Home Sweet India

My first Indian meal at the Delhi Airport!

Its been a week since I first stepped foot on India soil, and it's been a constant adventure. After a solid 24 hours spent in airports and planes, Air India and the Delhi airport had me convinced that India wasn't that different at all compared to my Western world. Cushioned reclining seats, neat orderly shopping centers, air conditioning. My first step outside those airport doors was a harsh awakening. Culture shock might be considered an understatement. What greeted me in the hot musty air was a chaotic mergence of traffic, pedestrians, bikes, more traffic, and cattle. I was frozen. Luckily, JB’s friends, Kishore, Amos, and Praveen, were there to rescue us. As we waited for them to arrange a ride for us, I stood in the middle of this madhouse and was honked at, yelled at, and almost ran over a million times even though I could have sworn I was standing on the sidewalk. This chaotic jumble I would soon come to learn as their orderly norm.

First hotel room

Our first night was spent in a hotel, or a room that would never pass American standards. Still it was cheap, cool, and had a porcelain toilet. This would be the last Westernized toilet I would see for days. Despite its shortcomings, I was thankful to just be done traveling. The taxi ride there was almost as bad as the 14 hours spent in the plane. Constant weaving in and out of traffic, butt puckering close calls, road signs and lines just merely suggestions, cattle and dogs. So many people sleeping on the road. Trash everywhere. Buildings on buildings on shacks. No urban planning. Every twist and turn with not one road sign as a guide had me wondering if anyone had made an executive decision on how to build this city or was it just a collaboration of individual ideas. A scary and harsh difference from my world at home, but just a week here has allowed me to understand this new way of life, and at times find sense in it all.

Inside my sleeper train cubby. Goodmorning India.

The next three days were spent traveling about southern India. We travelled the next night on a sleeper train to Kishore’s hometown, Midalam. The sleeper train I had heard was the way to travel in India. Sleeping in the 3-tier bunks eliminates the need for a hotel that night. And with a dinner of chapatti and docai served, it’s nearly luxury. I heard rumors of toilets on trains, just holes in the floor that led straight to the tracks. Well this isn’t just the case for trains. Turns out our flushing throne in the hotel was a treat. Still toilet paper is a foreign concept. Squat, drip dry, and pray for a clean poop.

Typical Indian bus

The air in Midalam was much cooler, the town much smaller, and the landscape BREATHTAKING. A low flat lying coastal town with sporadically placed mountains jutting up thousands of feet in the air, perfectly reflecting the morning light. Kishore’s family was absolutely beautiful and so welcoming of their foreign guests. They days were spent traveling to various tourist attractions, temples, bridges, dams, waterfalls, palaces, and their own private beach in paradise. When we returned home, his mother and grandmother had prepared dinner for us, as guests we dined first. Kishore allows me to watch them prepare the meals so I can maybe learn how to cook it myself. Very simple with few ingredients, seemingly little room for error. A small kerosene stove heating a black iron plate. An iron pot over the wood stove for the rice. I would love to help them in the kitchen, but Kishore explains that in an Indian family, a guest does no work. In America we have kind of have the same policy. Except the guest insists, the host says no, but eventually it’s a team effort because secretly the host doesn’t want to do all the work alone.

Kishore's family kitchen

Kishore's Grandmother (Parte)

@Kanyakumari

Ghandi's ashes

I’ve done a lot of comparison of Tamil culture to American. Obviously to help make sense of it all . I find that Indian culture and customs make more sense. As with driving, in America we drive as individuals, focused only on our route and destination. And as long as everyone sticks to their path, everything runs smoothly, no collisions. But the moment someone varies from their lane, crosses that line, ignores right-of-way, we lock up, get angry and inevitably continue on our path which is now destined for collision. Indians are simply organized chaos. Lines or meant to be ignored, stop signs are always yields. However, everyone drives with everyone in mind. Actions are completely dependent on the actions of others and adjusted accordingly to avoid collision. Not one accident. Its like a dance, very synced. Horns are not used as tools of aggression but rather means of communication and alert. Although I doubt I could ever drive in their chaos, I can appreciate this way of life. A true example of coexisting.

Praveen & I

On the plane over here, I did my best to cram in as much Hindi as possible. Turns out this was useless. In south India, in the state of Tamil Nadu, everyone speaks Tamil. More understand English better than Hindi. Praveen, with his broken English, has been an amazing teacher. As much as he wants to improve his English, I make him teach me the Tamil word for every little thing. When we returned from our day of sightseeing, Kishore wanted to show off my new knowledge to his family. Most of the words I’ve learned will probably be useless in everyday life, but I had them laughing with every word that came out of my mouth. They’ve even given me a Tamil name, one that his family now uses when talking to me. Chellathai. It means loving mother. I find it ironic, yet beautiful.


