An Afternoon in Majnu Ka Tilla

The minute we emerged from the Delhi airport, I was grasping. Overwhelming traffic, like Beijing. On the left side of the road, like Belfast. Crowded, dusty, dizzying, like San Salvador or Managua. Resembling cities I’ve seen before, yet cumulatively, I realized in an instant, like nothing I’ve yet experienced. Roads are shared by cars, rickshaws—auto and bike-drawn, students in burgundy uniforms, women in multi-colored saris, city busses with passengers hopping on and off at will, regardless of motion, and the occasional zebu (think ox, but bigger, and with a camel-like hump behind the head.)

Dust seems to be the pervading material characteristic of the city, so our guestroom’s pervading characteristic, dampness, was unexpected. A coating of dawn-when-camping moisture sits on our sheets, pillow, and towel. My only other experience with Lonely Planet-reviewed accommodation was in Europe, where “reasonably clean rooms” meant there might be dust bunnies in the corners. Jason reveals to me with a giggle and a tug of the curtain that “reasonably clean rooms” in Majnu Ka Tilla, Delhi, means you’re lucky the Mamma Pigeon built her nest and filled it with eggs on the outside of the window screen, rather than above your head. So the window stays open.

We need a ride to the ATM at Delhi University. A man, noticeably shorter and thinner than myself, offers to take us on his rickshaw. It’s a bike-drawn bench just wide enough for the two of us, with bars on the side and a tin covering over our heads. So we emerge into the aforementioned traffic, and I observe his childishly thin legs as he lurches forward. Pulling 280+ lbs uphill requires him to snap his whole 100 lb body forward, leaning all of his weight, standing, onto each peddle. This is his job, but I can’t help taking stock of Jason’s stature and thinking maybe he should get on the bike. But the truth is, I doubt either of us could’ve done it. Our driver dismounts and runs to make a quick right turn through four lanes of traffic. When we arrive, he’s whistling, not even winded.

We ordered thukpa and thenthuk, two popular Tibetan soups. The first was a delicious vegetable soup with long, thin noodles, full of a wave of various vegetable and spice flavors. The other had hand-pulled homemade noodle squares in a spicy vegetable broth, perfect for the chilly evening and my famished stomach that’d been subsisting on airport or airplane food for two days. Some of the foreigners we met during our airplane adventures recommended going vegetarian in India, to increase our chances of avoiding what the expats call “Delhi Belly.” If these soups are any indication, I doubt we’ll miss the meat.

It’s still my first day, so I feel somewhat entitled to be a jaw-gaping tourist, though I do my best to suppress it. At dinner, I’m enraptured by a beautiful Buddhist nun at the table next to us. Her crimson robe and shaved head seem a bold declaration that she’s made a serious commitment to the rest of her days, and she wears it comfortably, humbly. I’m wearing sweats and a winter coat I can’t convince myself to part with even though it’s fifty degrees outside. Travel-greasy hair, which I twisted into a million anxious, fascinated knots on the drive here, hangs unimpressively in my eyes. I’ve made no such commitments. I just woke up in India and decided to try the food.

Also, I posted this myself for the first time since September. Hooray for the absence of censorship!