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Today's picture is of a family riding on a bicycle rickshaw in Chandni Chowk, Old Delhi.
As crowded as Delhi is, there are respites from the jostling and the beeping of traffic.
Early this afternoon, Kim's driver dropped me off at Lodi Garden, an oasis built on the site of a 14th-century massacre. Lodi has broad lawns, winding paths and tombs of members of the ruling dynasties of that era. At one end of the park is a mausoleum to Mohammed Shah, third ruler of the Sayyid dynasty. It is walled off, an the inner wall is lined with an arched veranda. I poke my camera through a locked gate to take a picture. There must be some access because, as you see almost everywhere, there was a group of men, just sitting and talking, under one of the veranda's arches. There are two larger, free-standing mausoleums sited beautifully on a long axis, one in front of the other and at one end, shallow, stone-lined pond filled with water and algae.
The mausoleums are weather-beaten and worn, with tiles missing here and there. But the overall effect is peaceful. They are so stately and regal, despite the fact that people wander through and around them almost oblivious to their past.
Lots of school kids, lovers, the usual clusters of men (I have to say it because that's what we'd say in Pittsburgh) loafing. As a digression, one of the things someone was talking about at brunch the other day, and I have no idea how we got on the topic, is that Indian men are quite in the habit of adjusting themselves continually. As Suresh was driving me to Lodi Garden, I saw a man standing on a corner (while two others urinated nearby) holding the paper he was reading in one hand and, well, himself, in the other.
One of the things I've noticed, too, is how many many men there are here. It didn't occur to me until today, when Kim's friend Deepa Shah, a nurse practitioner here in Delhi and our guide for part of the day, was telling us about her driver, who wants to buy a bride. And then I remembered that there is also infanticide here. I don't know what other practices might mean a smaller female population and it's also worth me remembering that women here are second-class citizens and for that reason alone may be less visible.
Lodi Garden also is home to a small bonsai garden, which was quiet and cool.
At about 2 p.m. Suresh picked me up and we headed off to meet Kim, who had had an early meeting of the American Women's Association at one of the Oberoi Hotels here. This is the place where money is. Louis Vuitton bags and Hermes scarves. Tall Sikhs in spotless white uniforms and gloves, wearing dark turbans opening the doors for you. White marble bowls decorated with red rose petals. Guards at the gate going around every car, checking for anything amiss. The carry a long pole with a mirror, facing up, that they slide below the undercarriage, just to make extra sure. Marble floors. Handsome men behind the desk, which seems absurd because I saw a number of Westerners dressed in jeans and t-shirts asking for their help. (And a number, women mostly, who had caught the sari bug and looked quite lovely.)
Oh, and a beautiful swimming pool. I longed to trade my ankle-length skirt, three-quarter length shirt and all-covering head scarf for a bathing suit and a mojito to sit by that blue water.
However, Deepa, a native of India who had been away for 18 years and returned with her husband, an American born of Indian parents, was going to be our tour guide through Chandni Chowk, a dense market near the Red Fort, or Lal Qila, built by the Shah Jahan, a powerful 17th-century ruler of Delhi during what was called the Moghul era. Fodor's describes Lal Qila as recalling the "era of Moghul power and magnificence -- imperial elephants swaying by with their mahouts (elephant drivers), a royal army of eunuchs, court ladies carried in palanquins, and other vestiges of Shah Jahan's pomp."
As Deepa described it, Chandni Chowk was a long avenue extending from the fort, with canals and fountains, lined with havelas, or the homes of government ministers and officials.
Today, not so much. No canals, no fountains, no scented flower gardens.
The first smell that hits as you get out of the car is that of urine. The crowds at Chandni Chowk make the traffic of New Delhi seem like a walk in the park. You barely have room to move and you need to keep your eyes open at all times. Kim saved me from stepping in poop and Deepa warned me to turn my shoulders in when things got especially thick, to avoid being fondled.
There are shops selling saris, ties, white dress shirts, flashlights, jewelry, fabric, all manner of food. People stop to buy, or to haggle and men come out of the shops to entice you in. There's even a McDonald's. We stopped right off at a food stand selling fried bread with chickpea salsa and hot pickles. The boy brought us three metal cups and a pitcher of water, which sat unused. The bread was like what thin pitas would look like if you deep-fried them. Puffed up into a big balloon, hot and delicious. The sauce was spicy and salty but not too hot. The perfect accompaniment to the bread. Deepa also ordered a plate of a potato mash with rolls and sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. And bottled water. Kim peeled open the seal slowly to make sure it cracked properly. We skipped the veggies.
