I've been in the U.S. for a few months now - trying to acclimate myself with this way of living once again. I've been surprised to what degree living in India seems to have changed me, or at least my awareness about myself.  When I first came back...I spent the first week (before the Malaria set in) just finding an immense amount of wonder in large department stores, highways, and city landscapes. Everything seemed SO clean. It is difficult for me to express how different it all seemed. I'm still trying to reacquaint myself with U.S. cultural customs. The culture shock is really dramatic - much more than I expected. The pace of living is just so much quicker, so much fiercer. I had not realized what an incredibly competitive lifestyle I had created for myself before I left. Before I left, I thrived on being the first rat in the race…or at least in the top ten percent of the rats. I’m still in the race, but my goal is quickly transforming from a victory-seeking goal to a world-seeking goal. What I mean by that is – I’m really just racing myself now. I’m competing with myself. And rather than try to beat someone else, I want to learn about other people’s races. I think maybe that's part of the reason I left...to recollect myself. I wanted a new awareness, a new exposure. I certainly got it in India.  

 I've been steadily working on my photography book that documents my travels in India. In my incredibly modest and humble opinion, It is shaping up well. I'll be providing more detailed updates about it soon. I suspect that I will start submitting it for publication in the next month or two. My fingers are crossed. I have another potential publication in the works concerning an academic paper I wrote on the dialogue between Tibet and China with regard to political autonomy for Tibet. If that paper does get published, I will include a link on the site about how to access it. As for now...I want to update the site with stories from India as I think of them. I have many. One of the experiences I had that has been the most influential on me was when I had to change my flight while in India. Our audience with HH had been pushed back nearly a month. So I had to get a later flight if I wanted to meet HH. At the risk of missing my graduation, I decided to get a later flight. However, this was much easier said than done. I could not just call Delta to reschedule my flight because the travel agency that our program had used to book our group flights had closed down. Apparently, the way they setup the flights blocked other agents (including Delta representatives) from having access to change the flight. This created a huge dilemma for me.

 After literally spending days on the phone with both Delta India and Delta U.S., as well as Air-India, I had confirmed that I could change my flight if I went to the Air-India office in Delhi. Delhi is about a 13-hour drive from where we were staying in Dharamsala. The easiest / cheapest way to get there was by a night bus to Delhi. So…having my time to myself since we were conducting independent research, I took the night bus to Delhi. My seat was in the back of the bus, which is leveled higher than the rest of the bus. This was no big deal, except it meant that I was actually airborne every time our bus hit a bump or a rock. Of course we were driving down a mountain so there were a lot of rocks and bumps. On one occasion, I was thrown so high out of my seat that the force of coming back down actually broke the skin on my elbow when I landed back on my seat. Needless to say…I didn’t get a lot of sleep. 

I arrived in Delhi at about 7:30 in the morning. Looking like a White tourist, there were several aggressive rickshaw drivers who wanted to offer me a ridiculously overpriced fare to anywhere in the city. Little did they know that I was the veteran rickshaw passenger by now. However, I still got scammed on this one…sort of. The charge was 600 Rs to go from the bus station in Northern Delhi to Kannat Circle, Central Delhi. Normally…this charge should be about 200-250 Rs. However, the driver’s boss who I was talking with told me that the Air-India office was outside of the city. It was going to be over an hour drive, according to him. I had no clue where the office was, other than that it was somewhere in Delhi, which is a relatively massive area. I didn’t think much of it because I didn’t expect he would lie about the location, only about the cost of getting to the location. Knowing that to get from there to central Delhi should cost about 200-250 Rs, I figured that 600 Rs to go into extremely South Delhi was at least a somewhat fair price. I agreed. 

 We arrived in Kannat Circle and the driver said that I had reached my destination. I peered out the back and saw that we were parked in front of the Air-India office. I of course complained and told him that the price was for South Delhi, on the outskirts. He disagreed with me and assured me this was the office. By the looks of it, it was clearly the office I needed to enter. I complained about the price and told him I would only pay half since he took my half the distance of what he said the trip would require. He immediately became angry and worried, told me that his boss would beat him if I did not pay the full price. I wasn’t sure if that were true or not, but I decided that an extra 350 Rs, roughly $7 or $8 U.S. was not enough to have this man potentially being beaten on my conscience. While handing over the money, I told him that he should find a new boss who was not a dishonest liar and cheat. He said nothing and went on his way. 

