The Unexpected Souvenir, Part 2 (Life Changing Moments Series)

Here's part 2 of "The Unexpected Souvenir," by Ellen Weeren (click here to read part 1), in which her trip winds down and takes an unexpected turn. Ellen graduated from college with an English Writing degree 20 years ago and began her career as a law enforcement policy writer, newsletter editor, and conference planner. When her second child was born in 1999, she quit working and quit writing. Then, three years ago, her husband was very unexpectedly offered a job in New Delhi, India. After Ellen literally threw up, she moved her family across the ocean to a country she knew very little about. She knew it would be amazing but she was also more than a tad overwhelmed. As part journal and part therapy session, Ellen started a blog about her family's adventure--A Reason To Write, which has received international recognition as one of the best travel blogs in the blogosphere. Moving to India was a gift in many ways--a gift to see what rest of the whole world is really like, the gift to travel, and the gift of many reasons to write again. Ellen enjoyed writing so much that she started a second blog called A Reason To Read, where she reviews books. Since returning to the U.S., Ellen continues to pursue writing and is even now dabbling in a little fiction. You can follow her on Twitter at @EllenWeeren or @AReasonToWrite.

As I was putting my phone away and sinking into my seat, I looked around at the busyness on the street. It was chaotic and endless. It was hard to pick out a single scene and focus on it. The realization that I was now exhausted began to settle in and I leaned back in my seat, turning the air vent toward my face.

But then just over to my left, a man came into view. There was no reason, really, that I should be drawn to him. He was loosely defined in the same dusty, brown haze as the foggy air that surrounded him. He wore a simple and stale, used-to-be-white robe and was standing in the middle of the road. In between traffic and blinks, he could have easily disappeared. He looked like he needed help.

It was not immediately clear just how truly desperate he was. You can unfortunately and unintentionally become numb to the desperation in India a little too easily. Even with the biggest most generous heart, the knowledge that you simply can't help everyone graciously lends you an excuse to ignore someone who is clearly struggling.

The Reveal
My friends were still on their phones and I am pretty certain that they never even saw what happened next. I don’t know how my driver could have possibly missed it but he showered me with the gift of never discussing it. As the traffic light in front of us turned red and traffic slowed, the man in the middle of the road slowly began lifting the skirt of his tattered robe.

At first, I only saw his bare and wrinkled brown feet. His toes seemed to be bent in half from holding on too tightly to the melting asphalt. Then he revealed his far too skinny ankles. Followed by his knotted, bent, and ashy knees. His skin was stretched tightly over bones that were very likely brittle and deteriorating. They were bones that had probably never tasted milk and knew nothing of vitamins. Maybe they had never even had the chance to be strong enough to allow him to hold up his slight frame with pride and determination or, more importantly, hope.

It took me a few seconds to fully comprehend what he was doing. To allow myself to believe I wasn't just imagining it. But not enough time to distract myself from it--to delve into conversation and disappear or close my eyes and wish him away.

With his skirt fully lifted, I finally began to understand what he was doing. This man had taken straw-colored raffia and tied it around one of his testicles. It had swollen to nearly the size of a basketball. He would lift his robe to show the people driving by just how profoundly he needed help. Their help. And, then, my help.

What Are You Supposed to Do?
Questions raced through my head. How are you supposed to respond to that? How do you digest that? How can you explain it? What are you supposed to do? I wanted to understand how this could possibly make sense. How do you say that, from an air conditioned car with a full belly and new rings on your fingers, you are not going to stop and do something, anything?

I was momentarily mad at India for hosting me in this amazing adventure through the streets of Old Delhi, only to bring it to this nonsensical end. There were so many times when there was truly nothing I could do to make a situation better. But this time maybe I could have, at least momentarily, helped another human being.

As the light blinked back to green, my anger drained back into its more comfortable state of confusion. The "why" of it once again hung in the air as a question without an answer. We drove away but I can never forget his face. His black eyes were unwillingly resigned to accepting his position. His absolute destruction was the way he fought back and garnished attention.

Many westerners might have seen him and railed against his condition, calling him lazy or foolish, angry that he would expect others to make his life better. India has the unique ability to make you feel angry, sad, helpless, and guilty all at the same time. Sights like this man leave the visitor wondering, "what the bloody hell."

I was so stunned that I could not have acted even if I had thought of something to do. Even if I had thought to empty my purse at his feet, I could not have done it. In the tremendous heat, I was frozen. I never even turned my head away. Our eyes met as we were rolling away and he just looked at me as if to say, "Yes, my dear, you are seeing exactly what you think you are seeing, and what are you going to do with it?"

I sat in disbelief that I completely ignored a man who had intentionally mangled part of himself beyond all recognition.

What Am I Supposed to Do?
I still question what I am supposed to do with his image. I am not sure how to handle this experience. What to do with it. I sometimes wonder who would care what this man across an ocean did. How does it relate to life here and now?

It would be all too easy to pretend that his suffering was unique to that land so far away from the home I have now returned to. But struggle in the human condition is universal and need is everywhere, even though it is not always so obvious.

