Grandpa was absolutely right when he said the smell would hit at about 6,000 feet altitude. I plug my nose and think that it must be the airplane food, but then I remember that chicken doesn’t smell like this. In fact, nothing smells like this. I would rather stick my head into the kitchen trash can than smell this. The pilot announces that we’ll be landing in New Delhi shortly and I’m torn between home and here, fear and excitement.
It takes me a minute of staring unperturbed and groggily at the rat-infested sidewalk to realize where I am. I’m in India. It has always been a fictional destination in my mind, one that I never thought I’d actually see. Am I really here? The last nine months have been a whirlwind of preparation for this humanitarian expedition, in which I’ll be teaching in an orphanage in the little town of Chamba. Since February, I have raised thousands of dollars, written press releases, sold my pitch to businesses, and planned medical workshops. Planning to go to India is one thing. Being here is another.
The next day is our first real encounter with the city. The smell hasn’t left my nose but now I realize what it is: burning heaps of trash. Everywhere. I see a dog, a cow, and a monkey all eating from the same pile of garbage. I’m sure this is the first time I’ve seen a man pee right in the street. There are several tents on every street block and I peek in one to catch a glimpse of a family’s life, like an open book, in their haggard faces and few possessions. Children, young, barefooted, and dirty tug at my sleeves and put their hands out to sell me a necklace or ask for money. I know they don’t work for themselves; human trafficking is a way of life for many children in India. When the sun goes down, we spend some time shopping in Old Delhi before our overnight train ride. The loud music, the crowded streets, the grabbing hands, the lustful look in the men’s eyes scare me enough to wish I’d never seen this place. I cuddle up with my blanket on the train while drunken Indian men slur in Hindi in the bunk next to me.
***
Our jeep makes its way down into the small town of Chamba, nestled deep into a valley at the foot of the Himalayas. The mountains are carved with rice terraces, like shallow green stairs and look especially majestic with rhythmic Indian music pounding in the SUV. I’ve been half way out the window snapping pictures for the past six hours, like an excited puppy with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. It’s taken me almost a year- plus forty eight hours of travel time- to get here and I’m trying to drink everything in. I notice houses dangling over the ledge of the mountain, possibly in danger of crumbling and falling into the angry river below. As we get into the heart of the town, I realize that it’s surprisingly charming in a way I can’t place. Every building is old and decrepit. A cow meanders through the main street. Dozens of kiosks showcase brightly colored scarves and bags.
The first run-in with my particular orphanage can only be described as somber. A couple of splintered wood planks here, a rusty piece of tin there. It seems to be leaning to one side and I’m almost afraid my breath will knock the whole structure over. Two small children run out, giggling and holding hands. “Namaste,” we say, and they can’t seem to stop giggling shyly. We make the rounds of introductions and stutter simple Hindi phrases we’ve learned. There is not an Indian child in sight that is not absolutely beautiful. They are exotic and dark; I want to reach out and touch their smooth milk chocolate faces. Although rotting at the gumline, their teeth look magnificently white against blackened complexions. It’s the eyes I can’t get over, though. They are large, white, glassy orbs with a twinkle and brightness that only comes with this kind of innocence and simplicity. Their irises range from light speckled gold to deep black. The ones my age look twenty years older, a testament to the difficult lives they’ve known.
The orphanage mistress takes us down the street to the school where we will be teaching. We’ve been warned in advance, but I still can’t stop the knot from tightening in my throat when I see the orphans under the stairs. They can’t afford uniforms and therefore aren’t allowed in the classrooms. No uniforms, no paid teachers, no school supplies except a piece of slate and chalk. These are the kids I’ll be teaching.
I have a pit in my stomach as we drive home and realize what a spoiled brat I am. A house in America, a car, a family who takes care of me, the gospel, an education, a list that doesn’t end. I suspect everyone else in the car is thinking the same thing. I imagine my mom serving a home-cooked meal in Salt Lake. I imagine cold lentils and curry served here twice a day.
The days go by quickly. We teach, we play, we bond. The language barrier is not an issue; we’ve discovered the universal language of physical touch. We share more hugs, kisses, and high fives than words, but this seems to melt the ice in a way verbal communication can’t. One day, the mistress tells us the girls are musically gifted but have no instruments, so we buy them instruments in town on our lunch break. They squeal and hug us and put on a show. I feel truly happy and can’t stop smiling. Giving feels contagious. We give them shoes, hygiene kits, and school uniforms. They give us more hugs and an enthusiastic “Dhanyavad!” We learn the government deems them unworthy of “higher education” and therefore has given them no hope for a future. We tell them we love them. They tell us in broken English that they will come to America someday. On the second to last day, we sing them Phil Collins’ “You’ll Be in My Heart” and the last chorus is sung in Hindi. We start to cry because they were only words until now. 17 year old Pushpa says "Don't cry, we have happy life!"
On our last day with the girls, we give them each a set of bangles- a dozen metal bracelets that sparkle and jingle when you walk. They don’t want to keep them for themselves; they want to share with us. Little hands shove bangles on our wrists, even though I have bought enough to last me a lifetime. They have nothing, and by nothing I mean the clothes on their backs, but they are quick to share. It’s not hard to see that they are more content than us, the privileged Americans. Something clicks in my head and I realize bangles don’t make them happy. Is that what makes me happy? I learn something about contentment from these orphans that sticks with me for a long time. We go back to the hostel and give almost all of our clothes to the cooks and their families.
I leave Chamba and I am the same spoiled eighteen-year old that I was three weeks ago. But I better understand these people as they have let me glimpse into their simple and happy lives. Etched in my head are those beautiful smiles, bright eyes, and dirty hands that have shown me the value of inherent happiness. And I’ve never felt better. I’ll go back someday.
***
Two days later, we are in Jaipur and it’s Thanksgiving Day. I eat a Cliff bar and two fruit leathers for dinner. It’s the best Thanksgiving dinner I’ve ever had.
