practice continued, slowing down, rolling down the window, asking for directions – to police, to soldiers, to men waiting for the bus, to a man on a bicycle – and we eventually got closer and closer and closer to Vishram Ghat. At one of the intersections, the kind direction giver pointed to the right. The three of us in the backseat said, “Thank god we don’t have to go down that street,” pointing to the left to a narrow alleyway teeming with people, rickshaws, bicycles, and motorbikes.

I was surprised the driver didn’t park the car and tell us to take a rickshaw. Or walk. I probably would have, had I been driving. That’s another thing I admire so much about India – the persistence. It will happen.

And it did. We arrived to the river front and were told, by a priest, that basically only amateurs light the lamps to float on the river. The *real* blessing happened at his spot at 7 pm. We continued to the waterfront, followed closely by a cow. Even though we weren’t going to see the idyllic scene we had imagined, we figured we could throw the flowers into the river, light the candle, say a prayer, and set our three lamps afloat.

Once back in the car, we realized the alley was too narrow to turn the car around, so we continued in the same direction. Right to the street where we earlier had uttered, “Thank god we don’t have to go down that street.” Famous last words. We eked along, trying to avoid pedestrians, bicycles, motorbikes, rickshaws, and the occasional other car. A couple of times my colleague in the front seat had to get out of the car to move a parked motorbike over a few inches, so that we could continue. Most people walking by laughed as they watched us try to navigate the tiny alley, although a few hit the car, raised their hands in a questioning position, and asked what I believed to be the Hindi version of “WTF?” We were the sole source of what must have been the village’s worst traffic jam in ages.

After what seemed like forever, we were back on the highway. Several minutes passed in silence until my colleague said, “I don’t think that guidebook is so good.”

My favorite breakfast is oatmeal. Preferably with fruit, but fine without. When I travel, I carry packets of instant oatmeal to eat for breakfast. Lunch and dinner I’ll go completely local – street food, restaurants, snacks – but for breakfast I crave a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of green tea.

Day one in Delhi – I call room service.

“I’d like a kettle of boiling water, a bowl, a…” I’m cut off.
“Toast?”
“No, not toast. A bowl.”
“Toast?”
I think. Is there another word I can use for bowl? Not really. “No. No food. A bowl and spoon.”
“Oh. Bowl.”
I listen to his pronunciation. Sounds the same as what I said. “And a cup.”
“Cup of tea?”
“No, no tea, just a cup.”
“Black tea?”
“No, just a cup.”
“Ok, ma’am.”

I wonder what will arrive. I get an ice bucket filled with boiling water, a tin bowl, and a spoon. I ask for a cup (pantomiming). He returns with a cup of black tea.

This happens each morning, with varying success. Today, day 5, I call room service. “Good morning, I’d like hot water…” He cuts me off. “Okay, ma’am.” And brings up exactly what I was expecting. Oh, India, I’m beginning to love you.

I was given a notebook by our local staff. On the cover is the quote : Common every day. Live to become fine with the happiness because of having you to keep company with.

I’m not sure I understand, but I think I like it.

I stand and watch silently as my colleague negotiates the fare for the auto-rickshaw. A pack of drivers gather round, an informal union of sorts. The driver names a price and Dinesh counters in Hindi. I stand quietly, trying, unsuccessfully, to appear inconspicuous. I know that my tall white presence does not help his bargaining. Dinesh offers a price, the equivalent of about 45 cents. The driver shakes his head. The others kick the dirt and shake their heads, offended at his offer. They click their tongues and turn their backs.

I watch. I’ve seen this too often. The drivers all appear offended, but they’re watching. They’re waiting. They’re assessing how much the passenger will give, both in the bargaining process and for the fare. I spot the one – the one that will take us for the price Dinesh is offering. He’s got playful black eyes and a rotund pot belly, sweat forming a large oval on the front of his shirt. I stare at the drivers’ feet, noticing they all are wearing similar sandals, all have similarly dusty feet. After several rounds of Dinesh offering the same price and the original driver appearing offended, our guy steps forward and motions for us to follow him to his vehicle. I silently wonder if the other drivers are angry. We would have eventually paid the 10 extra rupees being asked.

As we get into the auto-rickshaw, I quietly say to Dinesh, “You’re good at that. I’m not such a good bargainer.” He replies, “I hate that. I hate the bargaining back and…”

“Don’t hate me!

We look at the driver. “Don’t hate me. This is hard work. It’s hot, this is hard. Where you go, not many people. How will I get another…”

Dinesh interrupts, “Not you – I don’t hate you; I hate the bargaining.”

And all is well. We putt putt our way onto the highway and our driver breaks into song in Hindi. He sings a few verses and tells us he will entertain us. I’m laughing; the hot air of the night washing over me as if I’ve just opened the oven door. He alternates between slightly broken English and Hindi. “I will be your blood.” This catches my ear. ?? “You will not be able to forget me. I make you so happy.” At the moment I am so happy that I am not alone with him. Another Hindi song and I notice he’s adjusted his rearview mirror and he’s staring directly at me. I know, I’ve accepted, I won’t contest India always wins, so I simply laugh as the hot wind blows my hair out of its tightly twisted knot. There’s no point in getting upset. Horns blare all around us. Cars come perilously close to our open vehicle. He swerves to miss a pothole. I hear Hindi, then, “First whiskey, then no whiskey, then you love the Indian.” I glance up. What is this jibberish? He’s smiling at me in the rear view mirror. “See, I told you I entertain.” I laugh silently, glad for the moment that India always wins.