As a foreigner I often feel overwhelmed in Delhi. It can be something as simple as men staring at me or something as profound as my friends being forced out of their home with less than a weeks notice. I could make a list of the things that make me ask if I can really do this or rather declare I cannot do this, but last week I experienced something that I can never forget. I visited a village within the city of Delhi otherwise known as a slum which has no water.
My Dad and I each rode on the back of a friend’s bike (motorcycle). Dad was behind Shuckti and I was behind Rocky. We drove through the city threading here and there until we reached a beautiful area called Vasan Vihar. “All the foreigners are used to staying here,” Rocky called back to me. “This is embassy area.” Just then we passed a beautiful brick school labeled “public.” (In India public does not denote government run but is usually what Americans refer to as ‘private.’ Just then we turned a corner and went back two centuries at least and we entered a village. The buildings were cement for the most part and a ditch drain ran along either side of the path in front of each home. We entered a room much like the other room/houses people stayed in except that it was filled with desks. The ten children turned at looked at us. A friend of a friend named James greeted us. He sent one of the older boys to buy us cold drinks. It was at least 100 degrees that day and there were no fans and no trees to shade anyone. Soon James asked us to come to the front because if we sat in the back the children would only be looking back and not even look at their work. We went to the front and I started greeting the children and asking their names. They were very excited that I was speaking Hindi and spouted off all at the same time. I had to ask them to speak one at a time and deri, deri, boleia (speak slowly). Many of these children were in school but their parents were illiterate so they were unable to help them so James had opened the church for tuition (tutoring) each afternoon/evening. He explained to me that many of the children did not go to school, but when I asked the kids in that room they said they did.
Then James invited us to walk around the village with him. Everywhere we walked people were staring at us. Many smiled and children said hello. Just in front of me a woman scooped up a pile of dung. She was not trying to make the path cleaner, she would make the shit into a patty and then it would be burned in order for her to cook her food. We walked by the Rajistanis, the people from Herionia and south Indians. In the last area we came to we began to see many donkeys. “These people are very poor,” he said (this is coming from a man who lives with his wife in a room built above house in this same village). “The donkey’s are their only income.” “What do you mean?,” I asked. They are hired to carry heavy loads. Just then a boy of about twelve years old herded a few donkeys past us. One donkey bumped into my bottom and the boy laughed. I smiled and brushed the donkey hair off my pants. Young mothers holding babies stood around with children watching us. “These kids don’t go to school,” James said. This time I thought he was exaggerating, maybe they don’t go to a good school I thought. Then he began asking the kids. No they did not go to school. They have no money for uniforms and books.
As we walked around I noticed many jugs of water or empty jugs lying here and there. One girl at the study center was drinking water out of an old whisky bottle. Then James answered the question I didn’t even think to ask. “There is no water here. We have to get it all from outside. I go each day, it is my duty.” “There is not even a well or a pump?” I asked thinking of my prior village experiences. “There are 13 pumps in this village and they are all broken.” I was shocked. I told my Dad. They have no toilets, they have no water. They serve the city, they are surrounded by the city but they live a village life. Many of these people are servants in diplomats homes and they live like this. A few churches in Delhi are collecting an offering this week. The church is going to sponsor the repairing of the first pump. They have a dream to buy a tank that will be filled by the pump each day. Then the pump can be locked up so it will not break again.
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I spent the night at my friends’ place the other day and after getting up I went to retrieve the newspaper from the terrace. By the way, these girls live in a little flat on the roof of a four story building and I was pretty impressed that the guy could throw the newspaper all the way up there. We opened the paper to find out if the Olympic torch had been safely run the day before—the 21,000 troops deployed to guard the runners insured that the 1,500 protestors chanted anti-Beijing elsewhere though they also ensured that civilians did not view the torch—once that was settled, we had our tea. Then we aimlessly flipped through the paper. I started laughing out loud and my friend was confused because she was holding the comic section not me.
This is what I saw: 
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Generally the injustices that bother me around here are not against me. Sure, I am a little bothered by the stares and really don’t think it is right that I should be charged more to see historical sites such as the Taj Mahal than my Indian friends. But the things that tick me off are when I see a rickshaw driver who is left waiting outside of a gate for his Rs. 7 that will never come or the cop that hits the beggar.
But a month or so ago–I fell prey to a petty crime. I was wandering around Sarojini Nagar with some friends. Sarojini is one of Delhi’s biggest markets where you can find the best deals on clothes. I was not planning on buying anything, but I had just been given my weekly stipend. Then right before we were leaving, I saw a pair of earrings I wanted to buy for a friend’s birthday. I bargained until I got my price and then looked in my purse for my wallet, but it was not there. I never saw the thief. He or she (more than likely a little boy pickpocket, as they are infamous in the Sarojini) just took my wallet from my purse while I was looking at something. It was a frustrating experience–I felt like a fool.
