“You should give New Delhi at least five days,” Jeremy had said. When I arrive in a new country, I typically prefer to escape the urban hustle and gradually work my way back to the cities. Yet, I realize that sometimes, treasures are found where we are least willing to look. If Jeremy was right, those five days could completely reshape my view of India. So, I reluctantly agreed to give New Delhi a chance. After all, I had a whole month in India—why not take it slow?
Landing there in the morning, I stepped into the Indian heat. Airports are a pain point for budget travellers like me. The constant hustle of taxi touts feels overwhelming, and with my limited budget, the regulated airport taxis feel prohibitively expensive. If money were less of a consideration, I’d have happily surrendered to the first taxi tout without protest. In this case, I went for the cheapest escape I could find while avoiding the nightmare of the local bus circuit. I booked a rideshare on a motorcycle.
I was surprised and unsettled when two young men, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, arrived on foot and escorted me from the airport. They spoke no English. “They probably aren’t allowed to operate in the airport,” I thought. But my heart raced as we moved away from the crowds. “Am I about to get mugged in my first hour?” I thought. “Why are there two of them?” My palms began to sweat, and the morning sun felt penetrating the further we walked. I felt acutely aware of my armpits. I began a mental list in case I needed to run.
After an eternity (probably ten minutes), we arrived at a small lot with a collection of motorbikes and other young Indians gathered around a small stove and a pot with boiling brown liquid. They greeted their two compatriots in Hindi, and I realized how absurd I must have looked: a nervous American, sweating through his shirt, treating these young guys like criminals for simply doing their job off-airport property. After some haggling, I boarded a motorbike and set off for the one hour ride to the city, wearing sandals and a sad excuse for a helmet. I white-knuckled the handles beneath my thighs as the driver dove into the stream of buses, automobiles, tuk-tuks, and motorcycles.
He left me at Zostel Hostel, but not before telling me that he didn’t have change, and forcing me to buy three bananas from a fruit stand to give him exact change. Annoyed, but trying to stay positive—and recognizing that the driver’s hourly wage probably made my frustration about spare change seem absurd—I paused and peeled my first banana as he rolled away. A man in worn clothes—someone clearly living rough—pointed and laughed. I must have looked ridiculous: fresh off a motorbike, eating a banana on the street at eleven in the morning, like I had nowhere else to be.
“Hey Banana Man! Hey Banana Man!” he slurred over his finger, his swaying form bent like a question mark. I tossed him my second banana and entered the hostel.
“Do you know of another good hostel nearby?” I asked, after I was told they were fully booked for the night. “Yes, if you go to Hostel Hindustani, it is good,” he replied. He enthusiastically gave me directions which didn’t quite match my map, and I stepped outside to the dusty street. I was annoyed at myself for not booking in advance, tired of carrying my backpack, and I eagerly wanted a place to leave it so I could explore the city.
With each new country comes a new relationship with navigation. It’s the first essential skill, upon which you build everything else. If you can’t get from A to B efficiently and economically, then any higher-order plans are worthless. In Delhi, I was still very much a beginner. Standing in Pahar Ganj, a bustling neighborhood known for its concentration of affordable lodging, restaurants, and variety of shops catering to both domestic travellers and backpackers, I walked east along the main road.
The streets of Pahar Ganj were indifferent to my plans, and my phone’s reception wasn’t giving me a reliable map. Just following the sidewalk became a moment to moment dance. Avoid the sleeping dog, the broken glass, and the rubbish. Squeeze onto the road to avoid the Tuk-Tuks parking. Don’t step in the feces. Is that human, or cow? Sometimes there was a footpath, other times it would disappear, turn to rubble, or be covered in a pile of construction material. It was a constant game of step-by-step navigation under my feet, but also the one around my body. Everyone wanted the same space. Two-, three-, and four-wheeled vehicles—motorized, pedaled, pushed, and pulled—all vied for the same path. It felt less like I was walking along the street, and more like I was part of the stream of traffic. Tuk-tuks would honk, I would move. A tricycle would squeeze through a space and I’d shift left to dodge. At one point, I had to either wedge myself between a row of motorcycles parked on the footpath or step into the street and hope the oncoming traffic would swerve around me. I chose the street, and as I did, I became a boat in a stream, with the traffic curving around me. It was both exhilarating and terrifying.
And that’s just the physical navigation. As a tall American with a full backpack, constantly checking his phone and looking slightly lost, I was a neon sign for anyone trying to sell anything. So there I am walking, trying to navigate. I’m ducking motorbikes, and also fending off touts, answering questions I didn’t ask for, and gently—but firmly—saying “no thank you” thirty times in the space of a block.
What made it all more exhausting were the constant stares. I couldn’t walk a few steps without feeling the weight of them. I’d look up and find myself locked in a steady gaze—a man in a faded dress shirt, his face weathered by sun, watching me with unwavering intensity, and a whole half a minute later, as I approached, I’d lock eyes with the same deadpan gaze. Passing by I could feel his head turning as his gaze followed my progress. The men held eye contact in a way that felt intense to me—unflinching, direct, perhaps confrontational or perhaps just curious. I had no framework for reading it. Did they resent me? Were they just curious? Was I a novelty? A target? Or was this simply how people looked at strangers here, and I was the one making it strange? As I walked on, I kept wondering if I was still wearing pants.
After turning off the main road, I was lost in narrow streets for another hour before finally arriving at Hostel Hindustani. It was basic but functional. Perhaps ‘good’ was optimistic, but I was relieved to have found it. It felt a bit like an underserved urgent care. The metal detector at the doorway—unplugged or perhaps just decorative—stood like a silvery archway, its purpose unclear to me. The white tile floors, the green tile walls, the cheap furniture, and the friendly but not-that-friendly attendant behind a desk to check me in.
The bored attendant guided me to my room. The other guests in my dorm room were Indian, and the first iteration of a common conversation began. “From which country?” he asked. His eyes looked at me flatly. “USA,” I replied. “Are you married?” he asked. “No,” I replied. He jolted slightly, surprised. In a country where marriage often happens by your mid-twenties, I suppose an unmarried thirty-something American was unusual. His eyes met mine again, perhaps trying to reconcile what he’d assumed with what I’d said. I wondered what story he was constructing about me. I couldn’t tell if he found this strange, amusing, or simply unremarkable. Then, he smiled awkwardly and bobbed his head. Usually this was the end, but sometimes he tried his hand at English and asked, “India, you like?” to which I replied, “Yes. It’s a lovely country.” He smiled and bobbed his head sideways like a bobble head. I didn’t understand, but no matter, perhaps understanding would come with time, or perhaps some gaps would remain.
For now, I had a place to leave my bag and despite my exhaustion and disorientation, I was grateful to have landed somewhere. The attendant hadn’t turned me away. The roommate was willing to chat despite my halting responses. I checked the time. “Good lord! Only three hours”. A pang of regret washed over me about coming to India. I’d been here only three hours and already I felt exhausted. I took a breath. I peeled my third banana. Then, I walked out the door into Delhi’s crowds—this time, a little more ready.
Colin