The Life Nomadic

We slept late on our last day in Delhi. I stretched in bed for a moment before throwing off the blanket in the chilly air. I grabbed the remote and turned on the television to BBC. The newscaster’s voice didn’t register immediately, until I heard the words, “The victim of a brutal rape in New Delhi has died in a Singapore hospital.

She died.

In our hotel room on that awful day, our last day in Delhi and the last day of that woman’s life, we considered our options. We had intended to visit the National Gallery of Modern Art, but due to its location at India Gate, we surmised that it was unlikely we could reach it. However, I felt compelled to try. I wanted to be as close to India Gate as possible.

We left the hotel and found a moto taxi on the street. The mood was different, very different. The sun shone brightly, but very little else was bright about the scene on the streets that day. People were grouped together, eyes shadowed as they talked with each other. When we gave our desired destination to the moto driver, he shook his head. No, not possible today. Is closed.

As we wandered the streets near our hotel, I continued to watch the people, to study their faces and try to determine their thoughts. However, one doesn’t have to be a mind reader to see how they felt. The husbands held their wives’ hands a little tighter, the fathers kept their daughters very close, and the mothers clutched baby girls to their chests. Everywhere I looked I could see a protective arm, a hand, a shoulder, as the community surrounded their women with care. It was a gesture of sadness, fear, pride and hope that did not go unnoticed by me.

Once airport check in and the notorious Indian immigration process were completed and we entered the terminal, I looked to the windows and the endless expanse of tarmac. I wondered if I could see the plane, or the procession that would meet it. I wondered if the air traffic controllers in the tower would say something kind to the pilot of that air ambulance as it made its approach. I wished that I could show my respect, in some way, for this young woman who was coming home.

As our Abu Dhabi-bound plane taxied on the runway, I looked again, in vain, for the fated aircraft. When we were airborne, and Delhi sank away into the night, I held the hand of the good man beside me and sighed.

She died.
Her name was Jyoti Singh Pandey.