Hauz-Khas and My First Day in India
- isaactvosburg
- Jun 9, 2025
- 10 min read
Updated: Jun 14, 2025
I landed at Indira Gandhi International Airport at 5:19 AM on Saturday, June 7th. After over 36 and a half hours of traveling, I had made it. I gathered my belongings, got off the plane, went through immigration, met Italian Santa Claus, found my checked luggage, and exited the airport. That's a lot of steps all rolled up in there, so why don't I break down each one before moving on.
Gathering my belongings: This was easy enough, as my carry-on had been checked all the way back in Des Moines, so all I had to grab was my backpack and a good attitude!
Getting off the plane: We had to wait a little while, but once everything was set at the gate, I was off the plane and on into the last airport of my journey halfway around the world.
Going through immigration: After getting some help, I was directed to the right line, and made it through immigration without a hitch. I had memorized and recited my address and emergency contact information on the plane ride here, but luckily, my visa and proof of identity were all they needed. With my passport now stamped, I was soon to be off into India proper.
Meeting Italian Santa Claus: While in line at immigration, and older gentleman came up to me and asked if this was the right line. We talked about which kind of visas we each had, where we were coming from, what brought us each to India, and throughout that conversation, I couldn't help but notice the man's long white beard, his small spectacles, and the red cap he wore. After mentioning that I had come on a student visa, he said that he, too, had initially come to India to study---though it had been many decades ago. He knew exactly where the city I would be staying in was, told me all about his experiences here in India, and then we parted ways as we were each called up to the Immigration Officer's booth in turn. I don't know if I'll ever see that man again, but I'm glad to have met him.
Finding my checked luggage: As I made my way to Baggage Claim 8, the words being spoken around me began to set in. No longer was English the lingua franka, but rather it was Hindi. I recognized a few things from my many nights of Duolingo lessons, but in that moment, I realized how out of my depth I truly was. I'd dipped a toe in, sure, but there was so much more to learn---so much more I hope to learn during my time here. As those thoughts sank in, I watched and waited for my navy bags to come around. I'd tagged each one, so they were very clearly mine. My checked bag was first, followed soon after by my carry-on. With bags in hand, I headed toward the exit sign.
Exiting the airport: On my way out, I stopped to exchange some currency, and with rupees soon in hand, I pressed on toward the exit. As I stepped out of the airport, the warm Indian air wrapped me like a blanket. The heat and humidity felt just as they had in Malaysia nearly two years prior, and I thought to myself, "I'm back."
As I drank in my first few moments under the Indian sun, I found Arjun---one of the Sehgal Foundation employees---holding a sign for "Isaac Thomas Vosburg." I made my way over to him with the biggest smile on my face. We chatted as we walked together back to the car, where I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that the steering wheel was, once more, on the right side of the vehicle. We loaded my bags and took off. Though it was only 6:00 something in the morning, the sun had well risen by this point, dampened only by a bit of smog. Arjun told me stories, and I shared with him mine. He talked of his family and Indian weather; I talked of experiences in Malaysia and my family in the U.S. We laughed as we made our way to Gurugram, and I was genuinely impressed with the driving. It seems that the lines on the road are merely suggestions, and that most drivers are able to use their horns as a form of echolocation, ensuring that the cars, three-wheeled autos, and traffic-cutting motos alike knew where they were in relation to one another. It's genuinely an experience worth more than a paragraph in and of itself, for I loved each and every moment of it. Arjun told me how, despite the fact that traffic behaves in the manner it does here, there are far fewer accidents than in the U.S., and we concluded that that was largely because people pay closer attention to the roads here, because you can't take your eye off of them for a moment.
Soon enough, we had arrived at the Sehgal Foundation campus, and I was shown to my room. Arjun told me to get unpacked and settled as needed, and that breakfast would be served as soon as I came back down. I took a moment to look around and began to unpack my bags. My room was nice, a bit bigger than a dorm room, with my own bed, study table, bookshelf, closet, bathroom, and more. I got unpacked easily, for I had traveled especially light, considering the fact that I wanted to take much more home with me than what I had left with. I showered, freshened up, changed clothes, took my malaria medication, and went downstairs for breakfast.
As I made my way to the cafeteria, leaving the building which housed all of us international interns (there are five of us total, and you'll be introduced to the rest of them shortly), the warm air enveloped me once more. I don't know how else to express it, but that feeling always brings a certain comfort to me, and this time was no exception. The sun had risen further in the sky, more of the smog had dissipated, and the birds chirped from their perches among the trees that encircled the campus. I entered the cafeteria with the biggest smile on my face, and exited with a frown and watery eyes.
A preface, before this next section: As it turns out, my malaria medication is definitely not best to be taken on an empty stomach, as I had that morning, despite what the label may say. Isaac from the future is currently writing this statement, and hindsight is 20/20 when it comes to what happened next.
Breakfast was excellent. I met Ram, who was the caretaker for all of the interns and the cook for all of the staff here at the Sehgal Foundation. That morning, he had made some eggs with toast for me, and had prepared them special, considering that breakfast for the other interns wouldn't be served for another hour or so. I sat down, ate my fill, and all of a sudden, my stomach was tying itself in knots. I ran outside, found a nice empty space between the bushes, and emptied the contents of my stomach right there. As I walked back inside, Ram asked me if I was alright and showed me to the restroom so that I could wash up. I made my way back to the table, and seeing as my stomach had settled, I finished my plate. As I finished off my tea, the same feeling washed over me again. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up once more. I cleaned up again, came back to the table to gather my things, and genuinely felt terrible. My digestive tract had stopped doing flips at this point, it was rather the matter of the implications of not eating my food that bugged me. Ram had made me that meal special, and in the traditional customs I had picked up from my Indian host family in Malaysia, the least I could do to show that I appreciated the effort Ram had put into preparing the meal for me was to clear my plate. I suppose I did end up doing that, but it certainly wasn't in the way I had imagined or wished.