 I got out of the rickshaw, consumed by intense humidity at about 8:30 am…and tried walking into the office. The security guard by the office told me it did not open until 10am. With my frustration growing, I walked across the street to a coffee shop to get a black currant smoothie. I had gone to this coffee shop before with one of my good friends during our most recent visit to Delhi during Spring Break, only about a month earlier. I drank my smoothie as slowly as I could. It tasted brilliantly in the midst of the incredible humidity and ridiculously poor excuse for an air-conditioner. After spending over an hour on one smoothie, I left. I walked into the office to find that it was filled with people. It was 9:50. Once inside, I asked what time they had opened. The answer was upsetting…9. Not only had I wasted over an hour, but now I would have so wait for at least another hour before they were ready to see me. 

 I sat down next to a man with a briefcase. He started showing my pictures of his family. It was great to talk with him for a few minutes. But then he started asking about my religion, as people in India tend to do. While in India, I did not identify with any one particular religion, though people thought I was Muslim almost every time the issue of religion presented itself. Apparently, it was because I had a small beard. He asked if I was a Christian. I didn’t feel like explaining myself and my ambiguous religious identity so I just said, “yes.” He immediately started to ask me when I was saved and what church I attended. He showed me pictures of various Christian churches he had founded. He referred to me as his “Brother in Christ” and wanted my personal contact info from back home so we could keep in touch. I was a bit uncomfortable with the whole situation so I gave him a fake number and address. I suppose he recognized my dishonesty because he politely tried to confirm on numerous occasions that I had given him the correct information. I told him I had. I was legitimately annoyed with the entirety of the situation when I finally heard my number called. 

I told him that it was nice meeting him and quickly hurried to the appropriate counter, where the aloof lady informed me that I was in the wrong office. “You have to go to the Delta office,” she said. I was angry. I told her that the Air-India office had directed me over the phone to go to Delhi. “I came all the way here from Dharamsala last night just to get this changed, I said.” I tried to say it in as polite a way as I could, but my once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity to meet HH was literally on the line. I had sincerely come from the U.S. and missed my final semester at Brown to spend four months studying in India, largely in hopes of meeting HH. The woman heard my plea, looked me in the eye, and handed me a sketchily drawn map for how to reach the Delta office. Nearly defeated, I thanked her, left, and tried to find the Delta office. Luckily, it was only about 100 yards away. I found it in about 15 minutes. Delhi is an intricately dense city so I considered this a major accomplishment. Once inside, I was greeted with plush leather seats and an air conditioner that actually worked. I wanted to just go to sleep right there. I was sweaty, surely foul-smelling, and absolutely exhausted. My face was dirty, my even dirtier clothes refused to ply themselves from by body entrenched with caked-on sweat, and I was just a complete mess. 

The polite woman invited me to her counter after only a 5 minute wait. I explain my situation in a rather desperate tone. She listened intently, and then told me what I wanted was not possible because I would have to go through my travel agent. I explained to her once more that the travel agent had closed down. She was very empathetic, and agreed to “try.” After trying several different strategies and typing nonstop for what seemed like thirty minutes, she finally said, “Okay. I can do it for you.” I wanted to hug and kiss her right there, but felt that she might not appreciate it, given my current appearance and odor. I thanked her repeatedly. She said, “Of course. No problem. But why don’t we wait a few days. This flight will still be here on Monday (It was Thursday) and it will be much cheaper to change it then.” I made her promise me about ten million times that the flight would be there on Monday and that I could reach her by phone. She promised. I took her information and left feeling proud. I had accomplished what I came to do. I had a guaranteed flight back to the U.S. on the date that I wanted. 