Another two words I love are their words for love and ocean. Kadhl and Kadal. A slight variance in vowel sound. It makes me wonder, are the words similar because they view the two similar? Maybe one a physical metaphor for the other. Maybe a lesson on how to love or what love is.

The goodbyes with Kishore’s family was even longer than the introductions. Although we had only been there 2 days, and barely had any direct conversation with his family, his mother began crying before we had even grabbed our bags to walk out the door. Aunts, uncles, and cousins all wanted their picture with us. As we piled into the car, everyone came out reaching in, kissing our hands, shaking them through the window. His uncle gave us a parting gift of oranges and bananas for the bus ride ahead.

Words can not even describe the misery of that bus ride ahead. 16 HOURS spent traveling back to Chennai. And this isn’t your normal charter bus with padded reclining chairs, little TV’s on the ceiling every few rows. No. This bus was one rusty hunk of metal with metal seats and an engine that I feared was going to give out on a handful of occasions. There was no bathroom and no hot meal served like on the train. I slept maybe 2 hours total. The roads in India are so bad that every bump, ditch and pot hole sent me flying out of my seat.

We finally arrived in Chennai and began the last stretch of our journey to MCCSS, of course after struggling with auto drivers to decode the address we found on the website. The whole bus ride to Chennai I had been longing for this arrival. Finally we would have a home, a place where we could sleep and leave our heave bags. I’m not sure what I had pictured in my mind about MCCSS, but it was surely not what awaited us. We walked in and there was one man sitting at the front desk. We ask for Isabel and after a phone call he leads us upstairs to where will be staying. I had imagined there being many interns and meeting my roommate, but he opened up the door to an empty 10 person bunk room. Not a word said, just nodded his head and left. Apparently JB and I had this whole room to ourselves. We started searching the building for others but found no one. There was no introduction, direction of where to get food, nothing. I was unbelievably exhausted, mentally and physically. I called my mother crying, wondering how in the world I was going to live here for four months. April suddenly seemed an eternity away. My mind flooded with thoughts of failure as I drifted off to sleep.

When we finally awoke, it was nighttime and I heard voices coming from down the hall. There were three Danish girls. I could not even express how relieved it was to see them. Turns out it was their last night at the agency, one girl had already been there for three months, but the short time spent with them helped prepare me for my work ahead. She told us about all the work she had done, what the staff was like, and took us to meet the boys.

The boys, they are absolutely phenomenal. My feelings of isolation and homesickness began to dissolve as I was greeted by 15 young boys, full of energy and excitement to meet us, and to my relief spoke perfect English. As they went around introducing themselves and playing, they began calling me Sister.

The first few days at MCCSS have been amazing. All fears of not being able to survive hear vanished after our orientation of the agency and the city surrounding us. Even though I haven’t even been in the area for a week, I already feel at home and as if I know my way around. Many of the shop owners recognize us and wave as we pass by.

The third night there, I met the girls. And I fell in love 20 times over. I had been so scared to meet them. Putting it off as much as possible telling myself that I wasn’t ready and I needed more preparation. The Danish intern shared briefly about some of the girls’ cases and how when sitting with them they would randomly share tidbits of their story as if it was nothing. I though that if I could read their cases before hand, I would know how to handle the situation better. She also said that visiting with them could be challenging and awkward because they were quiet and spoke little English.

I’m not sure what she was talking about.

Before going to dinner with Isabel that night, she invited us up to her apartment which is attached to the home for human trafficking victims. So inevitably we were going to be forced to meet them. Forced ended up having a whole new meaning. The moment we reached the top of the stairs, we were swarmed and dragged into the home with hugs, smiles, and introductions by some of the most beautiful girls I will ever meet. There was about 15-20 of them, all speaking about perfect English, wanting to know our names, where we are from, and to show us their home. There was so much life and energy about them, that I felt ignorant for ever thinking of them as sad, broken victims. These young women were survivors.

The next half hour was spent laughing, dancing, and playing games. They even convinced JB and I to join in their performance and taught us a little Bollywood dancing.

I was so happy that I couldn’t stop smiling even after we left. In the car ride to dinner, Isabel shared with us some of their stories. And while all of them were terrible and horrific in different ways, it made me see the strength and resilience in these girls and how far thy have come.

This is where I will be spending most of my time in the upcoming months.

This will become my home. These girls, my family.