Hello, New Delhi

At nearly 10pm, I am wide awake with the reverberating rhythm of first impressions of New Delhi. We step off the plane, hug our dear sisters of A Gift for the Village team goodbye, and step into a seemingly abandoned airport corridor: too bright, too silent, too safe. This is Delhi? I laugh. Where is the chaos and clamor and never-ending immigration lines and a thousand desperate drivers yelling, "Taxi, taxi! Tour! Madame! Can I help you? First time India? Train station, sister?" Mika and I wait in the immigration line casually, comfortably, admiring the enormous hand-mudra carvings that line the long hallway. We arrive to Delhi.

Just out the door and we meet our taxi driver, Manish, who was sent be our hostel to pick us up. He holds a sign with my strange name written in bold. Someone is waiting for me at the airport? What corner of my imagination is this? Is someone writing a novel and now I am a main character: emerging from the airport looking purposely frumpy and unattractive, wanting to blend in with the exhaust and unassuming street corners? As soon as we are situated in the taxi, Manish turns around and sprays us with an atomic perfume: a fragrance that makes you grimace and laugh at the same time as you wonder what alchemist thought up such a suffocating floral combination. "Welcome to Delhi!" he says, as if he had just given us the banquet welcome. The India chapter starts off with a good laugh: brilliant.

Time to hit the streets. My senses are bombarded with a thousand colors and sounds: playful auto-rickshaws who race the big, shiny taxis, just because the friendly competition is ridiculous and a way to break up the mundane job of driving a thousand laps around the all-too-familiar craziness of the city; a team of footballers who bus back from a winning game - all riding on the roof of a double-decker bus and dancing to the strong club-appropriate beat of Bangara hits. They see Mika and I smiling at them and reaching for our cameras to film the moving party. They play along and feed the theatrical exchange: dancing, smiling, waving hands ... knowing that Mika and I secretly wish that we could jump out the taxi window and into their celebration. Here is the chaos, the clamor, the unexpected humor of sensory overload: sadhus walking with circus-tent like puppets in hand, gorgeous women in red-saris hauling impossibly heavy bricks to build a wall, a taxi driver who sprays us with perfume and talks out the window to other drivers and then asks the occasional random question about where we are from in a mix of English and Hindi. We are arriving in Delhi.

After the 20km taxi ride from the airport, Manish drops us off in a rough-around the edges gorgeous market neighborhood that hides just a stone's throw from Connaught Place: a historic plaza that is shaped like a sun whose shining rays are streets full or artisans and shops and ... who knows what else: I'll see tomorrow when I venture out walking. Mika and I laugh at how strangely comfortable we are here. Not to worry: not so comfortable that I am going to leave my passport under the table and walk off without a second thought. My heart and mind are clear and aware: not hurrying but paying attention to each step. A good thing, since just 5 ft from the entrance to our hostel, men and women are demolishing an old hotel building so that they can build it back better and brighter, I suppose. No "caution" zones, no eye protection, no work boots: flip-flops are the national work-shoe. Gorgeous. So much laughter, so few barriers. All connected and thrown into the same simmering pot to cook and catch the flavor.

The women who carry children and bottles notice a new face immediately and seek me out to ask for rupees to help their cause. I understand your need, sister, I say; but I cannot give you money now. Maybe food tomorrow. Food would be better. Just as in Kathmandu, a tourist must be careful to assure that her good intentions are not doing more harm than good. Giving money to a mother who holds a baby and a bottle likely means that you are paying that woman's pimp to buy himself a drink and the mother and child earn a tiny fraction of the donation. So, I will give myself a few days to see if I come to know any of the street-women by name: it helps to know stories behind the face and often times, the women who beg speak impeccable English. They have learned through years of practice: practice mandated by desperate circumstances.

We go up to the rooftop for dinner: a stunning view. We climb the stair into a totally different world, a transformed frame of mind: like two young women surprised to be meeting the neon-cloud beauty of Delhi's rooftop sea in the very first hours here. We eat and weave our way through a smiling conversation. A crew of brother puppeteers dazzle us with tabla music, passionate song and a puppet show the shimmers and shakes with ornately sewn puppets and a master's hand. The puppeteer, Jagdish, is friendly and walks over to say hello after the show. He tells me about the community of 2000 artists where he and his family live. He shows me photos of the many tours he has done in Europe, being invited to festivals in Switzerland, England, Italy and beyond. But his European fame does not automatically mean fortune or even relative stability. The life of a traveling artist is hard: dependent upon the whims of each audience. How often are people willing to be generous? I wish I could say more often than not; but that is not the case. A few pennies here and there. Surprisingly, it is the locals who often give more; it is hard for tourists to understand the vitality of the artist and audience relationship: how dependent artists are upon a kind gesture, a belief that what is given is also received in the never-ending chain of human exchange. After spending many weeks learning from our most generous friends in Nepal, I am feeling generous and contribute a smiling green rupee note. For all the gifts and blessings and generosity I have received, may the cycle continue over and over and spin into a beautiful rainbow of colors and help us too-often-stingy human beings remember that it is our natural joy to be generous and loving and free.

And so: I am safe in New Delhi. I feel grateful for the multi-colored, multi-textured day of tearful goodbyes and laughing hellos and a thousand baggage stamps and airport antics in between. Mika and I explore the heart of Delhi together tomorrow and then ... off on our separate ways with humble hearts and courageous spirits. Hello New Delhi. What a fine welcome.