The smell of rain is a little different in Delhi. It kills most of the fumes and dust. As a result it smells less. Instead of being openly assaulted, you have to sneak up on scents. Or stay inside.
Nonetheless, I need an umbrella. I left mine at the exurban enclave of patparganj. I am staying with a sweet couple that we met last time we were here. I had asked the man (a retired garmet maker) if the monsoon was over, and I thought that he had said yes, but his english is about as good as my hindi. So I may have to bargain for a new one.
It is odd not to experience India with M. I will meet her on Saturday (If Ganesha grants me the strength to make the 6AM train). Now, I sit in the internet cafe that I've written so many previous missives. I have grown to love hating the other people that frequent this spot. English, French, Italian, Australian, American and Israeli hippies who are here to learn different yoga techniques and come closer to finding nirvana. I wish that they were all closer to Kurt Cobain, but I'm happy that they bring money to India. As you can tell, I'm conflicted.
I'm in this godforsaken hippie tourist ghetto, because I'm going to meet with my friends at the Delhi Deaf Women's Sweatshop. I may talk to them about transit accessibility, and learn about how Delhi's system works (or doesn't work) for them. I'm worried that they will call me fat. Luckily the rain makes me look thinner.
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Jamie and Michele have rallied against all popular wisdom and good advice (again). Their visit to the indian continent should provide you with hours (if not minutes) of reading pleasures. Please sit back and relax as they selectively share their entanglements and stories of woe.
