Traveling in India

Usually, traveling presents a unique set of horrors. We are all familiar with lost baggage, delayed flights, and the general incompetence of airlines. I experienced all of this on my voyage to India, which lasted 24 hours longer than it should have. But travelling in India presents its own unique constellation of troubles. For me, it started in Frankfurt with an army of sari-clad grandmothers clutching an even more formidable clan of screaming children shoving their way to the front of the line to claim their pre-boarding status. It was as though I was stuck in a scene to recreate an overcrowded train with people hanging out windows and sitting on the roofs of its cars. However, this minor inconvenience was nothing compared to next voyage.

It all started with a desire to escape the solitude of Rishi Valley and visit my grandparents in Bangalore. My intended route was not overly complex: a public bus would pick me up at the gates of the school and deliver me to another bus, which would bring me to Bangalore. But appearances can be deceiving, because in rural India, a public bus is actually an autorickshaw meant to seat three people that held seven. I hopped in the backward facing seat at the rear of the auto. Holding on for dear life, I was terrified as we travelled at breakneck speeds over first pockmarked paved roads, then unpaved roads, then off-road rocky terrain. I was amazed at the fact that a 70-year-old patient from the health center was able to clamber in the back with me and endure the bone-jarring journey.

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