the accidental journalist
I’m on a fifteen hour flight to India. The toddler in the economy seat next to me and I become friends somewhere over the Caspian Sea. He shares his coloring book with me and hands me two crayons. One green, one brown. He's in the middle of drawing a beach. I add palm trees. He adds people.
Beach-goers of different body shapes now dot the sand.
To a random observer, our drawing would come across as both chaotic and sincere. A pastiche of whatever’s on this young child's mind.
I look up from the coloring book and catch my reflection in the airplane window. As I acknowledge my reflection, I realize I'm not five years old anymore. Still, I've never stopped coloring outside the lines.
We land a few hours later and I wave goodbye to my small co-collaborator. The Basquiat to my Warhol.
Getting through customs in Delhi takes two hours. It's very Kafkaesque. Surreal, and at times completely absurd with the amount of paper forms to fill out and people you have to talk to just to enter a country. Paper forms, in this economy? The fluorescent lights above me hum like a broken mantra. I think about my friends back home. Some more than others.
The border agent looks at my passport, then at me. I smile. Maybe too hard. “What’s this guy so happy about?” the agent probably thinks to himself. I don’t know either. Just get me to my Airbnb before I jump someone.
I make it through customs and end up bartering with an Airtel rep at the airport to set up a SIM card for my phone. I need data to survive here, and for 400 rupees and 30 days of unlimited data and cell service, it feels like a scam in reverse. The Uber pick-up zone outside the airport smells like diesel, dust, and something vaguely holy. Incense, perhaps? Stray dogs roam the grounds like passengers waiting for flights that never come. Some limp. Some drool. Some gnaw at their own leg in boredom.
I look at each dog with the quiet tenderness of a person who wishes he could tend to them all. I can’t, of course. But I try — with my eyes, and my tender thoughts. You can’t bring every dog home sadly. This isn’t 101 Dalmatians.
I get to my Airbnb an hour later and meet my host. Her name is Amrit. She's a journalist for The Times and The Guardian. Proper newspapers. I didn’t know I’d be staying with a journalist. A real one. She greets me like I’m her own. Says I look like her son.
Amrit's apartment smells like home. Her live-in caretaker Ranjita smiles with all her facial muscles. I adore her instantly. I offer to help cook dinner alongside Ranjita that evening. It’s the least I can do for the bed, the warmth, and the illusion of home that Amrit's place offers. Plus, I get to learn firsthand how to properly prepare masala fish curry. After dinner, I go to bed feeling completely satiated.
The next day, Amrit notices my 35mm camera. She asks me about it. Asks me about my writing career so far. I tell her I write personal finance articles on the side and have a half-decent eye for photography. She nods and gives me a task. Get her some photos of the pollution around the Yamuna River. She’s working on a piece for The Times and wants me to head down to the Yamuna River to take photos, talk to local sanitation officials, and help her piece together the story.
I commit to the assignment and come back to her later that week with a set of photos and research notes to help her complete her article.
Just like that, I’ve gone from drifting visitor to de facto journalist's assistant. No press badge, no backup plan — just me, a Minolta camera, and a river that smells like something once sacred. On day two in Delhi, I learn that sometimes the story finds you.
I’m on a fifteen hour flight to India. The toddler in the economy seat next to me and I become friends somewhere over the Caspian Sea. He shares his coloring book with me and hands me two crayons. One green, one brown. He's in the middle of drawing a beach. I add palm trees. He adds people.
Beach-goers of different body shapes now dot the sand.
To a random observer, our drawing would come across as both chaotic and sincere. A pastiche of whatever’s on this young child's mind.
I look up from the coloring book and catch my reflection in the airplane window. As I acknowledge my reflection, I realize I'm not five years old anymore. Still, I've never stopped coloring outside the lines.
We land a few hours later and I wave goodbye to my small co-collaborator. The Basquiat to my Warhol.
Getting through customs in Delhi takes two hours. It's very Kafkaesque. Surreal, and at times completely absurd with the amount of paper forms to fill out and people you have to talk to just to enter a country. Paper forms, in this economy? The fluorescent lights above me hum like a broken mantra. I think about my friends back home. Some more than others.
The border agent looks at my passport, then at me. I smile. Maybe too hard. “What’s this guy so happy about?” the agent probably thinks to himself. I don’t know either. Just get me to my Airbnb before I jump someone.
I make it through customs and end up bartering with an Airtel rep at the airport to set up a SIM card for my phone. I need data to survive here, and for 400 rupees and 30 days of unlimited data and cell service, it feels like a scam in reverse. The Uber pick-up zone outside the airport smells like diesel, dust, and something vaguely holy. Incense, perhaps? Stray dogs roam the grounds like passengers waiting for flights that never come. Some limp. Some drool. Some gnaw at their own leg in boredom.
I look at each dog with the quiet tenderness of a person who wishes he could tend to them all. I can’t, of course. But I try — with my eyes, and my tender thoughts. You can’t bring every dog home sadly. This isn’t 101 Dalmatians.
I get to my Airbnb an hour later and meet my host. Her name is Amrit. She's a journalist for The Times and The Guardian. Proper newspapers. I didn’t know I’d be staying with a journalist. A real one. She greets me like I’m her own. Says I look like her son.
Amrit's apartment smells like home. Her live-in caretaker Ranjita smiles with all her facial muscles. I adore her instantly. I offer to help cook dinner alongside Ranjita that evening. It’s the least I can do for the bed, the warmth, and the illusion of home that Amrit's place offers. Plus, I get to learn firsthand how to properly prepare masala fish curry. After dinner, I go to bed feeling completely satiated.
The next day, Amrit notices my 35mm camera. She asks me about it. Asks me about my writing career so far. I tell her I write personal finance articles on the side and have a half-decent eye for photography. She nods and gives me a task. Get her some photos of the pollution around the Yamuna River. She’s working on a piece for The Times and wants me to head down to the Yamuna River to take photos, talk to local sanitation officials, and help her piece together the story.
I commit to the assignment and come back to her later that week with a set of photos and research notes to help her complete her article.
Just like that, I’ve gone from drifting visitor to de facto journalist's assistant. No press badge, no backup plan — just me, a Minolta camera, and a river that smells like something once sacred. On day two in Delhi, I learn that sometimes the story finds you.
