But we also have furniture without any upholstery covers - I don't know what they did with the old ones - and we get an allowance for upholstering, but most people can't get their furniture upholstered for that amount (and consider that it's not even your own furniture - how much do you want to invest in upholstering it for two years?). The fabric search involves much time and effort. In 100-degree weather, we search the open markets, follow tips to all ends of the city, and still can't find anything we like in a reasonable price range. (We also have to find a tailor and arrange for the upholstering - another step.) And, oh yea, teach.
On Friday, a teacher-friend said that she had found the "best" place to get fabric - cheap and beautiful, with LOTS of choices. So four of us agreed to share a cab to the fabric store at "Nehru Place" - about 1/2 hour away. As we piled into the cab, which was a smaller car than expected (this becomes important to the story, especially if you are claustrophobic), it started to rain.
The driver was friendly but a bit eccentric. As the rain got harder, he shrugged repeatedly and said, over and over, "Shop in the rain?" Then the rain got REALLY hard. All of a sudden we were in the middle of a news video, "Thousands Drown in Delhi Flooding." It didn't SEEM that windy, but trees and branches were falling on the road. Road? What road? It was a river at least a foot deep. I don't know how the car kept going (especially because the driver didn't seem to use a clutch, so the gears were grinding constantly), but it did.
On the way, we got lost (surprise!) and stopped to ask a tuk-tuk (auto rickshaw) driver directions. While the driver was leaning towards the passenger window, our friend in the front seat (Debbie) got a phone call from a Korean mother whose son was having a play date with Debbie's son (age 5). So the driver is yelling to the tuk-tuk driver while Debbie is leaning under his arm yelling "No, that is very good. Yes, please take him home," in that tone reserved for people who don't understand English well and lead to the irrational belief that yelling will make them understand. It was a cacaphony of sound, and the pounding rain was the finishing touch. And, of course, Debbie's window was open so both she and the driver were getting soaked.
We continued towards Nehru Place. As I watched lightning flash, trees fall, and the increasing torrent below the car, I wondered what the news headline would look like, "Four women killed in monsoon storm after search for cheap fabric." Naw, not front page news. Maybe "Four Americans killed in sudden "storm" linked to al Queda" - yes, getting closer. Keep in mind that this was normal Delhi traffic: people walking, riding bikes with loads of baskets on the back, weaving in and out with mopeds - all of this in what seemed like a waterfall.
Debbie got another phone call. This time it was her nanny. The apartment was flooding. They had just received their sea shipment that morning, and unboxed clothing, electronics, toys, books, etc., was sitting on the floor. Plus, painters had been painting the walls in two bedrooms that day. But they had painted one room two different colors anyway. Debbie tried to text her husband, the volleyball coach, a guy who had checked her into a Maryland hospital for the premature birth of their daughter and then boarded a plane back to Egypt to get to a volleyball game on time. No response, despite her frantic text messages.
But we were finally at Nehru Place. Hundreds of cars were parked everywhere. No, they were trying to move, many of them in the same place but trying to go in opposite directions. Traffic jams in Delhi are like trying to untangle a twisted ball of ribbon - the more you try, the worse it gets. Soon we were jam-packed between a car facing us and a car behind us, with cars standing on either side but also facing different directions. It was raining so hard that hundreds of people were standing under store awnings or in entryways, even though it was 5 o'clock and they were done with work.
What do you do when you are hopelessly entangled in traffic?
a. refuse to back down; this is all about status, pride, and manhood;
b. yell at people through closed windows and gesture a lot;
c. beep your horn nonstop;
d. all of the above.
Yes, the answer is "d." But Debbie's phone is ringing again and again. Her nanny is getting increasingly hysterical as water pours into the apartment. The Korean mother calls for directions (again) to their apartment. And the driver is singing? praying? chanting? He keeps leaning over and making comments to Debbie about the situation, but of course she is trying to listen to her phone calls, so she shushes him. When he beeps the horn, she starts getting mad and telling him to stop making that noise, which is like telling a driver here to turn in his license.
But the store is now only 1/2 block away. Unfortunately, the two women who planned this trip snap at JUST this moment. "I want to go home." It starts quietly and then they say it louder. "Let's go home. I want to go home." Sitting in the middle of the back seat, I could hardly breathe at this point. The air conditioning had stopped working due to the water rising, and no one wanted to open the windows in the pouring rain. I couldn't believe it; so close and yet so far.
The driver thought that we wanted to go back because we didn't like him. The whole way back he kept saying, "Bad driver?" And we would reassure him. I used my extensive Hindi to say "OK. You (oops, that was feminine) OK. You very well OK" But in a few minutes the he would say, "Bad driver?" and the whole cycle would start again. And Debbie and the driver were starting to seem like an old married couple in the front seat. Warm air was blasting out of the air conditioner, and so she would turn it off. But when she would get another phone call or look out the window, he would turn it back on. And I thought she was about to hit him every time he beeped.
We passed this flashing red light on our way back. Look carefully. Can you read what it says? yes, "RELAX." On a red light, no less.
Of course, as we headed back, the rain stopped and the sky started to clear. Debbie took out her cell phone and the driver saw that as a signal: "Want my number?" We knew he spoke little English - Debbie said, "Do any of you want his number? Because I sure don't" Which he took as a "Yes" and started to recite the numbers earnestly. I said, "Just take it down. You can always delete it later." Oh, and I also noticed that every time our driver yelled at another driver through the window, they would look at him as if he was nuts. Usually there's at least some flicker of response - so I thought maybe he WAS nuts (read to the end to learn the probable reason). After Debbie got the number, she asked him his name, and he said what sounded like:
"Gudgabaran." So she said "Gudgabaran?" and he yelled back, "No. Gudgabaran!" and then they did this routine again, so he decided to go with a shortened version, "GUDG!" and she said, "GUDG?" and he said, "NO! GUDG!" Needless to say, we were silently hysterical in the back seat and about to pee in our pants, especially because we had been sitting in the cab for two hours at this point. I still don't know what she wrote down as his name on her phone.
Finally we got back to school. Two hours and 15 minutes spent in a cab - driving through what turned out to be the worst storm in years. Most of the classrooms on campus had water in them; many apartments, not just Debbie's, did too. All of the next day people and places just dried out. Lots of red dirt had moved to new locations, along with panels from a bridge roof between the elementary school buildings. Kids were still here three hours after school had ended, waiting for buses to get through the traffic jams.
I guess that I should be glad we survived and made it home. Oh, one other thing. One passenger stayed in the cab after three of us were dropped off - she lives off campus - and when she got home, the driver leaned over and she realized that he was drunk. He had a flask stashed in the door - and it was almost empty. Oh well, whatever. . .
This is India. Where red lights tell you to relax.
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