Reflections from Delhi

I remember sitting on a crowded bench in the Delhi train station dripping in 110 degree heat praying for it to cool down. I wondered how it could be so damn hot at 8 p.m. I remember looking at my daughter, Kate, who’d been living in India for two years and noticing how she looked like the other Indians around us who appeared hot, but not drenched like me. I remember feeling relieved that at least my other daughter, Annie, was sweating as much as me even though she was only 25.

I remember thinking age didn’t seem to mediate the heat. I remember wishing I didn’t stick out so much as a foreigner, but the combination of my white skin and wet clothes made that impossible.

I remember endlessly wiping my face with my new orange dupata and worrying I was going to wreck it. I remember Kate telling me not to worry, because the dupatas, Indian scarves, were used to protect against the elements; this included sweat. She told us that the women wore them to shield against sun and wind as well as over their heads for temple visits.

I remember Kate said, “people here use powder to help stop perspiration.” I said “This would have been helpful to know before I soaked through all my bandanas and my new dupata.” I remember Kate smiling and saying, “Yeah, I forgot to tell you; I don’t sweat here as much anymore.”

I remember looking around the station and seeing hundreds of Indians sitting on the ground and benches waiting for their trains; few were standing. I remember marveling that, in spite of the heat the people seemed to sweat little. I remember thinking how beautiful the women looked in their brightly colored kurta tops of every imaginable color- blues, greens, yellows, purples- worn over loosely fitted pants. I remember how they appeared cool in their equally brightly colored dupatas draped over their shoulders or heads. I remember the young people, male and female, wearing jeans; the girls wore them under their kurtas; everyone wore sandals.

I remember trying not to drink all my water, keeping some for the six hour train to Amritsar in the Punjab state on the border between India and Pakistan. I remember being relieved to finally board our train and finding our sleeping compartment where we settled in and immediately opened our dinner cooked and packed by Sunita, our host and Kate’s Indian mom.

I remember loving the curry lentils and tasting the cardamom and other spices for which I had no names. I remember being grateful for the home cooked snacks, spicy and sweat, which she sent along for the long ride north. I remember Kate told us we had to bring the containers back home to Sunita.

I remember thinking, after being on the train all night; I would awake in the morning in Amritsar, home of the Golden Temple, and the holiest place for Sikhs.

I remember that, in spite of how different I felt, I was at home in India with the people, the food, and the dupatas I learned to wear for protection and style.