Then Wednesday evening my mom and I were in a auto on our way to our friend Sarah’s place in Manirka South Delhi. We stopped a traffic light and I was watching three beautiful village woman in brightly colored sari’s walk on the otherside of the road. Then they turned towards us and waded their way across the street. Next thing I knew all three of them had their hands out in our faces like aggressive beggars. But they didn’t look like beggars…beggars in Delhi generally are very aware of how to play the part by wearing dirty rags. We started saying “Jaow, Jaow,” and finally mom raised her voice in English and told them to get out of here.They left. Mom said, “That creeped me out, I have goosebumps all over.” When we arrived in Manirka mom got her wallet out to pay the auto-walla and it was gone.
When we got to Sarah’s and explained what happened she got mad and started saying what a bad country India is (she is Indian). We tried to say this happens everywhere, which is true. At the same time, we are in a place where everyone has stories. I know a man who had an expensive cell phone taken out of his pocket while riding the bus and a lady who had her gold wedding chain torn off her neck at a bus stop. People say it is just part of life here. It’s hard to explain how this makes you feel. You feel like a fool, you feel violated, and angry. Many people live in fear, women are encouraged to stay at home after dark unless escorted by a male relative. Women should always be home by 10PM.
So it’s a battle. A battle to keep from living in fear or hatred and yet to be wise. And, as foreigner the temptation is to categorize all of these people who are not like me as “bad” because of a few incidents. And you begin to understand why women lower baskets down on strings to collect the vegtables they purchace from street vendors–at least a little.
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In Katmandu I got to meet this sweet little old lady on pastoral staff at the Vineyard there who used to be a beggar and trash picker. Noel and the group there were visiting people who live in the riverbed, which is the most disgusting place you can imagine that reeks beyond any smell I have ever smelled before and met her. They helped her start a vegatable stand.
She asked Noel to pray that she would find her son. Noel asked her how long he had been missing. It had been about fifteen years. Noel said, “Would you recognize him?” “Oh, yes, of course,” she insisted. Noel didn’t have faith, but he prayed. The next week She came to see him with her long lost now grown son. “Tell him about Jesus,” she told Noel. So he started talking to her son. Noel didn’t think he was listening or interested so after an hour he told him, if you want to hear more then come back next week. The next week he came again. Now he is active in the Kathmandu Vineyard.
Mito Didi ministers to the ladies who are like she used to be. People from the riverbed bring the sick to her for her to pray for them because she has tremendous faith and sees people healed. And when she dances during worship, everyone dances and it’s like heaven.
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Dear Prospective International Students,
If you are not sure what to do with your life right now, but you know you want to follow Jesus and you have some kind of desire to make a difference in the world then VDS India would be a great program for you. As a student you will grow in your basic Christian knowledge, your relationship with Christ and you will learn more about the world. You will also be given opportunities to serve the local community in practical ways. At the same time you will make friends with Indian students and learn about their lives and their experiences. This will impact your life and help you discover the calling on your life. I know young people who have spent time here and as a result have dedicated their lives to Asian studies and international relations, others have become doctors, some continue with their dreams of movie producing but with an altered worldview, some become pastors, and some specifically reach out to internationals in their own hometown. I have seen some people come here and love the food and others survive on toast. But no matter what, experiencing the Kingdom of God on the other-side of the world will add a richness to your life. Furthermore the church here and there church there will be blessed by the unity that comes through relationship that surpasses national or economic status.
Please pray and consider joining us. To request an application and pastoral recommendation form leave a comment and with your email address. Applications, recommendation forms and a $150 nonrefundable deposit are due no later than July 1st. Your tuition fee is $1000 which covers the cost of your basic expenses in India and contributes to the community enabling us to keep the Asian student’s fees at an affordable cost for them
Sincerely,
Amy Coffin
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One of the random things that I miss about being home in the U.S. is pretzels. Every once in a while we see them at our local shop called “Master Baker” but a small bag costs almost equal to $5 when of course at home it cost $1 for a huge bag. So we only bought a bag once. It must have been for Christmas. So then a few weeks ago we had someone from the U.S. bring us some. We were just finishing that bag and then the other day I was at Master Baker with my mom. The shop owner who is a plump middle-aged North Indian held up a bag of opened pretzels and said, “You like these?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “I opened it, I don’t like it, you take it.” Then he had one of his peon’s (they actually call any worker who does earns a peon) tie it in a plastic bag and handed it to me.
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