I'd like to welcome Elle Newmark with an insightful and heartfelt post of her experiences riding in New Dehli. Welcome Elle.
Driving in Delhi
My driver wove us through Delhi’s traffic with his usual calm expertise, avoiding rickshaws and bony sacred cows and suicidal dogs. Whenever we stopped at a red light, sad women came up to the car, holding limp, unconscious babies; they tapped on the windows as if they barely had the strength to lift their arms, and mimed putting imaginary food into their mouths. The babies flopped on their arms looked dead, and I was later told they are in fact drugged so as not to bother their mothers while they are working. The women’s bleak faces could rip your heart out, and if you hand them a 100-rupee note (two dollars) they run like hell, veils flying, before you can change your mind. If you don’t give them anything, they might pound the window angrily, their faces morphing in an instant from pathetic to furious. Sometimes they whine, “You are riiiiich. I am poooor.” You will always feel like a heel around these women.
At one stoplight, a filthy, skin-and-bones child tapped on my window, hopping up and down to bring his pitiful face into view. At the same time, an old leper with fingers grown together so that he had paws rather than hands, tapped on the opposite window with thick yellow fingernails. Shocked by the double onslaught of misery, the light turned green before I could react.
I groaned as we drove away, but my driver said that as soon as the light turns green they lose the mournful look and laugh like hell if you gave them money or call you vile names if you didn’t. But does that matter? They’re human beings, grasping for survival. Does it matter whether their situation is slightly less dire than they make out? One was a child. The other was a leper.