When I first visited India, I hoped I would experience a sense of reunion and reconnection with the land of my ancestors, who were hauled by the British to work the plantations of Guyana in South America almost two hundred years ago. Of course, in reality, I was an American tourist cloaked in brown skin, as shocked and wide-eyed as any Westerner.
I can still remember my first night in Delhi: stepping over rows of sleeping bodies lined up on the dusty, crumbling pavement, the sizzling of hot oil from a roadside stand, the cars, auto-rickshaws, cows, dogs, and men - so many men! - that sidled by in the glittering darkness.
Comparing my experience with that of white colleagues and friends, I'm grateful for my ability to blend in, at least superficially. Certainly no one gave me a second look as I wandered around Malleswaram, a suburb of Bangalore, on my latest venture to the motherland. I loved wandering the streets of this neighborhood on my afternoon off from work.
 |
| The ubiquitous auto-rickshaw! Both a potential death trap and a relatively efficient form of transportation. Their beeps sound much like the Roadrunner, only times a billion. |
 |
| A man eager to help me with directions to a sari shop that I never found. |
 |
| Betel leaves, which are used to make paan. |
 |
| Apparently, folding your arms behind your back helps with posture. |
