Upon my startling awake, two wee hours after tucking my head into the scoop of my bag and burying my nose in to my tee-shirt, I lurched and gasped to the sound of I don’t know. It was 5:30 am and what appeared to be resounding gunshots and deep thumps upon drums the size of Ganesh, littered my ear drums. Every new ripple of heavy noise weakened me even more after the lack of sleep and anticipatory anxiety of the new surroundings. The smell of burnt popcorn and gunpowder seeped in to the window, followed by a hacking cough and angry dogs putting on a vocal display of aggression. Moments later, all went silent and the space was taken up with Hindi chants and a guttural crashindo of ancient eerie Hindu ballads. All of this, in a place where my visual has not even been embraced by the break of day. Yet I am already drunk on the sensorial phenomena.
My whole self kept lurching to the sporadic rhythms of noise. It did not seem to have a near end and so I scanned my dream memories and jotted down the spotty remnants of broken sequences. I plugged my ear buds in and sat in meditation on my mattress; practice in stillness and focus through meditation like no other experienced yet. I thrust a towel down on the gritty floor and did my morning yoga. I completed my rituals with an hour of contemplative study of the Buddhist principles. Through the inception of the more acceptable sense of morning, the streets had stilled in to a gentle lull. I found my allusive shower on the wall of the bathroom. The Smyle Inn blessed me with a solid five of luke warm water. It was time to venture out of my den at 8 am, when breakfast is served for my rumbling guts and the internet circuits are lit up. With a quick visit to the internet (a mere 15 Rs an hour/30ish cents) I informed those back home in need of knowing that the shady city of New Delhi had left me unscathed. I went up to the rooftop hotel restaurant for my complimentary breakfast. The thick heavy smog still present this morning absorbed my nostrils, muting the faint smells of food awaiting. I received a healthy balance of mango juice box, corn flakes and milk, a crispy veggie omlette, two small bananas and two pieces of white bread. Then a cup of coffee came before I could say tea please. This is the kind of world experience that makes you appreciate the value of everything on your plate, no matter your personal sways or food biases. For as most of us know the poverty is dense poverty in this country. I engaged myself with a hand of set, some 1970’s code breaking card game that my pal got my hooked on. The only others up there was a table of two white women and one woman looking of Indian decent. After striking a conversation, we decided to huddle up that day and manage the tough city together. The two white women were Lithuanian, who I would later find were two off duty journalists in their 50s, both a bit travel-neurotic in their ways. The third was a Guyanese-Canadian woman with Muslim roots, about four generations removed from India. She was of quick tongue and big heart. She and I shared the Caribbean connection, for she traveled back to her home in Guyana yearly as I have just moved from what was my home in Anguilla for two years. I completed the entourage with my go with the flow (no help in decision making) personality.
We polished up breakfast, slung on our various ideas of proper traveling bags and set out in to the mystery awaiting. Instantly struck by the filthy streets, the flat black mopeds and the web of crossing wires overhead, I stared good and hard like a practiced tourist should. We were wedged in a narrow alleyway, amongst other grimy hostels and internet cafes. We made some turns until we were on a wider road rubbing shoulders with old crackly faced men with upturned staches and trickster tots running in and out of pacing legs. Vendors of anything from cashmeres to saris to toy machine guns to roasted peanuts fell into rows along either side of the muddy, food and shit caked road. We made our way past the abrasive clutter of tuk-tuks, taxis and rickshaws, bicyclists, cows and thousands of pedestrians in to the train station arena of con artists. We learned quickly of these schemers. The shark-like Lithuanians headed us steadfastly away from the men so eager to help us on to the wrong path for some commission. By all means, when they insist that the tourist office is not to the left upstairs in the station, just kindly nod your head and make your way up the stairs no matter how forcefully they hunt you with loud assertions of your untrusting demeanor. That is if you have to go through the process of getting a trail pass or any assortment of next day tickets. The stairs smelling of piss should have been enough of a deterrent for me to break away from this group, seeing as how for this part I was simply along for the ride. It was about two hours waiting, which is apparently an improvement. Luckily I have the patience of a sloth after dealings with Caribbean “officials” and “government offices”. Oh well, I was able to thumb through my book on Nepal and watch the array of mostly dirty European hippies and Western seekers stream in and not out. However with a quick check on directions, we were finally off.
As if my external surroundings were not enough entertainment, these babbling bickering women over the trifles of routes and options, was the greatest. All I had to do was stand back and watch them split decisions in to pieces and ramble on about which of them was more aptly prepared to make the most time efficient choices, as time swiftly drifted away. It was nice to be a quiet follower, led by the insane foreigner’s passageway.
