Saturday, 12/09/2006

The plane to Delhi is full of Indian families, coming to visit family or friends in a country and home they miss. There are also Indian businessmen. And, occasionally, there are white American tourists coming to explore the landmarks. I am automatically grouped with them by virtue of my skin color.

I don’t want to be a tourist. I don’t want to explore, spend, and leave without a trace, adding India to my list of visited countries and saying that I have now seen the world because I have been to a third-world country.

No, I want to be different. I want to take photographs and make an impact, help the people I photograph. Show Northwestern students and others the lives of the children who attend the Sandipani Muni School and illustrate life in the widow community. I want to procure support.

But then, what am I? I am taking photos and profiting from other people’s misery for the sake of a good photograph. And leaving, like all tourists eventually do.

*****

The plane lands and I can already feel the heaviness of the air. It’s thick and smoky and weighs on the lungs. When I exit the airport, it looks and feels like a mist engulfing me.

A driver from the hotel where I will be staying the night greets me after the customs checkpoint. It is about 11pm and pitch black outside, so I see little of what we pass on the drive. He points out the tree-lined road along which diplomats live. The traffic is bumper-to bumper, with people honking constantly and swerving every which way. But he navigates skillfully and quickly, narrowly averting a few collisions.

I am whisked away to a hotel where a lot of Westerners stay. There are a pool and fitness room. There are gift shops. There are king-sized beds and widescreen televisions.

The next morning, total contrast. I am being picked up the next morning by a driver who will take me to Vrindavan. At about 10am, he phones: “Hari Krishnan.”

We wind through the jammed Delhi streets, me wide-eyed in the back seat. Daylight reveals everything I missed the night before. Garbage, everywhere. Goats, cows and dogs wandering the lengths of the roads, sometimes crossing. People asleep on the sidewalks. Stands selling vegetables, fruit, snacks. Dust. Smoke.

We pass dozens of motorcycles carrying entire families. On one motorcycle a man rides with two goats. Trucks and rickshaws jammed with people pass by. Many people notice me and stare. Others smile.

We sit at a traffic light, and several vendors approach the vehicle. A boy selling magazines taps on my window, pointing to the cover the Vanity Fair issue featuring Suri Cruise. “Please, Madam.” Another woman shows her swollen and disfigured hands to me through the window and begs for help. It is hard for me to shake my head, “No.”

We speed on, finally entering the countryside. Children tend to green fields. Women walk with bundles of vegetation on their heads.

The driver eventually turns onto a quieter, tree-lined road. “Vrindavan,” he says, a twinkle in his eyes and a wondrous intonation to his voice.

*****
There is something about Vrindavan.

Rupa, the man I am to meet today, has told me my perspectives will change after spending time here and that my goals for the photo project will change, as well.

It’s never quiet here. Noise is almost a culture and a comfort.

As in Delhi, there is the honking of car horns. When you are driving and want to pass someone, you don’t tailgate or flash your brights. You honk. They pull over and let you pass.

There is the rumbling of trucks through narrow streets, even in the wee hours of the morning.

And there are the constant sounds of prayer. Some temple programs begin at 4:10am. You hear human voices before the sun rises every day, and there is comfort.