Indian Chai

New Delhi is like a good cup of chai tea: humble in appearance but rich and flavorful upon further investigation. The contrasting combination of warm sweet milk and biting spice reminds me of the busy city streets: both beautiful, filled with the sweet aroma of fresh marigolds and frying jalibis, and ugly, caked with the grime of trash and traffic. 

I love New Delhi for the contrast it provides. Over the course of our trip, we toured beautiful Hindu temples, the altars made of intricately carved silver behind which stood gods made of solid gold. The temples were several stories high, complete with shrines and reading rooms. Inside one such temple, the ceiling was painted pale pink and bright yellow, making me feel as if I were encased in a gigantic Faberge egg. A short walk away towered a gigantic statue of Hanuman, the assistant monkey god to Ram. Had I mounted the pedestal and stood beside him, I wouldn’t have reached his calves.

See what I mean when I say, "Faberge Egg"?

Standing with Toyosi in front of Hanuman.

Architectural ruins are scattered throughout New Delhi. At the Quwwatul-Islam Masjid, we had the chance to walk around the tallest building in the world prior to the construction of the Eiffel Tower. Looking up, I admired the beautiful strokes of Arabic writing scrawled along the the side of the intricately carved minaret. From the base, I could not even see its top. As we walked along the grounds, dusk approached and the sun set behind crumbling ruins, casting a pinkish glow over the landscape. In that moment, I was sure nothing could be more beautiful. 

The tallest building in the world ... Until the Eiffel Tower! (I guess I visited in the wrong century.)

The sun sets over Quwwatul-Islam Masjid.

For our last day of class, we visited the Red Fort where we sat by a fountain overlooking buildings with grandiose archways and walls of inlaid marble. Despite the years of decay, I could still see the splendor of those buildings.  

Class at the Red Fort.

But the grandeur ended as abruptly as it began. Beggars squatted outside the gates of the Red Fort. Some lay prostrate on the ground, their arms flopped uselessly to the side. A few women sat, skirts between their knees, grasping our ankles as we passed. Children walked up and put their fingers to their lips, miming their hunger. 

You can’t escape poverty in New Delhi. On our way to a religious service and community lagar (meal) at a Sikh gurdwara, we heard a man groaning by the side of the road. His gray and white entangled beard was matted with dirt, and flies coated his feet. He was beyond the help of money and even food. We passed him twice, once coming and once going. He was dying and no one stopped. 

We washed our feet in a communal bath before heading to the gurdwara for lunch.

Sikh volunteers serve free community meals every day.

The gurdwara quickly fills with people around lunch time and even hours later (this is around 3 p.m.).

One evening we sat cross-legged outside the Nizamnudin shrine and listened to Qawwali music for several hours, swaying to the beating of drums and the shrill notes of the harmonium. Women dressed in saris and men with thick beards sat alongside us. Some stood to make donations to the musicians, and a few made a great show of it. Men kissed the bills as they placed them by the musicians’ feet. Others handed them straight to the musicians, who, horrified by the personal attention, refused the bills and pushed them onto the communal pile. 

Enjoying Qawwali music at the Nizamnudin shrine.

One woman, dressed in a purple sari, put on more than a show. She gave us a Broadway Musical. Standing in the center of the circle, she removed ten rupee bills from the sash of her sari. She raised her arm high to one side, a gesture of offering, and then let each bill drop with a flourish. Her stash was never-ceasing, and her donation became a choreographed dance to the wailing music. 

Her gifts were lavish, the music rich and sweet. But outside the shrine lay beggars, so weak that many of them couldn’t even sit up and many just slept, crushed against stone walls, their faces covered (or not) with rags to keep the flies away. Others stretched their bony arms toward us, rubbing one and two piece rupees together. Children tugged at our clothing and pointed to our easy-to-reach purses. One man had lost both his legs and scooted around on a skateboard, pulling himself forward with fire-scarred hands. 

I most intimately connected to the poverty we’d witnessed after a wonderful dinner of butter chicken and naan at a restaurant with friends. On a whim, I took my leftovers in case anyone asked for food on our short walk back to the hotel. Sure enough, a little boy tugged on my shirt as soon as I descended the stairs. As I passed him, I placed the warm bread in his hands. Turning back, I watched him eat hungrily, and that sight was far more satisfying than the rest of my meal. Somehow, I felt fuller watching him eat.

Dinner at Nirula's with Olivia and Roxanne (and Ananda and Ashley Rivenbark not pictured).

Ten days after arriving in India, we are returning to America. I feel as if I’m leaving two countries at once, for there really are two Indias: one boasts the grandeur of lavish temples and magnificent architectural ruins while the other groans under the weight of poverty and the emptiness of hunger. Some Indians adorn themselves in bejeweled silk saris and fill their arms with intricate henna and stacks of gold bangles, while others are barely clothed by grimy rags, and, instead of jewels, their arms are covered with fleshy white scars and open soars. Some Indians eat lavishly, enjoying meals much like our goodbye banquet, featuring seven types of meat and copious amounts of bread and baked cheese (and those were just the appetizers), while others live off the meager leftovers of passersby. 

A slew of my friends got henna before our goodbye banquet.

Both Indias are important to my experience of the country, and I’m not sure which version I’m more hesitant to leave. I know I will miss the beautiful views and the grand temples, and I know I won’t miss the extreme poverty grabbing our ankles and tugging our shirttails. Yet, I fear that by leaving such an intimate venue, by no longer seeing the starving lying prostrate outside, I might forget what it means to be without. India is rich not because of its breathtaking vistas and lavish architecture but because of of its everlasting reminder of both the triumphs and failings of humanity. And much like the contrasting flavors of a good cup of chai, neither can stand alone.