Our first destination: Connaught Place. We decided to walk it which took maybe 15 minutes, in which we were harassed by at least five tuk-tuk drivers. We made it there to this large bazaar where we all were finally given the answer to why in which we had been so abruptly awakened this morning. It was an official Indian celebration and holiday for Guru Nanak’s birthday. The high pitched ballads of Indian divas filled the walkways. People were digging with their cupped fingers into bowls made of water lilies and filled with various local roadside foods. People were lounging in the grassy arenas, men toiling with their lover’s hair spilling out from under the bright saris and children running about with their stands of necklaces for sale during play. But this was cut short by the Lithuanians on a mission. Ah, there is always tomorrow for a peaceful solo return to this place. We looked for our man, in a string of frog green and sunshine yellow tuk-tuks. We found him, eager of course to be utilized. Little did he know of the army of head strong women that I traveled amongst. 400 Rs (about $7) for all of us all day was his response. If you ask me, that’s a deal, especially knowing that would perhaps feed his family for more than a couple of days. We headed in to Old Delhi. Let me just say that not one of the mammoth royal religious structures could have surpassed the joy I found in one of these tuk-tuks all smooshed together on laps and half hanging out.
Now I must break paragraphs to tell you of perhaps the most impressionable moment yet, involving a dirt encrusted little hardened angel of about 4 or 5. As a stop light came to be, she spotted our tourist entanglement and ran up just behind the bumper of the car by our side and in front of another bumper. She was painted with long lines of eyeliner and dressed in rags, carrying a beat up metal bowl and a metal ring. She hastily looked from us back to the light, back to us and back to her routine as she shook her hips side to side, flung herself in to a backbend, and roped herself through her prop multiple times with darting eyes and an anxious conclusion of more hip shaking. The light turned green and she thrust her bowl out and begged us in quick speech as the horns began to honk, the driver looked at us anxiously and we clambered through our wallets for anything reasonable for this child and then in a moment she ran back to her street’s edge and we took off in a sea of angry horns. My heart sank and I struggled to hold in my desire to go scoop her up and give her the world. And for her, this is just another incarnation, which will probably be stunted by famine and filth.
The trust you had to put in the driver and in the age old chaos of these roads and their vehicles was huge yet so easy. We plowed through the corridors of Delhi until we came to the largest and oldest mosque in India, known as Jama Mas Jid. Unfortunately we were quickly shooed away by a half blind Muslim man. Prayer was starting and my companions had no hair wraps which we thought was the initial problem but they had ones there for rent. In all the confusion I am not sure why we weren’t let in. After all Mae was a Muslim and I even had a head scarf on. Oh well, another place to revisit tomorrow. The outside was as you would imagine, regal and verbose. The accumulation of mass chanting was surreal in its vibrations. I noticed a group of teenage girls giggling and staring at me with big smiles. This would be the first of many of these odd reactions that I received.
So we were back in the tuk-tuk, on our way to the massive Red Fort. This was some huge Muslim display. A private palace essentially with gigantic walls surrounding it and gardens, and mosque, etc… Definitely worth seeing although I am not sure why. There was a museum at the top with ancient war relics and a sign that said to watch for pick pockets, which kind of killed my comfort in enjoying the history as I was churned through the mass of people. A bit too touristy for me but in India you are never let down when the everyday culture can always out shine even the greatest relics of the past. I was approached by a group of teenage boys wishing to take my picture with a new fangled camera phone. I resisted at first thinking it was yet another ploy for money but then realized quickly that they were just interested in me. So I stood for a picture and then I pointed the camera at them as they giggled and pushed together for a tough guy pic. The saris and the Muslim robes romanticized the whole atmosphere as I strolled through the gardens. All in all, not a bad 250 Rs ($4ish) spent. We found our devoted driver and Mae sweetly decided to buy him a drink to fight the heat. He went up to the drink stand and pocketed the money and came back. I suppose it may buy a string of drinks for thirstier mouths later.