 After all that work and stress, I really wanted to call one of my friends from school who had graduated during the previous year who was living in Delhi. I wanted nothing more than to take him to lunch at the Delhi mall’s food court in celebration of my won battle. However, I decided I should get a bus ticket back to Dharamsala before I start playing in Delhi. I walked to the nearest one. Sold out. The next one was also sold out. I tried a third. There were apparently no direct bus tickets to Dharamsala that night. They told me it might be possible to get one on the other side of Delhi, back in North Delhi where I had arrived much earlier that day. I signaled for a rickshaw. The dust that the rickshaw uprooted from the road and left behind as we sped away was quite symbolic of my vanishing hope to turn what had been a rather unfortunate experience into a pleasant afternoon with an old school friend. I checked the first bus ticket station I saw. Sold out. I checked another. Sold out again. I was worried. I thought about calling my friend who lived in South Delhi, where I had just come from, and staying with him for the night. The problem was that I did not really have the time. I had already lost a lot of my research time merely by coming to Delhi in the first place. I checked another bus ticket business, which informed me that I could probably get a non-direct ticket to Dharamsala through the Delhi City Bus office. So that’s where I went. I found a place that could give me an indirect ticket to Dharamsala. I was to travel from Delhi to Pathankot and then transfer in Pathankot to a bus leaving for Dharamsala. It seemed rather simple.

 I got some McDonald’s – an incredibly delicious veggie burger (as there is no beef available in Delhi, or in most of India). I waited for my bus to leave and boarded it around 6:00. Almost 12 hours after I had arrived in Dharamsala. I was fatigued, on edge, and beyond exhaustion. The people I bought my tickets from directed me to a local bus route that would supposedly take me to the tourist bus I had purchased for the trip. Once I arrived, they gave me a ticket for Jammu. There was no bus in sight. “I’m going to Pathankot, not Jammu,” I said. “No problem,” the man told me in response. “We go to Jammu through Pathankot. You can get off in Pathankot.” That still left the problem of no bus. I waited for about fifteen minutes when the man directed me and the one other passenger there to a rickshaw. I had to pay more local transportation fare to reach my tourist bus. At this point, I didn’t care. I just wanted to get back and sleep and “shower” (Showers consisted of filling up a bucket with lukewarm water and pouring that over yourself) for days. 

 We finally reached our bus. It was packed, extremely humid, hot, sweaty, and smelly. It smelled even worse than me. After sitting for an hour in that oversized oven of a coffin, we finally started to move. I was on my way. Just transfer in Pathankot and I was set. But then, another obstacle decided to interfere with my trip. The seats were way too cramped as it was, but a very inconsiderate and stubborn, young Indian man sitting in front of me decided to lean his chair all the way back. It was absolutely crushing me knees. I asked him to please raise the seat. He only spoke Hindi. Thankfully, I was sitting next to a young man from Ladakh who spoke Hindi and English. He translated for me. The man expressed his reluctance to raise the seat, but ultimate did. We rode along for a bit longer when the man in front of me decided to lower his seat again. I asked the Ladakhi man to tell him to please raise it. The Ladakhi asked, and the Indian man again grumpily agreed. I pushed me knees a bit closer together to prevent the man from lowering his seat again. I didn’t want him to lower my seat while I was sleeping and be stuck in a highly uncomfortable position for the entire trip. He tried to lower his seat a few more times, and every time my knees blocked it. I would push his chair up with my arms and continuously prevented him from lowering the seat. This continued until we stopped at 9pm for dinner. I took the risk of losing my seat to get off the bus and get some food. 

Once I got back on, he had lowered his seat all the way so that I couldn’t even fit in. I told him to raise it, but he immediately started to shout at me in Hindi. I couldn’t understand, but everyone who was on the bus started to look at us. I tried as best as I could to remain calm and not yell as well. I tried to use hand motions to explain that I could not sit back down in my seat. We just futilely tried to communicate until the Ladakhi got back on the bus. He immediately came over to calm the situation. He explained I could not get in my seat and so after a lot of grumbling and what was surely some Hindi profanity, he raised his seat to allow me in. Of course, as soon I was in he slammed the seat down as far as it would go. I nearly screeched with pain. I hit the seat and told him to move it up. He didn’t respond. I asked the Ladakhi to translate for me. I told him to ask, “Please move up the seat. It hurts my knees way too much. There is no room.” According to the Ladakhi, he said, “Not possible.” I was pissed. I hit the seat again, raised my voice, and said it is possible. I heard what must have been more profanity in Hindi, or maybe some kind of threat. I was about to lose it. It was at this time that I realized he was good friends with the three men sitting to his left. I didn’t care. I was about to go out in a blaze of glory. I was beyond exhaustion. This was probably the second angriest I had ever been in my life (the angriest being a time in high school when I was under the impression that someone was trying to physically harm my mother – but that’s a whole other story).

