India, 2009
We sat in the back seat of a rickshaw with my brother and his school friends after school one day. Three squished across the bench seat in the back, and me in the front with the driver. The day felt hot and sticky as we crawled through traffic, noise and daylight pouring through the open vehicle.
The traffic noise shifted as we climbed onto a bridge, and my view opened. First calm, and then something else. A sour smell rolled through the rickshaw. I gagged, then looked down—the water below the railings looked muddy and brown.
“What river is this?” I asked. “That smell. It’s … awful!”
One of my brother’s friends laughed, “You know, for the first month, I thought this was a river too. But it smelled so bad every day when I crossed it. Then I found it’s not a river at all, but an open sewer called Najafgarh Drain.”
“You know. I always wondered about this place,” My brother said. Then, “My love of Delhi changes with the smell. When the drains start cooking in the heat, and the sun is at its strongest … the city wreaks. It affects my whole demeanor. Most days, I love India, but those hot and stinky days, man, they wear my patience.”
“Yeah, today sure feels hot,” I said, pulling at the collar of my shirt to let in some air then sliding it over my nose.
The rickshaw driver snickered once beside me.
“Don’t worry. It’ll rain again.” his friend said from the back seat—maybe to me, maybe to my brother.
“Your love of India will return. It always does.”