Qutb Minar.

 We visited the site were Gandhi was assassinated.

 Our wonderful tour guide taking a leisure stroll.

India Gate.

We were welcomed to our hotel with a warm cup of tea and lei.

New Delhi Airport

Street dog.

A Private Affair

A blanket of smog lingers in the air. "This is definitely not America." I think to myself.  The smog seeps through all the crevices and coats everything in layers of soot.  The soot I see is not brown nor a ashy gray.  No, instead it is orange--this rusty hue realized by the musky tints of the street lights.  "This is India." I whisper.  But this is not the only whisper I hear.  Through the calm of a cool Indian night, the background sounds of a sleeping India faintly reach my ears.  Distant horns beep and honk, but the noise does not fill the vast spaces of New Delhi airport.  No, it is calm. The street dog does not stir, but sits patiently, not looking at me, but rather he gazes out at something I cannot see.  He does not flinch as I snap a quick picture.  He continues to look forward--into that rusty hue.  I wonder, what does he see?  "This is India." I say to myself again, but then I question, what is India?  I look at the dog once more, his short coat also appearing orange from the street light and wonder if he knows.  The luggage is placed in the back of the bus--it is now time to head further into India.  I hop on, the question of what is India still lingering in my mind just like the orange smog lingering in the Indian air.   For now I will allow it to linger and hope as I travel through out India, the answer will reveal itself.  The bus purrs as the engine starts, the street dog sits gazing forward, and I begin my journey into curiosity.