Arrival in Bangalore

by Lesli Christianson-Kellow (Canada)

A leap into the unknown India

Stumbling off the airplane in Bangalore my friend and I followed the crowd ahead of us. They joined a line, we did too. We were pointed to another line. Overtired from a 13 hour journey from London, and 8 hours from Canada. Twenty minutes later, luggage in hand, money converted to rupees, we exited the modest airport to the early morning light and into a crowd of demanding taxi drivers, vying to transport us to our next destination. We looked for the name of our ashram. Seeing a bent cardboard sign with crooked letters, we smiled and greeted a young man, assuming he was the messenger for the driver. He introduced himself as Kiran, our driver. “Meet me by that shack”, he said. “I parked far away, I will come get you.” He ran off. We went to the shack. We waited for 15 minutes, wondering where he was. Eventually he arrived in an older jeep, dented and painted to cover rust. He stowed our luggage. We crawled into the back seat, searching for seatbelts. There were none. I looked at my friend. She was annoyed. I shrugged my shoulders. I was giddy to be in India, a trip that had taken me 30 years. I inhaled the smells, people and quiet of the morning. This is India, I am here. Kiran jumped in, slammed the door, started the engine and stepped on the gas. Indian dance music blared from the speakers, he turned down the sound and dialled his phone with one hand. He spoke quick and hung up, but not before thumbing through his phone, selecting slow Indian music. Likely what he thought people twice his age might like to listen to. Driving away from the airport the streets were still quiet. At the side of the road, tea stands were being set up. The first milk teas of the day were being prepared. After awhile, Kiran, asked us if we wanted tea. We looked at each other. The thought of drinking roadside tea first thing upon landing in India made my stomach clench a bit. I shook my head. Kiran pulled the jeep over, hopped out and lit a cigarette. He chatted with an old man brewing tea and disappeared behind a shanty. I glanced around the jeep - paper cups, snack bags, vinyl seats, dirty windows, not quite the vehicle I pictured when the ride was arranged in the comfort of my dining room back in Canada. I shifted in my seat, feeling sweat under my thighs. The windows were down and that confirmed that there would be no AC on our journey. Kiran appeared, took the tea that the old man held out to him and drank it, handing the glass back. He took a drag of his cigarette, dropping the butt in front of him, he stepped on it as he jumped into the jeep. Starting the engine he did a quick shoulder check and stepped on the gas pulling onto the highway. Traffic had started to build up considerably since we had left the airport. My friend fell asleep. I did not want to sleep. The tea stands along the side of the highway stretched on for a long time. Once they were gone then there were stands selling toothpaste, chips and razors. The traffic was building. I thought I had seen painted traffic lines on the road, but the drivers ignored the lines. Buses, tuktuks, cars, and motorbikes all competed for space on the road, driving like they were all making a mad dash to the finish line. Most of the vehicles carried two too many passengers, I looked in fascination as a motorbike passed with an entire family onboard - Dad, Mom, and three kids. But, it was the colors that held my attention - saris - orange, pink, yellow, red - billowing in the breeze on woman huddled together in the backs of small trucks, on woman walking in groups of 2 or 3 on the side of the road. Shimmering and brilliant against the dull shacks built from scraps of wood and the dirt paths along on the side of the road. This is India, I am here.