 I was definitely ready to fight. I would take just him, or him with his three friends. I did not care. I was supremely frustrated and wanted to take out on that asshole right then and there. I told the Ladakhi guy to translate, “Let’s get off the bus. Whoever gets back on gets to decide where the seat goes.” He told me, “I won’t translate that. Calm down. Let me trade seats with you. I’m smaller so the seat won’t hurt my legs.” I told him not to do it, that it wasn’t necessary – that we could make him move the seat. He insisted. The man had been so helpful and patient with me all night, I could not refuse him. I traded seats with him and was significantly more comfortable. After I calmed down, I thought about falling asleep, but was worried I would miss my stop. A few people got off the bus as it was still nearly in motion during the night. They vanished into the pitch black of the rural Indian unknown. It must have been less unknown to them than it was to me. 

Eventually, the darkness turned into light and we stopped for breakfast. I asked the driver if we had passed Pushkar yet because I was under the impression we were going to stop at 4 a.m. He laughed and said that we had. I rushed to the Ladakhi to tell him my new challenge. He said, “oh shit,” and that’s when I knew I was kind of screwed. He said my best bet was to continue to Jammu, where he would help me find a bus back to Pathankot. The problem was he would have to do it because supposedly, according to him, people are not that nice to tourists in Jammu. Once we arrived in Jammu, he and I got off quickly and found a bus ticket information booth. He walked me to the bus headed in the right direction. I shook his hand, tried to think about whether or not it was appropriate to offer him money for all of his help, but before I could offer him anything…he took off. I am forever in debt to his generosity, patience, and willingness to help me. I started the drive back to Pathankot. 

The Ladakhi had apparently told the bus fare collector to inform me where the Pathankot stop was. He did. Much to my surprise, it was a sign that “Pathankot: 3 KM”. No wonder I didn’t get off the right stop. It was merely a sign in the pitch black of the night. It was probably better off I didn’t see it. I did not want to be walking through that street for 3 km at 4 am. It was a friendly area, and a large number of people smiled and waved at me. However, given my exhaustion…it was a difficult walk. I finally reached Pathankot. I get lucky once more. There was a bus leaving for Dharamsala in fifteen minutes. I quickly grab a maaza – my favorite mango drink in India…and board my bus. After driving to Dharamsala for about 45 minutes, our bus breaks down. I kid you not. And that, for me, officially marked this excursion to Delhi as the trip from Hell. All the men, with me as the exception, rush to the engine a hopeless attempt to fix the problem. They all gave up in what must have been under five minutes. We waited for about 40 or fifty minutes until another bus headed to Dharamsala came by. We all rushed to load the bus. I managed to get inside, but others were not so lucky. Of course we allowed the women to get on first, but there were a large number of men who jumped on as the bus was leaving our location and were hanging off the bus’s doorway with one arm. However, this is quite the norm in India. Vehicular safety does not seem to be a priority.

 I FINALLY reached Dharamsala a few hours later. It seemed unreal. I walked into my hotel room and looked in the mirror. My face was brown and black – soiled by the massive amounts of much and trash I had navigated in the last two days. I took a quick shower – the bucket kind – and laid down to sleep. A few days later I would learn that the woman from the Delta Delhi office could not change my ticket. There were tickets available for the flight I needed, but her Delta software program could apparently not interact with Air India. I was leaving Delhi with Air India but was returning home once I got to the states with Delta. I could not change my Air India flight with Air India, which I had already tried to do several times…so it looked like I was still going to miss the DL. However, my mom being the brilliant genius superhero that she is managed to go to the Delta office in Austin, TX – find the Delta guru of the airport, and talked with him for hours to make my flight change possible. He tried every trick and strategy and was eventually able to change my flight. So I never had to go to Delhi in the first place. To my credit, both Air India and Delta had repeatedly told me that the only possible way to change my tickets was in Delhi. Oh well. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? Let’s hope so.