Sketches from a one month meander through India last October.
DELHI
...a man crossing the street is nearly taken out by a motorbike in front of the Nizam-ud-din Shrine. We wander the warren of lanes, trying to memorize our way back out. The water in the ghat in the middle of this maze is filthy, yet is busy with bathers. The shrine grounds are packed for the Thursday night qawwali. A young bespectled student type asks for a voluntary donation, which we give. Nearby, a dwarf plays with a group of children, in a safe and uncrowded corner...
...chubby man coming down the steps of Jama Masjid quite gingerly, wearing an "Endurance College" T-shirt. Obviously he flunked out...
...why is there a picture of Gandhi on all the police stations?...
...city bus with an advert for Uber...
...the mosque at Firoz Shah Kotla, is segregated even in ruin. Through the shattered brick walls I spy a handful of kneeling men, bowing forward again and again in waves...
...a dawn visit to the Red Fort. A black dog follows me for an incredibly long time, as if he'd adopted me. Men futilely rake a massive and incredibly littered space out front. Low-lying Chandni Chowk, like a groove in the city, as if everything in the city rolled away and came to rest there. I have the Fort to myself, arriving even before the Chatta Chowk bazaar opens. The fort has seen better days, but still has features that surprise, namely the throne backed by Italian marble (though I suppose the greater surprise would have been had by those executed here).
...the driver I've hired for the day warned me off walking through the old city, claiming it was too dangerous. He was happy to arrange a tonga though, but I'd already done that the day before, me eventually taking over for the rider who looked exhausted. (And rightly so, it is no joke bicycling through the heat and smog of the labyrinth that is Old Delhi.) There is an uncomfortable moment when I tell him to wait for me at the car, as he seemed to want to act as guide and remain at my side. It has the feeling of telling a dog to heal, and I don't like myself much. But he mothers me a little too much, and seems anxious when I wander away in dodgy neighborhoods. In time I realize his concern is more a masked phobia of Muslims. He also seems to have bad eyesight, which makes his navigation of traffic a little too interesting...
...I visit Purana Qila. There is a zoo next door, but what's the point of a zoo in India, when all you had to do is look out the window. Lots of couples on the open grounds of the Qila, cuddling in the shade. Now and again a guard will come through and separate them with a holler. But all is 1950's innocence here, the boys laying with their heads in their girlfriend's laps...
...a hijra slinks in a feline like way through traffic and up to my car window, palm then rapidly extended. As I shake my head softly no, I get a nonchalant smile and she sashays away...
...I'm given a boxed lunch on the bus, which I don't particularly want. I decide to give it to a beggar, but despite my best efforts, I can't find one. I walk and walk, laughing that I am unable to find a beggar in India...
...a large gang of monkeys, most of them newborns, dig through a pile of rubbish behind the Secretariat Buildings...
...horses standing around Shahajahanabad's Turkman Gate, adding to the old-timey vibe...
...Connaught Place. I've been warned to take care here, as it is a haven for the untrustworthy. Apparently shoe-shine boys will flick shit onto your shoes in order to coerce you into a shine. The ear cleaners too are apparently pretty pushy. I trace the ring around Connaught a couple of times, the shops closed, yet people are making their way to work. On two occasions a man will fall into step in order to start up conversation, mainly to tell me of a relative living abroad. Neither of these encounters is threatening. The second time, my driver pops up out of nowhere. He's apparently been watching me, and thinking the man is pulling some kind of scan, begins to argue with him, the latter pleading to me to call him off. I eventually duck down a side street toward the Oxford Book Store, stopping for a chai to kill time before it opens. It is a little slice of hipster India: tie-less, short sleeved young men with perfect hair hunch over their Macs. The bookshop too is hip and neon bright, with a young staff and a coffee bar attached. I find the Kipling section and pick up a Penguin India copy of Kim. I figure it would make a nice souvenir, and it is only 200 rupees. But then I remember the street kids, and think how much the same 200 rupees would mean to them. I replace Kim on the shelf...
...a short walk from Connaught Place leads me through quiet neighborhoods to Agrasen ki Baoli, which immediately becomes my favorite place in Delhi. This step well has all the look of a ruin, yet acts a peaceful oasis from the city, all young couples and a few Asian tourists. While I wait for a couple of girls to go through their selfie rituals so that I can get a photo, I talk to a trio of boys sitting in front of the old mosque at the top of the steps. They alternate between friendly and teasingly aggressive, so I leave them. They later follow me out, still mocking, teasing. I make eye-contact with a long-haired and sympathetic looking taxi driver, and make the international gesture of toking a joint, as if the boys are silly and high. The driver immediately perks up and asks me if I want to buy some pot. Shit. I laugh and walk away shaking my head...