So, while I still regret not acting in that moment, the experience did change me. I am disappointed in myself for not finding a way to make a difference for that man and the thousand, maybe even million, others who join him on the streets of Delhi and other places.

But now, more so than ever, when I have the chance to be helpful, I take it. And, it is most often in simple ways that really don't cost me much more than a few minutes. My actions won't change the world and I understand that. But I can make little moments a little better. It's not that hard really--hold the door open a little longer so the person behind you can walk through it too, smile more, make dinner for a friend, call someone who is hurting, donate food to a food bank, ask how you can help, etc. Most of it can be accomplished without much sacrifice.

I am not able to store this broken souvenir memory of a tattered man across an ocean away on a shelf and let it gather more dust. It is not a picture that I can shove in a scrapbook and close the cover to forget. It lives in my memory and reminds me nearly every day to be more helpful, kind, and generous. I am reminded to slow down and pay attention and not be so self-absorbed.

Now my vision of him has purpose, reminding me to not ignore the needs of others right in front of me. My memory of him matters more than any other trinket I brought home with me--even more than the bright, untarnished ring I bought that day in Old Delhi. Sadly that ring very often sits in the back of my jewelry box, mostly forgotten because it is just a thing that doesn't make much difference in the life of anyone I know.

*****

If you think you have a great life changing moment to share (and you probably have several), click here to learn how to get the conversation started. I'm sure if you think it's important, I may too.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out previous posts from the Life Changing Moments Series:

• Where Angels Fear to Tread.
• You Look Like Your Mama Mated With a Rhino.
• Why I Give Back to Writers.

The Unexpected Souvenir, Part 1 (Life Changing Moments Series)

This is the first post in the Life Changing Moments series to not appear on a Wednesday, but that's okay; it's also the first post in the series to be broken into two parts (and the second part is scheduled to drop on Wednesday). I'm so thankful to have readers like Ellen Weeren, who are willing to share their moments with me out of the blue. This particular moment--spread across two posts--manages to show various pieces of a culture that was foreign to Ellen and her friends. Being able to share her experience so honestly is really something incredible.

Ellen graduated from college with an English Writing degree 20 years ago and began her career as a law enforcement policy writer, newsletter editor, and conference planner. When her second child was born in 1999, she quit working and quit writing. Then, three years ago, her husband was very unexpectedly offered a job in New Delhi, India. After Ellen literally threw up, she moved her family across the ocean to a country she knew very little about. She knew it would be amazing but she was also more than a tad overwhelmed. As part journal and part therapy session, Ellen started a blog about her family's adventure--A Reason To Write, which has received international recognition as one of the best travel blogs in the blogosphere. Moving to India was a gift in many ways--a gift to see what rest of the whole world is really like, the gift to travel, and the gift of many reasons to write again. Ellen enjoyed writing so much that she started a second blog called A Reason To Read, where she reviews books. Since returning to the U.S., Ellen continues to pursue writing and is even now dabbling in a little fiction. You can follow her on Twitter at @EllenWeeren or @AReasonToWrite.

Ellen Weeren

Many westerners are hesitant to travel into Old Delhi. In fact, some companies even discourage their employees (especially the women) from going there because of the congestion, the dirt, and the male-dominated crowds. But I had two expat friends who were as eager for adventure as I was. We happily made plans for a visit to Old Delhi, refusing to be scared and refusing to miss out on the benefits of living abroad--the benefits of visiting places vastly different from what we knew to be normal and comfortable.

Old Delhi is just that kind of place. It is different in every way from anywhere I had ever been. It is alive with all that India is about. Old Delhi is a fascinating and wonderful corner that has been written about many times over. But it is best explored in person. The noise, the smells, the tastes, and the crowds just don't share themselves with a passive reader--they demand a captive audience who willingly slips in between the cobblestone pages and walks the alleys, someone who can't simply lay down a book and turn away.

Old Delhi Bikes

Uncomfortable Moments
However, I did appreciate the need for caution. There were certainly other experiences that surprised me throughout India and made me uncomfortable. Moments I simply did not understand. More than once, I saw a dead body strewn across the side of the road and easily ignored by many, many people passing by.

I was never able to reconcile that. The very nonchalant way that someone can distract herself from a human being lying forgotten or, even worse, avoided on the side of the road. Sometimes covered. Sometimes not. Without reporters dreaming of headlines. Minus crowds of people gathering and gasping in disbelief. Mostly just people moving on--or moving around--busy with their own ways, barely glancing over to see what happened other than to side-step the inconvenience of it all.

I always wondered who was at home waiting. Who did care that someone had stopped breathing through no fault of his own? Where was the person who had wreaked such havoc and how could he feel comfortable leaving such devastation unattended? What story would the family have to create with the absence of a caring witness?

Most of these memories simply dissipate into the haze. They fade and lose their sense of reality. In fact, unless armed with pages of my own words capturing the stories and proving that I once believed them, it might be hard to convince even me that some of it truly happened. I sometimes find myself thinking, "It couldn't. It wouldn't." But, then I would remember, "Wait, maybe it did."