After much jibber-jabber and confusing of the driver, the ladies decided on the Humayun’s tomb. I was pleased. I love going to places of the dead. Of course in true Muslim fashion this wasn’t just any old place. It was gorgeous. However it better be, after about ten thousand men gave their lives to build these massive grounds of ornate structures! It was seemingly endless and we had finally escaped a bit of the chaos and found tranquility here. This was the highlight of the attractions. The tombs were built in the 1700s by a famous architect for a not as famous Muslim who gave his life to a stumble down his steep library stairs. There were at least ten or more buildings on the grounds with a splatter of large palm trees, busy green parrots and scurrying chipmunks. I was able to escape my companions for a spell and just stroll, uninterrupted. Until I made the mistake of taking a picture of a woman sitting on a wall in front a mosque. As I passed to go in and see the structure, she demanded money from me. Apparently you can bottle and sell the charm of a country. It kind of killed the romantic picture that I had just taken. I had nothing small at the time and felt it a bit unfair. I passed her and immediately heard, what sounded like a Hindu’s version of a voodoo-like hiss. I could see all of her eighteen Shakti arms coming at me from behind. Chills ran down my spine. Mae caught up to me. However Dauna and Dalia were missing. Mae’s curious spirit found a steep ancient set of stairs that took us to the rooftop. It was amazing, even in all the smog, the view up top with the lines of columns, archways and domes. We took our moment and then vewy, wewy carefully found our way back to earth. We strolled through more of the grounds. Mae and I have that similar spirit of child like intrigue in the unknown. She is definitely a romantic. We took trips down thoughts of what it was like being a constructor of this phenomenon way back then. Her long pink skirt and youthful smile was often the subject for in my camera’s feast As we entered the archway that lead us to big daddy’s tomb, a buzzing group of once again, teenagers (this time girls) smiled shyly amidst their black and white uniform saris. One of them even clenched my hand and giggled and they all kept sneaking peeks at me. It was so cute, for lack of a better description. Then, as if they couldn’t stand it anymore they sent one of their boys over to ask me in English if I would take a picture with them. “Miss, please take picture with?” We stood in front of some great monument with about three or four girls on either side. They all bowed and thanked me. I took a picture of them in all their sweet giddiness. Mae seemed to pick up on the attention I was getting at this point from all the kids. Still not quite sure if it is just that I am a model of a Western woman or Mae thought maybe it was because I was a western woman with my head actually wrapped. Not sure. Maybe it is that I am just some hippie chick from the states. I suppose there is always a desire for the other side of life and maybe that is what I represented for them. However peculiar, it was also endearing. Perhaps my most picture perfect scene of the day was of a husband and his beautifully dressed angelic wife and what appeared to be either his or her sister and the wife’s small daughter of maybe 4 or 5 who looked down syndrome. I was able to capture the most loving picture of family as the two women helped the little girl rise to the top of the steep set of stairs. It took my breath away at how perfect it all appeared before me
Before we knew it, there had been no sign of the white rabbit Lithuanians and Mae and I knew we were in trouble, for we had fallen in to the abyss of Indian enchantment and not noticed too terribly that they were gone. Sure enough, upon retreating to the parking lot, we had two uppity, head cocked women penetrating our souls with their pissiness. They went on and on of their grief and we hung our heads and took it with a light heart. Nobody was truly to blame but sometimes it makes people feel better to stir up fault to explain their frustrations with simply the flow and pace of life. The driver too seemed disgruntled but then shot me a flirty shrug of the shoulders and a smile through the rear view mirror.
We rushed over to the closing India Gates, a large Parliament structure that reminded 3 out of 4 of us of the Arch d’ Triumph. They walked about it as I retreated to the grassy area. Green being such a novel luxury here, I had to indulge.
We made it back to the market streets of by our hostel and paid the driver an extra 220 Rs for all of his patience and for the great adventure. But as is common here, knowing that we were alien to this area, he tried to get even more. Mae and I being the suckers that we are, lingered the longest in the broken debate as the Lithuanians were off. Eventually after giving up, we started the short hike through the windy muddy roads, full of cows, vendors, a few more tourists in this area and all the frankly putrid smells. But the colored lights were lit and the moon was actually penetrating the pollution enough to once again leave a person awe inspired by the profound paradox of visual ambiguity. What came first the ugly and smelly chaos or the resounding beauty?
After unloading our gear and exchanging our emails, we all freshened up and miss Mae and I met up and went back in to the streets to seek much needed fuel for the body. We wound down a rugged alleyway market that was so rich with colorful vegetables, bags of grains and spices and herbs, each spot run by skinny Indians usually seated with bare feet in lotus position on a pillow, handing out goods. We finally made our decision, settling on a Chinese nook of a restaurant. We ordered veggie rice and veggie noodles to split. I have to admit, I was scared and much apprehensive to the sanitary nature of what it was that we were about to receive. After all, I have never eaten at a place where the waiters walk around bare foot and grab noodles with their bare, unwashed for maybe days, hands. But the idea I find that works here is just to work up such an appetite that it doesn’t really matter what you are taking in as long as it can be called food (vegetarian of course). And, you know, those noodles were delightful, grime and all. The grand total, including a bottle of water was 55 Rs plus tip (about $1.50) for both of us combined. And it is now 7 am on the following morning and my stomach is still intact. What do you know?
By the time we made it back, I could barely pull on my favorite p.j. pants and crawl into my sack before I was out. I had all kinds of intention to come back and edit pictures and start journaling my day but that didn’t happen till I awoke peacefully around 3 am.
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