Old Dilli

On our way from Munnar to Dehli, Emily and I made a quick stop in Nagpur to check out the grave site of Em's great-grand aunt, Sister Aimee. She had been a nun in Nagpur back in the early 1900's and it meant a lot to Em's grandma that we stop by to see if we could get a picture of it.
I was hoping the hunt for the grave would lead to some epic novel I could write and make a ton of money off, but it actually turned out to be quite easy to find. We had the help of the Sisters of Saint Joseph and, of course, God was on our side.



We flew into Delhi from Nagpur. We arrived late so my first experience of Delhi, pronounced Dilli by the locals, was from the backseat of a taxi. It wasn't until the next morning when we took the subway into Old Delhi that I really got a taste and smell of the city.




If you can't carry it on your head, you're not Indian.


If your uncle doesn't have a shop that you want me to go to, then you're not Indian.


If you don't cheat tourists out of hundereds of Rupees by pretending to not know English, then you're not Indian.


If you don't sell trinkets outside holy places, you're not Indian (actually, you're not human if you don't make money off spirituality).


If you don't sleep in the middle of squares, you're not a pye dog.


If you don't find the most practical, "non-progressive" way of doing things, you're not Indian.