When we left, I noticed a very old man squatting on a griddle-like surface next to the cash register. There was a row of very small, cocktail-glass sized clay pots next to him. Later on I saw someone carrying one of those pots filled with something creamy and white. It might have been a drink called a lassi, but I'm not sure. Anyway, I'm glad I only saw him on the way out!
We walked on a little further and went in to Sisganj Gurdwara, a famous Sikh shrine. That was part of the reason for the head covering -- the other is that this area of Delhi is predominantly Muslim. Deepa pointed out at least one woman wearing a burqa. To enter the shrine, everyone must leave their shoes outside and everyone must cover their heads.
I'm not sure if you could call what was going on inside a service exactly. The interior is white marble, and the floor is covered with red oriental carpets. Devotees, when they enter, touch their right hand to the step and then bring it up to the head.
Inside, two men wearing the traditional Sikh turbans were sitting in the altar, which is surrounded by a metal gilt grate. I couldn't tell if the sermon was recorded or if they were actually speaking. Many people were sitting and listening, some people came in for a few minutes and left. Kim and I sat in the back while Deepa went up to the altar. The temple is built on the site where Aurangzeb, the paranoid son of Shah Jahan, roasted alive an early Sikh guru who refused to convert to Islam. (Despite his nasty reputation, Aurangzeb still has some streets named after him in Delhi. As Deepa pointed out, Indians have had to assimilate a lot over the centuries and there have been plenty of other bad guys, too.)
As you come out of the temple, there is a man at a large roasting pan filled with a (I think) wheat mixture. His hand is continually swiping in and out of the pan, delivering a small serving of the offering into the cupped hands of departing visitors. I took some. It tasted slightly sweet and had the texture of chewed banana. (By the end of the day, my hands were a little sticky, the first place offered no napkins.) Then at the bottom of the white marble steps, water jets out to cool your feet before you put your shoes back on. There were one or two women scooping the water into containers.
We walked up a bit more and hired, after some dickering by Deepa, two bicycle rickshaws to finish our tour of Chandni Chowk. (Total cost for one rickshaw for a half-hour: $1. And that is what you call a job with a lot of figurative heavy lifting.)
Our driver took us a bit further down the main drag, amid motorbikes, pedestrians, beggars, cars, taxis then turned off into a (relatively) quieter lane, where we immediately ran into a traffic jam. The rickshaw has a cover, so we were shielded from the sun. So were the men who pushed by balancing huge bales of fabric and rags on their heads. There were fruit carts and little stands where you could buy fried dough snacks and people were gathered about them, women in vivid saris, Sikhs in their turbans, munching and talking.
Kim was in a rickshaw behind us and our drivers kept yelling back and forth to make sure we wouldn't get separated. We turned again, into an even quieter lane, with the sun blocked by the rickety height of the buildings. It was frightening to see how the power lines were just kind of jumbled altogether on leaning poles -- like the scene in "A Christmas Story" when Ralphie's dad plugs the Christmas tree lights into an overloaded outlet -- except on a larger scale.
Kirana lane is where brides and other women looking for finery go for trimmings to the hems of their saris. There are beads, bangles, trims and bolts of bright fabrics decorated with sparkling threads, hanging all over the place. The smell of incense drifted past us and in a couple shops there were men just sitting and lounging. In Kirana, it is also quieter because there are no cars or motorbikes. Only bicycles, pedestrians and rickshaws. Then Deepa pointed out another lane off curtained Kirana, even narrower.
"People live there."
Finally after we came out of Kirana, the drivers cycled us back up to our pickup point, facing Lal Qila, where Suresh picked us up. We were exhausted and Kim or Deepa proposed a dose of Americana -- a glass of wine or a beer at ACSA, American Community Service Association, a club for ex-pats where the dues are $2,500 a year. No cameras allowed and you have to have ID and be with a member to enter. We sat beside (another) a beautiful pool, in an expansive, nearly outdoor patio and bar and had our drinks. Next to the shaded patio was what looked like a baseball field, complete with ad panels.
We lingered there for a bit, parted ways with Deepa and then went to pick up Kim's kids, who had been staying after school with a friend. I fell asleep on the way there and only woke when a beggar banged on my window.
One last note for the night. I think if you are poor and live here, and know there there is so much competition for money and food, you become inured to the hardships of others.
Beggars and hawkers haunt the traffic lanes and all forms of transportation usually hurtle right by them.
On the way home with Kim and her daughters, at a big intersection, a dark-skinned beared man with one whole leg and the other amputated halfway up, wearing a thick loincloth, a shirt and a turban, was dragging himself along on his rear end, banging on car doors. Finally, I saw a window roll down, a hand come out and a bill doled out. The beggar held it up and showed it around. Then he stared at it again and dragged himself out of the way.
The light changed and we were off.
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