Bathing Near a Train

Ignoring the Warnings
But Old Delhi was waiting and we confidently ignored the warnings. We knew enough not to go alone, to keep our purses tightly in front of us, and when to cover our heads. We understood the importance of being careful, but the promise of a tremendous experience drew us in.

We wrapped ourselves in colorful dupattas (scarves) and climbed the red stone steps to the Jama Masjid Mosque where Shah Jahan himself ended parades atop elephants with feasts and prayer and reflection. We gladly kicked off our shoes and rang the antique brass bell hanging from a new rope at the Jain Temple, letting the gods know we were there and asking them to keep watch over those we loved.

We visited our favorite jeweler and his family and spoiled ourselves with shiny trinkets and sips of chai tea out of the porcelain cups once owned by the jeweler's grandmother. We laughed that our new jewels were really for our kids and our grandkids and that we would just hold them in safe keeping until they were mature enough to care for and appreciate them fully.

We admired the seriousness of the kneeling students studying in the Fatepuri Mosque as they rocked in rhythm with their chanting. We found ourselves rocking slightly too, just like women do when they see another mother comforting a newborn, except this time we rocked forward and back. We inhaled the chili pepper dust and braved the stares of the testosterone-filled Spice Market, where we dined on delicious raw cashews and scrumptious pistachios as we watched men bathe in buckets right out in the middle of the streets. They only required a willing water spigot and small sheath of fabric to protect their modesty--two things not always easy to find. We understood the urgency to take advantage of the availability of water, even if it meant bathing on the street, in front of westerners who were taking pictures.

We slowed our pace when we saw the Sikhs reverently bowing as they entered their Gurdwara and praised their dedication to feed those who were hungry. We relished the fact that just up the street of Chandni Chowk was also the home of a Baptist Church and a Jain bird sanctuary. All of the world's major religions have a presence on that street and we soaked in just how wonderful that was. We marveled at just how misunderstood Old Delhi could be in the scrutinizing view of western eyes that were so quick to form judgments based on headlines alone.

We raced on to the famed Karims restaurant and joked, as we asked for our sodas in cans and paper plates for our food, that we were brave enough to eat the food but not brave enough to eat it off of their potentially unclean plates. We ate chicken and lamb soaked in oily, spicy sauces and ignored the stares of men who really did not grasp our comfortable presence.

We learned, we laughed, and we wore ourselves out. Our glow grew with every stop--we treasured the spirituality, the friendship, and the shopping.

A Land of Extremes
While we walked, we each shared our own stories of how we came to know India as such a land of extremes. How it could draw in your breath and steal your heart in the same exact moment with its paralleled regality and desperation. Children stood homeless on streets lined with fancy cars. Beautiful monuments captured history and graffiti.

For each of us there seemed to appear undeniable moments that made it impossible to pretend that we lived in a world where suffering didn't drape around us like a misty rain--slow, steady, and lingering--and if you stood in it long enough, saturating. For each of us, there were memories that we could not escape or deny.

It was best not to dwell on why it could be hard to live in India. So, on the way to the car, we distracted ourselves from the heavy pieces of our conversation and continued to enjoy the sights, sounds, and smells of Old Delhi. The roofs in the alleys donned hundreds of electrical wires laced between the buildings. Those wires served as balance beams for the monkeys who danced across them over our heads. Those monkeys watched over us, not serving as our protectors or entertainers but sizing up the potential of our packages, spying what we carried to determine if any of it was worth stealing. We did our own dance over unknown and smelly splats on the crackling walkway and tried to identify what each might be. Quickly, we decided some mysteries were better left unsolved.

We kept pace with the men and animals pushing and pulling carts and with the few women present who were covered in dark, shielding veils. Those women stared at us with as much fascination as we found in them, each of us wondering what could possibly be appealing about the others world.

Our walk continued as we maneuvered through the alleys in tandem with children coming home from school and merchants delivering their wares. A space that was meant to fit just barely three people somehow expanded to fit more than 10 as we twisted and turned to avoid colliding into others. Pungent spices continued to make us sneeze and even gag a little. Young brides shopped for handmade wedding invitations. Incense burned right around the corner from the used auto parts shop rich with its own smells of flaming rubber and grease.

As time dripped away, we knew we had better hurry and bustled to the car in a little bit of a panic as the realization sunk in that we might be late for school pickup. We got in the car and immediately started calling the different school offices to be sure they knew we were on the way--explaining that just this time, we would be just a smidge later than normal. "Traffic is horrible," we said and winked at each other while holding our hands just right so that our new rings reflected against the glass of the car window.

(Part 2 will be available on Wednesday.)

*****

If you think you have a great life changing moment to share (and you probably have several), click here to learn how to get the conversation started. I'm sure if you think it's important, I may too.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out previous posts from the Life Changing Moments Series:

• Where Angels Fear to Tread.
• You Look Like Your Mama Mated With a Rhino.
• Why I Give Back to Writers.