It was hotter than usual in Delhi and we were thirsty. Rajah and I had been dispatched along with his uncle, Ashish, to procure some cold drinks to pacify the heat. We drove through the streets of I-Block, past beautiful Indian girls wrapped in scarlet saris, vendors selling skinny peeled cucumbers, and broom sellers on bicycles with vibrantly colored plastic dusters surrounding them like a plume. Soon, we arrive at the local market. I saw a Coke refrigerator out the corner of my eye as we pulled up.
“Okay boys, here is some money.” Ashish violently went through his pockets looking for a few rupees for the cold drinks. We crawled out of the maroon minivan and into the Delhi heat.
I looked back and saw Ashish, face staring intensely forward, “we will get cold drink, and then return to the house. Then, we will drink them and return to work.” Patti, Rajah and I were photographing for Ashish’s current project – writing a book about the common man of India, “aam admi” or mango people in Hindi. Ashish is elderly and suffers from bad health, especially in the lungs, but is an extremely hard worker nevertheless and he led us to numerous y different locations each day to take someone’s photograph: cobbler’s, fish sellers, garland makers to name a few.
But, now was one of our rest periods, which were spent in Ashish’s living room sipping tea and talking about any number of things with Ashish and Manju, his wife. She is a wise soul. And loving soul. Warm energy radiates through her embrace. Her knowledge of eastern religious ad philosophical beliefs is immense and fascinating to hear of speak of. Today’s toasty rest time called for cold drinks, which brings us back to the market.
The market consisted of shops of every kind, selling books, food, and things I couldn’t identify. Rajah and I ambled past a few middle aged Indian men who looked at us with that indescribable look which showed were clearly foreigners. (It isn’t as strongly pronounced as in China in Delhi.)We reached the stall and began selecting drinks: the only two Cokes they had, Thums Up (India’s cola), and mango drink (as Ashish called it). We set them on the window sill.
“Hello” the fellow manning the stall said, quickly and with that peaceful aggressiveness many Indians exhibit. He noted each of the drinks. “Three hundred, fifty.”
Rajah handed him the money. “Where are you from” he asked as he started to bag the drinks.
“United States” Rajah and I said nearly in unison.
“You are from, Kentucky?” He motioned to my fedora. I wonder if that ever happened to Indiana Jones in India. Someone mistook him for a Kentucian.
“No, New Mexico” Rajah said, taking the drinks.
“Albuquerque?” the clerk responded nonchalantly. Rajah and I immediately exchanged looks, both wide eyed at the fact that this man, at a market in New Delhi , knew the name of a city in our state.
“No, we live in Santa Fe.” Rajah said.
The response was one widely practiced by those for whom English is a second language. “Oh,” he began, staring forward with a slight look of confusion on his face. “Santa Fe.”
“The reason I asked is because my brother is currently in Albuquerque. He is working with Intel.”
The two of us responded with some phrase to show excitement, the silly things Americans say like “cool,” “Awesome,” or “wow.” We chatted with the shop keeper some moments longer, the conversation not progressing must past the point that he has a brother living in our state, so we thanked him and walked back to the minivan. We were eager to the share the story with Ashish.
How unlikely that Rajah and I should meet someone, randomly, in the backstreets of New Delhi, whose brother lived sixty miles away from our home. This helped me start to develop my attitude of not be surprised by what are called coincidences.
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