(It took me another day to figure out that it was the malaria medication that was making me sick in the mornings, but luckily I have it all worked out now.)
Ram took care of me and made sure that I got back to my room alright. He told me to rest for a while, and so I did. I caught up on some much-needed sleep, for in my aforementioned 36 and a half hours of travel, I had dozed off for maybe five or so odd hours on my two international flights combined.
I woke up at around eleven feeling rather refreshed. I drank some water, finished unpacking, read, and worked on some odds and ends before heading down for lunch at 12:30. There, I met the other interns: Morgan, Maya, Smeera, and Suchita. All of them were extremely welcoming to me, and each had been at the Foundation for varying amounts of time before me, from one week to nearly a month. As we ate lunch together, we all formulated a plan to go out for the evening. Thanks to my nap, I wasn't feeling too jet-lagged, and decided to tag along.
I got to know everyone a bit better as we exited the compound, hopped on the metro, and headed closer to Delhi. The streets were packed with cars, autos, and motos, and the metro station was packed with people. As my first time truly out and about in India, it was eye-opening for me as I saw how life operated differently here---I kept comparing and contrasting to my life in Malaysia, but soon enough found myself making a mental note not to, and to let India take up its own residence in my mind, apart from past experiences. In doing so, I became inundated with new perspective, and I sit here presently glad of that executive decision.
As we exited the metro and walked up the stairs to the street above, I realized that I was in for another treat: an auto ride. Suchita had gone on to meet a friend, which left our group with four. Each auto generally has room for two passengers unless you cram, so we talked to two drivers, expressed our destination, and were off.
An auto is an interesting vehicle. Three-wheeled, green and yellow, open-air with a covered top, these guys are the London black cabs of India. In my three days here, I've ridden in one three times, and I've loved every moment of it. It is genuinely an experience worth more than a few sentences of mention, and Uber here even lets you hail one. Maybe one of these days I'll devote a whole blog post to "forms of Indian transportation."
With my first traffic-cutting, lane swerving, yet somehow incredibly safe auto experience now behind me, we had arrived at our destination: Hauz-Khas. The thing that had initially drawn us here was a thrift shop the girls had found online. We stopped in, shopped for a bit, and left, after which we went to an old book and map store nearby. As we descended the stone steps into the cool, yet musty lower level, the smell of yellowing paper filled our nostrils. For me, this was heaven. I love books, I love maps, and I especially love them when they've reached a state of antiquity. I'm a sucker for a good classic, and the globe I keep under my lamp in my room in Iowa dates back to the early 1930s. Needless to say, I could have spent years in that store.
As the afternoon wore on, we had examined a vast portion of this auntie's collection, and with a few great finds in hand, we made our way back to the street above. It was here that we split, Maya and I wishing to visit the Haus-Khas ruins just down the road, and Morgan and Smeera wanting to explore further and stop by a coffee shop. We parted ways, intent on meeting up again in an hour or two.
Getting into the actual Haus-Khas complex was about as straightforward as a lane change in the auto from earlier: At first, it seemed easy enough, but upon closer inspection, it was a lot more complicated than initially perceived to be. Using a QR code designated by the Indian Government, Maya and I attempted, and failed, numerous times, to purchase our tickets. Online payment was the only option, and while my end refused to load, Maya's refused to allow her card to process the payment. After about 20 minutes of finagling wth our phones, one of the security guards beckoned us over, helped us get everything all set by finding someone to pay for us, who we paid back in cash, and soon enough, we were in.
Needless to say, it was well worth the wait. I was blown away by the centuries of history contained within these walls, the ages they had stood through, and though weathered, they testified to the present generation that they were not intent on going anywhere any time soon. The complex was vast, with chambers and tombs creating a sprawling labyrinth of stone. I stopped to read every historical marker there was, noting the origins of this site and the significance of its structures.
It had been a place of higher education known as a Madrasa, a mosque, the final resting place of teachers and kings alike, but above all else, it was an impressive royal tank (the literal translation of "hauz khas") from which water was drawn and dispersed in times of drought. Understanding the significance of a site like this is hard to wrap one's mind around. What do you mean this was built over 700 years ago? What do you mean this place has somehow lasted all those centuries with minimal repair? What a grand place this must have been, and frankly, still is. I can imagine the students in their chambers, the prayers in the mosque, the filling and draining of the royal tank... because it's all still here. That history is alive, set in stone. What an incredible world we live in, to be surrounded by such timeless manmade beauty.
After we had left Hauz-Khas, we met up with the others at the coffee shop and eventually ran into Suchita again. We checked out an art gallery, explored a bit more, and grabbed supper together, but nothing could top the feeling of awe and wonder that Hauz-Khas had instilled in me. As I watched the bats fly overhead that night on the Uber ride back to our flats, I couldn't help but be blown away by my first day in India, the scope of it, the breadth of my experiences in these first few hours, and the way in which this place had already begun to feel like home.
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