...protests in front of the main Police Station, with an "interfaith" theme. But even this demonstration for religious tolerance grows heated, so I quickly leave Jantar Mantar before the swelling crowds cut off my escape. Along the way, I notice a hearse standing by...
...A Stroll through the quiet of the Lodi Gardens. Stopping short to see a family repairing the walk, the children carrying bricks. The youngest girl must be around my daughter's age, mud splattering her little dress. I walk away to the shade of Sikandar Lodi Tomb, fighting back tears...
...approached by young men (always young men) to take a selfie inside Shish Gumbad, then step out the other side to a riot of schoolkids. Beyond them, a group of people perform extreme yoga poses in matching T-shirts. I wander away toward Safdarjung Madarsa, quiet but for a few girls chatting in the shade. As I depart, I wade through a large group of schoolkids on a field trip, and my hello creates a roar of children greetings that echo beneath the stone, as their teachers try to quiet them down...
...returning to the hotel, and the body of our tour group. A number of them tell how brave I am in wandering Dehli's streets, but I feel the opposite, a little sorry that they hadn't...
...the peaceful oasis of our Maurya Hotel which resembles the Ranganathaswamy Temple of India's south, above the canopy of trees that spreads away in all directions. Gazing out over the forest it is easy to see why Delhi is considered one of the world's greenest cities. Beneath the canopy are all the embassies and the villas for government ministers, parliamentarians, and diplomatic corps. If you limited your sightseeing to just this area, you'd think Delhi one of the most beautiful places in the world...
...the blood red sunsets over the haze...
ON THE TRAIN TO SHIMLA
...train pulling out of Delhi, offering a full view of the slums, the worst I've ever seen. Cows and wild boar eat the garbage strewn everywhere. Lots of people undertaking their morning ablutions at this early hour, squatting in full view. (I'd be surprised to see many men also squat to pee, but only if they are wearing kurta.) Woman squat too, though a slight distance from the men. Boys simply stand, bait and tackle free in the breeze...
...on the train, each of the Englishmen is reading a newspaper, as if doing the daily commute back home. Over time I notice that the boldest font is used for tragedies in places that none of us have even heard of...
...a fellow passenger, a very old and dignified Indian woman with white hair, dark face, and a box of freshly jarred marmalade, which I lift for her onto the overhead rack, her cautioning at the fragility. Life at either of its extremities certainly simplifies what truly is important...
...the fresh wheat cut on the Yamuna plain is stacked into domes that resemble the tops of minarets. Harvested rice fields are burned into tan and black stripes. The simple and tidy earthen farmhouses, many with a satellite dish. One has a massive advert for "Hero" bicycles painted on its side...
...the uniform white of Chandrigarh in the distance, like bleached bones...
SHIMLA
...Shimla's roads and arteries like pasta spilled down the hillside. The fainter traces of trails like lacework....
...Away from the traffic, Shimla is like a college town, with its lovely little pedestrian mall lined with shops, cafes, and cheap hotels. I admire the church from afar, and later kick myself for not going in after I heard that Kipling's father designed the stained-glass windows...
...road works done by white-garbed Sikhs in bright orange vests...
..The drive down to Chandrigarh. While Taiwanese drivers are considered the world's most dangerous, Japan has the worst, and India the most foolish. Buses overtake on blind curves through the mountains at speed. Apples for sale everywhere. Shimla's now closed airfield like a plaster on the hillside. A man on the roadside pulls his chainsaw toward his sandalled foot. Traffic slows to a crawl due to a puja. A man nearly gets left behind by his bus as he pees obliviously on the roadside, and upon noticing, races uphill after the receding vehicle. (I certainly hope that he had finished his business first.) A fleet of Mercedes overtakes the entire flow of traffic, some political bigwig aboard, flanked by bully-boys who scowl and gesture at the drivers to pull the fuck over. (Most of the worst traffic snarls or delays I experienced while in India were due to politicians moving from point A to B.) Lone bicyclist with a Czech flag rides through the dust swarms as he ascends slowly. Driver on a mobile makes a half-assed attempt to pull off the road, fouling four entire lanes of traffic. And the fundamental disappointment that Chandrigarh's railway station is eight km outside town. I was hoping to get a glimpse of the town that La Corbustier designed, India's first planned city. I've heard the city called both stunning, and hideous. Next time...
On the turntable: Gypsy Kings, "The Very Best of the Gypsy Kings"
On the nighttable: Rudyard Kipling "Plain Tales from the Hills"
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