Delhi, first morning

Jill, 10-30-10
Raj wants to see India “through my eyes.” Yet I feel in a sense she has some idea of what my eyes will see...she is so curious what I see. I almost want to go spend a day alone to see what it is my eyes are seeing without being aware of her idea of what it is I may be seeing.

I notice myself taking out the camera, wanting to capture odd little moments and scenes--not unlike I do in the U.S. I notice the smell of where we are, which somehow is exactly what I might have expected, given Raj’s description. Maybe I am smelling India through her nose, her memories. The smell is compelling, captivating...like a mix of industry, street food, cows and a hint of incense somewhere in the corner. Salt. Silt. Grit.

We continue to try to be mindful of where we are in terms of expressing affection, or telling people that we’re a couple. For example, the cab driver asked Raj if she were married. She replied, “Not yet.” I saw a couple of well-groomed, clean-pressed bright-eyed men walking by holding hands, and wanted to run after them and ask where the nearest gay bar was. Raj stopped me and reminded me that men in India often hold hands as an expression of friendship. In retrospect, I guess that was a lot more likely than that they were expressing romantic affection.

I realize it would have been good to research what’s up with homosexuality in India before thrusting ourselves into the thick of it.

Raj, 10-30-10
India. Home. And not home. It’s strange to be back, to have the familiar clinging so comfortably to my back, holding me like a baby, reminding me of a very distant past. I don’t speak the language and yet I feel soothed when spoken to. Each bite from each meal sparks flecks of memories long stashed away, hidden almost in haste, afraid of what the truth might reveal. I am home, for at least a part of me. And it is that part that embraces all that India thrusts into my heart. My tender heart.
“I have lived in the US too long”, Jill uttered over paratha and chai during breakfast. I looked over, warmed by such a bold statement. Yes, I think. The US is an easy life, one in which I am always reminded of how grateful I am upon my return from this land. Bharat. This land. My land. My not land. No one’s land.
“My father is Bengali”, I say to the concierge and quickly reduce our cost by 500INR ($11.50) for our trip to Agra tomorrow. The convenience of being biracial.

I am excited to spend the day with Jill tomorrow at the Taj Mahal.