~ on the road to Jaipur

447 words, 2 minutes read time.

There is little to entertain me during these five-hour rides from Delhi airport north to our farm outside of Jaipur. Whether we’re coming or going, night or day, every trip is tedious, familiar, and seemingly perpetual.

If not for the people we pass outside the windows, their faces, their widely different and colorful dress, how I see them occupy their lives in such earnest, sometimes seemingly hopeless endeavors. It’s an amazing, emerging second world. It interests me in every way how singularly motivated these folks are and how eager their country is to progress.

Maybe more on that later.

Raja (not his real name. I can’t pronounce his real name), my on-site, on-call personal driver, can manage any route in Rajasthan and states beyond without referring to GPS, and while driving on the left side of the road! I cannot imagine driving in India; I would die trying.

I pay Raja to be his pre-paid hostage, his mostly mute passenger sitting in, or lying across the back seat. I used to have 3X5 flash cards with destinations written in Hindi on one side, English on the other, but to be honest, communication with Raja has improved immensely with the use of Google Translate. We are even beginning to breach into small talk and micro conversations during short stops, such as for gas.

If we travel at night, I will find myself sleeping awkwardly and uncomfortably, ungently jostled in the backseat. I’m never concerned about traffic or what’s going on with traffic in the shadows outside. What happens- happens. I only hope it happens to someone else, of quickly, and with little pain.

Sometimes I’ll read on my Nook back there, or deal with the farm paperwork, but most frequently I sleep. I don’t think the driver overhears me when I snore. My wife assures me that I absolutely and always snore every night. Without fail- “turn to your side, dear,” she’ll say when we’re at home.

But mostly, I hope that I don’t drool in the car. I really try desperately not to drool. It’s embarrassing to greet Raja or other servants, or anyone, with a gob of slimy drool on my collar. Or to return to the car and find Raja cleaning the upholstery near the window, where my head bobs during the ride’s recurring lane changes.

I don’t know why drool stains fabric. It must contain proteins, or enzymes, or… who knows.

-dalton

3-15-26

written and produced in tiny bits and clauses, words of the moment, during fragments of time on a tablet with unending breaks in wifi and uncontrollable language selection. Google was out of control.