I Don't Even Know

Yesterday I felt as though, figuratively, India had shat on me. Today, an Indian shat on me. But we'll leave that tale for a moment.

I ventured out again on errands, this time in search of that Holy Grail, a detailed map of India without an overpriced tour package. I knew where to find it and I knew how to get there, but over the course of two and a half hours through the most tourist-trafficked mile of New Delhi, I suffered numerous indignities. Allow me to reiterate: a man shat on me.

Later in the day, seeking to avoid the hellhole the call Connaught Place, a formerly grand shopping district of concentric collonaded plazas in the heart of Delhi, I literally went underground, taking Delhi's lovely, modern metro right underneath it. The Delhi metro, though incomplete is far more attractive and efficient than Boston's, New York's, and even Washington's. I surfaced at the New Delhi train station which was packed with thousands of people from every corner of India. My favorites by far are the Punjabi Sikhs, who wear bright robes, magnificent facial hair, and outlandish weaponry. I couldn't help but smile at the sight of a five-foot man bearing a four-foot sword and a three-foot beard.

I had more fun with the hasslers today. They compliment my beard. One man, a Sikh whose beard clearly surpassed my own, felt compelled to liken me to a series of Indian movie stars. This seems a common flow of conversation. Like so many others before him, he tried to direct me to where I could really get a map. He assured me he was trustworthy. "Yesterday I met with this American man" he said while he produced a business card. "He will meet with me because I am good people." The card read:

Timothy M. Geithner
Ambassador of the United States of America

Sometimes I don't even know where to begin.

When I said earlier that a man shat on me, this was not precisely true. In fact, I was walking down the street in Connaught Place when a man said to me "Excuse me, you have shit on your shoe. I clean it." I look down, and there is, in fact, shit on my shoe. On the top of my shoe. There is a gooey pile of wet, chunky, golden-brown human shit on THE TOP of my shoe, which moments before had been an idyll of shitlessness.

A predicament. I take a moment to meditate. Calling upon the wisdom of all the Gods, I traveled the astral planes in search of knowledge. Beneath the holy limbs of a blessed tree, I found my answer. Returning to the physical realm within a single instant, I knew that I was face-to-face with one of a dying breed, Delhi's fabled shoe-shitters, men who every day surreptitiously throw shit on shoes so that they may overcharge to clean it. My divine self rapidly succumbing to human emotions of bottled rage and silent fury, I beckoned the shoe-shitter to de-shit me. "I cannot do it here, is not allowed" he said as I removed the soiled sneaker. "We must go to pa..." That was as far as he got before a swift leg-sweep had him toppled against the traffic-control barrier and he found himself staring at his own wickedness. He cleaned my shoe. With his face.

Fearing the retribution of local police, who would likely have a more formal approach to justice than the numerous bystanders laughing and cheering me on, I made a swift getaway while brown shitstains seeped through the top of my shoe. I was soon hailed by a man whose mouth contained what could best be described as non-Euclidean dentistry. "Excuse me, you have shit on your shoe. I clean it." he said, but this man had the large wooden box of polish bottles that identifies the honest shoe-cleaner. We sat in the park and he meticulously removed the stains and scent from my shoe. We were surrounded by a pack of ear-cleaners, brandishing their filthy Q-tips and glossy photographs of random Westerners who allegedly paid over 50 dollars apiece to have their ears cleaned. I payed my shoe-cleaner handsomely.

This afternoon I finally did some tourism and wrote about it for my work. I visited the Jama Masjid, the mosque of the Mughal kings and the largest one in India. It was ok. An old Muslim man guided me through the compound. He was the most helpful and informative man I have met in Delhi. He thoroughly explained the architecture and layout of the complex, taught me about the slaughter of goats, and even demonstrated the use of arabic astrological timepieces. The most helpful man in Delhi was a mute.