New Delhi (Deleted Scene)
I have spent most of my life seeking out unexpected experiences. When I was living in Bahrain, I took an impromptu trip to New Delhi because…well, I didn’t have much else to do. Like most of my trips, I didn’t plan anywhere near as much as I could and my arrival at the New Delhi airport wound up being a moment that continues to loom large in my memory.
Timnk, crump, famp.
These are the sounds I heard as I was being hurled down the busy streets of New Delhi. The dilapidated taxi went Timnk, crump, famp—I had never heard those sounds before: I couldn’t tell if it was the tires on the verge of coming off, the muffler being ejected, or the steering column falling through the floor.
Timnk, crump, famp. All I could think about was those space movies where the shuttle was moving too fast and at the wrong angle to enter the atmosphere and everyone assumed their bodies were gonna go timnk, crump, famp right into the Pacific Ocean.
Somehow, I found myself in a shared taxi with three other people, none of whom spoke English—or at least spoke English to me. Sure, when their phone rang it was, “Hello” this and “Yeah, sure why not?” that. But when I asked them questions like, “where are we going?” it was all blank stares and dismissive head shaking. Then we blew right by the exit sign for New Delhi—my intended destination. Vacant stares, head shaking, timnking—but no responses. Then we passed the second sign for “New Delhi”. I didn’t actually have one, but I started reaching for my knife or gun.
I could have just taken the nice, clean, private cabs right outside the arrivals hall, but I wanted an adventure; I wanted to see the “real” India. The signs to turn around and go back and act like a normal American in a foreign country who gets his own cab that speaks English, takes credit cards, and knows exactly where he was going were all there. When I waved down the first “adventure” cab he just sped on. The second one slowed down long enough to hear me speak before he sped off. The third cab actually talked to me, but only wanted to know which city in Nigeria I was from. I was gonna have an adventure dammit!
When the fourth cab decided to take me I just knew that I hadn’t said enough words in English for him to have any real idea where I was going. Malyanim domalitstaith…I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. I was looking for glances in my direction, hand gestures that indicated how they intended to kill me—or worse. Finally there was a third sign that read, “New Delhi” and we took it. I relaxed a little and as we motored on, speeding through New Delhi traffic he finally asked, “You’re at the Shangri-La, right?”
Perfect English, the bastard.