After a week in California, couch surfing and exploring San Fran, it was easy not to be nervous for India. Even on the way to the airport, I was chatting with the guy next to me on the Bart train and didn’t really have a second to contemplate the MASSIVE trip I was about to embark on. India didn’t feel real until our first breakfast on our hostel’s roof. We ate paranthas and drank chai, listening to the parade of noises ringing out through the smog filled city. If I closed my eyes I could hear them each distinctly. The slap of a wet rage on a counter top, dogs barking and the snap of jaws, the squeak-squeak from a little bird on the adjacent rooftop and the squawk and frantic fluttering of wings from a swollen, fat pigeon. I could hear a million engines sputtering and purring. The sizzle of oil on a pan, the slap and drag of chappals on the pavement. Most of all, the relentless chorus of honks and beeps. The smells were equally assaulting and contrasting. I’ll walk down the street and feel a gust of warm exhaust fumes, and then the smell of sautéed onions will slither towards me. The overpowering stench of urine and the perfumed smell of shaving cream from the roadside barbers.
No, India would not be ignored anymore. It demands my full attention.
Sophia