I got into India at 3 am today. As we were taxing the runway in the airplane the cabin depressurized. Air from outside began to filter its way into the cabin for the first time since we had left the hot and dry city of Doha. As India started to infiltrate the airplane I could smell that old somewhat smoky air, the dampness that clings to the inside of your nostrils. I couldn't wait to step foot outside the airport. Before I could do that though I had to go through customs where I was asked to empty my pockets, step through the metal detector, the usual ordeal. When I took the contents out of my pockets I realized I had accidentally taken the cellphone Sylvia and Levon had got for me when I first got to Armenia. It's rather small so I'm not surprised I missed it. Most days in Armenia I honestly forgot it was there. Which lead to one non opened text message from my time in Armenia. It was from Levon. It read something along the lines of "Hey, when will you be back?" I know this was from an early time this week. But it gave my heart a little flutter, sparking again that feeling that seems to have instilled itself in me when I think of Armenia.
After a brief minute of nostalgia I was being driven to my hotel (the Casa Cottage) by a taxi driver. How I missed India's driving. People say chaos and order or opposites. I would challenge them to try and analyze Indian traffic if they believe that to be the case. After a brief shower I laid down and fell into a deep sleep. I woke up to the housekeeping staff buzzing my door to clean up. I groggily asked for five minutes in my underwear while I wiped the crust from my eyes. The two women laughed at me, nodded and began their descent down the spiral staircase outside my room. I threw on some clothes and headed downstairs where I was greeted by the one thing that got me out of bed each day. An incredible breakfast waiting for me. Coffee, toast with jam, dosas, fruit salad and fresh squeezed mango juice. It felt like I had never left. After considering what to do for the day I set out with my camera, book bag and rain coat. It didn't look particularly like rain but there was a 35% chance. I was soon to get my first real lesson in Indian weather.
After climbing in a rickshaw to take my to the city market I began walking around the vendors. Fresh fruit, herbs, spices, flowers dyes, chai tea bubbling in the pot and people with a slightly sweet sweat from the heat. All of their aromas blending together in the air to form a beautiful blend of India. I walked around eyeing the bustling people. The market was much busier than the last time I was there. There was scarce room for me to maneuver and my backpack kept jostling people on the street. I felt a rain droplet hit my nose. Another hit my shoulder, it was so fat it soaked right through my shirt as and splashed some of its contents on my neck. Then the sky opened up. It poured like nothing I had ever seen before. In a flurry, everyone around me began to disappear under whatever shelter they could fine. In what seemed like less than a second I went from being in the middle of a crowd of people to being nearly solitary standing in open sidewalk. I made my way underneath the plastic tarp of a fruit vendor where a number of people waited for the rain to past. And that's what we did. We waited. All around people were standing quietly under the available shelters. The incessant beeping and honking of India traffic ceased, the busy patter of the people's footsteps disappeared, the hawking of vendors vanished and the chatter of the people died down. It was just us huddled together listening to the rain. A symphony opened up before us as the rain hit off the different surfaces around us. Sharp pinging as droplets struck off an overturned metal bucket that moments ago was a seat. Flat, deep bass notes rung as the rain drenched a piece of heavy wool that hung over one vendor. The rain was playing its music and whether people quieted down to listen to it or not, that's all the sound there was. The rain let up gradually and slowly the streets became full again.
I made my way through the market place that was much busier than the previous time I had visited. Every stand was open. People were yelling about what they had to sell and others were yelling back trying to talk prices down. It was very surreal to be in this crowd of people where everyone was yelling a foreign language. After some chai I left the market to make my way back to the hotel. It was about two miles walk and I have always been fond of wandering. No sooner had I made up my mind than I felt those first few raindrops again. They were heralding the storm that would arrive not but half a moment later. Again it poured and again everyone scrambled to find cover. I did the same but it wasn't near as romantic this time. I had find myself not far from the massive piles of waste the market puts out. Rain soaked through the heaps of old flowers, once fresh vegetables, muddy dyes and stale spices. The once sweet smell that filled the air turned sour. Rot began to seep out of the piles of refuse. Little creeks of mud, food, cow dung and multi colored dyes began to flood the streets. At our feet cars rushed past knocking the blend onto those unlucky enough to pass by. The air became thick and I ran to the street to hail a rickshaw. I jumped in the first one that pulled over and told him I'd direct him as we went while he pushed heavy on the gas. Soon we were clear of the market and the smells turned back to sweet and smoky.
As we made our way back, school was letting out. Students filed out of their schools and crammed into rickshaws or waited to walk home together. Huge classes of kids all wearing the same uniforms. As we passed they I could hear their high voices in elation as the rains let up and they jumped into puddles or ran to be greeted by the open arms of their parents. I was dropped off outside the hotel. I had no sooner made it back into the courtyard when I felt that solitary rain drop again. I got to my room just as buckets began to fall once again.