Broken, dusty, sidewalks. Rocks, dirt, walking paths filled with small, eager hazards, like roots in a forest, but more unscrupulous and easily missed. Awaiting the opportunity to trip the unaware foreigner used to nicely paved paths and walks. Especially in the dimly lit streets at night. Pedestrians wandering aimlessly through the streets, carrying baggage or a chicken or a stack of magazines to peddle to cars on street corners. Appearing purposeful in their direction, but disregarding any and all pedestrian law or etiquette you may find in a western country. Jaywalking is a national past time, but reeks of danger, amongst the zooming cars making rules up as they go, yet pedestrians boldly venture across the dangerous streets as if they were immortal. Beggars banging on your window with their wares while you are stopped in traffic, as they try and get your attention and some rupees. Ignore them or a simple glance will encourage them and fortify their efforts to extract rupees from the well dressed, well kept foreigner in the backseat of a luxury car. People sleeping on curbs mere feet from a major automobile artery. No care whatsoever for their propensity to certain death should just one of the thousands of vehicles driving by them each hour run amiss. Cars, and Auto-Rickshaw's and Bicycles and Scooters; all with a seating capacity of at least a family of four. Converging in one direction with divergent goals. Complete disregard for traffic laws or lanes or right-of-ways. He who is boldest is first. It's a continual game of chicken. Near miss, head-on collisions are the norm. Shrill cry of horns, from low, toyota beeps, to creative high-pitched after-market 'look-at-me-my-horn-blows-yours-off-the-road' shrills. Long blows, short beeps, High-pitched staccato cries and low-pitched moans. Constant near misses and near hits by vehicles among the cacophony of sounding horns that never ends, 24 hours a day. Flash your 'dippers' (brights) and honk to pass at night, honk to pass in daylight. Friendly signs on most large trucks admonishing the participants of the constant roadway grind to do just that. Dismal, Orange, Brown Suffocating Smog, that hides the blue sky and cloaks the sun with a muted, filtered appearance and seems ever present, yet gives the redstone artifacts of millennium gone past a strange proper framing of sepia treatment. As if the smog has come to terms with it's purpose in life and that's to give all of India a brown hue. More pedestrians, gaggles of women, young and old, dressed in brightly colored sarongs of lime green, bright maroon, blaze yellow and subdued brown. Heads covered and mysterious dark eyes peering through the folds, forehead adorned with simply a spot of red or sometimes an intricately designed bindi complete with jewels and gold that give the hindu soul an eye.
Children. If they are old enough to walk, they are old enough to beg. And can and will do so fervently. Otherwise, toddlers can be found sitting near their finely adorned mothers among the dust and smog and litter and mud and dirt and dogs and cows. All within a stones-throw of the other. Sitting contently as their beautifully dressed mothers congregate in groups to share vishna-knows-what with each other on the corner of poverty and chaos.
Cows in the street. Wandering the villages at will. Skinny, malnourished and seemingly oblivious to the hubub of auto-rickshaws, motorcycles and truck traffic, honking, weaving and challenging each other for the right of way. Chewing their cud contentedly as a sacred, zen-like presence amongst the chaos.
Trash. Littered and scattered about as if it belongs. It's hard to find pride on the streets of India. Very hard. 500 million people here live on 100 rupees a day, which is about half the price of a grande' latte at your corner Starbucks, or less than $2 put simply. Picking up trash and litter is the least of their concerns. It blows around and settles and litters like sand being stirred up on the bottom of the ocean ruining a good snorkel experience. Trash everywhere. Pervasive; smelly; obtrusive, yet accepted.
Dogs... seem to be the happiest of all species here as bitches with swollen, sagging teats from multiple litters seem to be everywhere. They play part of the scenery. Not on leashes, not collared, belonging to no one but the chaos. And you can still see them smile. Sleeping in gutters, napping in parks, trotting along the roads, feeding on trash, India is a dogs paradise.
Palatial beauty. A huge disparity between the haves and the have-nots. A US Government sponsored visitor stays at a Five-Star Enclave that is a World-Heritage site complete with gates and security and isolation from any and all riff-raff that may be found outside. Colonial British built buildings with ornate marble and hardwood floors, luxury carpets Victorian style furniture, gold-inlay wall decor, servants hired from the chaos outside to butter your toast and shine your shoes. Serve you coffee, turn down your bed with exquisite linens, clean your room, give you a towel and cold bottle of water as you step off the treadmill.
The cognitive dissonance between what is reality for most residents here and what is reality for visitors like me doesn't escape my wonder. The only thing I can truly come to terms with here, is that no matter what their lot in life, living condition or caste: Jesus loves every single one of these people equally, just as He loves me, you, and every other person on this incredibly diverse planet.
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