Paradox

    There was no way that I could have been prepared for India. We landed in New Delhi and the airport welcomed us like any other we had traveled to around the world. The terminals were lined with seats filled with people of different nationalities. The signs to baggage claim looked just like the ones in Washington D.C. and London. We passed easily through immigration and retrieved our bags from the luggage carosel.

    When we went outside and our host met us, the Delhi air invaded my senses. The air smelled like sulfur--like a match that had been lit and then blown out. With the line of taxis waiting, the outskirts of the airport created somewhat of a comfort zone. Set aside from the smell, the surroundings were similar to the taxi queue at Heathrow airport. Cars bumper to bumper and drivers eager to take you for a spin and empty your pockets with each turn. We soon boarded the taxi and it transported us further into Delhi and into the unfamiliar.

     The streets were crowded--a sea of taxis, rickshaws, and motorcycles intertwined like fibers of a rope--so close that one began where the other ended. People and stray dogs freely walked between the cars and into oncoming traffic. Liter blanketed the sidewalks and runoff areas where the sidewalks met the road. Many homeless people slept on the ground and on top of a low standing wall. They laid beneath a piece of plastic, cloth, or nothing at all. Poverty and wealth were illuminated beneath the golden orange hue of the street lamps. On one side of our taxi there were people making a small fire outside of their home built of old tires and torn plastic. On the other side of our taxi, a white Mercedes cut into traffic. Both the white makeshift plastic "roof" and Mercedes seemed to glow in unison for just a moment beneath the light. In a moment, both were gone and the taxi drove us into a new paradox.

    Poverty and wealth seemed to move together fluidly in the same culture. We arrived at a hotel and again, I eagerly yearned for something familiar. We found that our room, set aside from a few differences, was a lot like one in the states. I found comfort in that as we went to bed. I laid there trying to process all that I had seen. Taxi horns and barking dogs echoed outside. The air conditioned room and sound of traffic made me feel that I could be anywhere in the world.

    Morning came and we left the hotel at 6:00 a.m. with our host and taxi driver. The drive to Agra to tour the Taj Mahal took hours and the journey threw us both into culture shock. I was in shock more than Matt since he has had previous exposure to a culture other than one in the Western world. Daylight revealed much more than the night before.

    The most beautiful colors I have seen adorned women in saris,traditional Indian tops and scarves. Mosques and temples appeared often with gods for sale at roadside. My heart sank as I saw a woman praying to a god set on a makeshift altar just at the corner of the street. She had such an expression of desperation on her face. Although I only saw her for a moment in passing, the look on her face will always stay with me. I though of how her god could not hear her and suddenly I became aware that India was not spiritually impoverished, but rather robbed of the Truth.

    In that moment I had no idea how often that woman's face would appear to me again and again.