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I awoke early in our cold, dark apartment as the streets of Mehrauli below started to enliven: sounds of car-horns calling from all directions, and the eerie and distant voice singing the call to worship that carried across the rooftops to us from miles away. It felt more like I was waking up into a dream than arriving at consciousness from one. I don’t normally rise before dawn, but I was now wide awake after feeling that thrilling anticipation of adventure, and so I got ready to start my second day in India.

After breakfast, Ajaz led Nathan and I to Qutub Minar, the eight-hundred-year-old stone tower, built by the first Muslim conquerors of India. The tower symbolizes a stark turning point in Indian history, marking the end of the line of Hindu kings that had ruled India for hundreds of years, and the beginning of Muslim rule. The invading faction was known as the Slave Dynasty because it’s founder, Qutub al-Din Aibak, was born as a slave to the Turks before rising up through the ranks to become a general. After his great victory at Delhi, Aibak declared himself the first Sultan of Delhi, and began to spread Muslim influence further across the Indian subcontinent. According to legend, Aibak commissioned the construction of Qutub Minar as a tower of victory to signify the beginning of Muslim dominion over India. Towering 73 meters above ground, the giant of red sandstone and marble still remains the tallest brick minaret in the world, even visible to us from our rooftop apartment miles away.

At the base of the minaret stands India’s first mosque, Quwwat-ul-Islam. The invaders destroyed a Hindu temple to construct the mosque in its place, fashioning it from chunks of rubble from 27 Hindu and Jain temples that had been demolished throughout Delhi. Since Hindu temples are covered with carvings and images of their many gods, the Muslim invaders concealed all sign of the Hindu gods with plaster, as no idols are allowed in Muslim places of worship. But the great irony is that over hundreds of years, the plaster has since worn away, and the Hindu gods have returned to adorn the walls and pillars of this Muslim landmark as if symbolizing the battle of the faiths of India.

We appeared to be among only a few foreigners walking the grounds of the ancient monument that day, as we had arrived just in advance of hundreds of Indian children bused from their schools. It was almost like witnessing a military exercise, seeing columns of people marching around the grounds, in uniform colors. Although instead of soldiers in uniform, the procession was of children, in matching colored sweaters and khaki pants, separated by gender. As we walked the among the ruins, we regularly were asked by passing groups of students to pose for pictures, or answer questions about our homeland. One boy asked if I had any U.S. coins on me, and then began to quiz me on various facts and dates of importance, such as the date the United States won its independence. He seemed disappointed when he couldn’t catch me with a question I didn’t know the answer to. Ajaz guided us through the beautiful complex, pointing out details concerning the construction, purpose, and history of the various monuments. It was refreshing to see so much green in the surrounding open fields and to walk with the luxury of having space to think quietly and breathe deeply, compared to the cramped and filthy alleyways of the old, inner city.

While touring the mosque, a small group of boys started chatting with Nathan, and I offered to take their picture with him. Much unlike our prior photo ops, these kids shouted with excitement as I brought the camera to my face, and drew the attention of nearby children. Now with a dozen children in the frame jumping and shouting, I pulled away from the viewfinder, turning to my right to find a tidal wave of small, dark-haired people rushing towards me. Children from different schools had started to break rank from their lines and rush in an uproar toward the commotion Nathan and I had unintentionally started. With scores of screaming schoolboys bearing down on me, Nathan slipped away from the scene with stealth, as children from all over the mosque rushed me for no apparent reason other than mob mentality. I let the camera fall to my hip and grabbed my phone as I became swallowed up in the horde, and took probably the most profound selfie video (as if that could ever be a thing) of my life to date. There had to be half a hundred kids pushing to make it into the frame, before school staff rushed over to quell the chaotic scene, and potentially rescue me from becoming the first Qutub Minar stampede victim since the incident of 1981.

After the unforgettable morning at Qutub Minar, Ajaz led us on foot back to Mehrauli, to tour the ancient city in which we were staying, that had long ago been swallowed up into the sprawl of Delhi. He led us through tombs and temples, markets and stepwells, across ruined battlements, and into Delhi’s first Dargah, a compound containing a shrine above the tomb of the Sufi saint to whom the Qutub Minar is said to be dedicated. Outside the dargah, we came upon several kids playing cricket in the street. Nathan and I joined them as Ajaz helped explain the mechanics and rules of the game. Much unlike the previous day, which was largely devoted to adjusting ourselves to the environment around us, this day was devoted more to genuinely connecting with the people of Delhi. And we began to build upon these connections over the course of our third day in Delhi as well. (More below)

The next day, we continued our cricket lessons, as Ajaz took us to the Mehrauli archaeological park, one of the only expansive respites from street life that we had seen in Delhi so far. He brought a cricket bat, a tennis ball, and his cousin, Kashif - and together we began to learn how to play India’s most popular sport. Soon after we started playing in a sandlot cricket pitch of sorts, a trio of Indian men on a walk through the park asked to join us. We quickly found ourselves in the midst of a competitive pick-up match, in which Ajaz and Kashif carried Nathan and I to a victory over the much more skilled trio of batsmen. The match was almost cut short though when a stray ball rolling through the park was picked up by a monkey that had descended out of the canopy above, and was only returned when one of our opponents set his dog loose after the monkey, which dropped the ball and retreated into the safety of the higher branches.

After we wrapped up the match, Ajaz and Kashif led us through the streets to their home, where we would be dining as guests that evening. Like many families in Delhi, their entire extended family lived together in the same household: grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, all together under one roof. The head of household is Ajaz’s father, Wakeel. After Nathan and I had entered the home, and exchanged greetings with the men of the house, we were led into Wakeel’s bedroom to meet him for dinner. He was seated in the middle of his bed in a modest room, the walls with faded paint, and no superfluous furnishing or decoration; just a bed, nightstand, and television. It’s common for Indian homes to be very minimalist: instead of filling up their living space trifles and trophies, it is filled up with what matters most to them: their family. Wakeel invited us and Ajaz to sit with him on his bed, where we talked and snacked before our meal.

It was the most meaningful and genuine display of hospitality I had yet experienced, not because of the presence of luxury or decadence, but because of the idea behind the gesture of inviting complete strangers into the most private and vulnerable chambers of one’s life - truly treated your guest like a king. Soon, a tablecloth had been brought in and laid upon the bed, over which were laid plates of biryani, and chicken curry. Unlike the men of the house, the women were not allowed to join us, for in Indian culture, it is common to wait until trust had been established with the guests before introducing the daughters and wives of the household. It was a bit difficult for Nathan and I to understand, as we were unable to personally thank the women for the meal which they had prepared for us. After dinner, we watched cricket with Ajaz and his father, and then were joined by Kashif and some of the younger cousins, who were sharing some of their favorite Indian songs with me, as well as the mobile video game craze, Pub G, which was popular among the youth all over India.

With it being close to 10 PM by the time we had said our goodbyes and thanks to Wakeel and his household, Azaj and Kashif offered to give us a lift back to our abode. Nathan climbed onto the back of Ajaz’s motorcycle, and I on the back of Kashif’s, and we zipped through cold yet vibrant alleyways to our temporary home overlooking Mehrauli.