Memoirs of a Foreigner

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.