Tuesday, June 18: 3 AM - Delhi
Groggily we tumbled into Indira Ghandi International airport. Baggage and customs went smoothly, and an Indian man awaited us with a bright white sign bearing the name FITZGERALD. The post midnight heat of monsoon-season Delhi was refreshingly temperate, as millions of moths flitted above. As we traveled to our village hotel nestled inside the city, I remember what my beloved Asian Studies teacher Mrs. Davis told me about India almost two decades ago: "Humanity and dust." Sleeping on the sidewalk and the ground, urinating on the side of the road, walking in every direction: Humanity everywhere. Lights, shacks, neon signs, animals, bugs. Even at 3 AM, we knew we had entered another world.
The day began again at 7:30 AM. I emerged from our clean, air-conditioned, serviceable room to the sounds of children on school holiday playing cricket in the gardens below. Our hotel- The Rose (The Colaba Hotel)- was a diamond in the rough. Run by a Frenchman- with the attention to hospitality, artistic touches, and aesthetic refinement that entails- the Rose is located in the southern edge of Delhi in an old village inhabited since the 1200's. The village has become trendy and desirable because it boasts a park, a lake, and an historical pedestrian district off limits to vehicles. In the chaos of the India's Capital metropolis, this village is a oasis of peace.
Still, it was Indian peace. As Leigh and I trekked through the winding alleyways on our first Delhi morning, we dodged cows, motorcycles, and various unidentified puddles. Eyes wide, noses primed, and ears open, we absorbed the sensory overload that is quintessentially India.
A 30 minute walk carried us past temples and gates twice as old as the United States that were as open to use as a suburban children's park. Indians slept inside the temples, bicycles leaned against these treasures, and we nosed around without anyone noticing. The historical and cultural heritage of India is interactive and everywhere.
We dropped into the Metro station at Green Park, paying 25 U.S. cents each for a ride on a clean, organized, and efficient underground train. On the Indian metro, there is a special car dedicated for women only, which I realized too late as Leigh moved me into the proper compartment. This would be an emerging theme in Delhi: The Traditional and the Modern, blended like curry.
We traveled to the North end of town- Old Delhi. As much as I've traveled, I wasn't prepared for what was about to happen. We emerged above ground into Chandni Chowk, a traditional neighborhood that is home to the Old Delhi Bazaar, the seminal military fort of the city, and three of the most important temples in the capital.
The humanity was immediately and completely overwhelming. We crossed the Metro turnstile and beggars hit straight away. Children holding the limp bodies of smaller children. Filthy, mutilated people pressing fingers to lips. Dirty-faced boys passing out unintelligible flyers. I grasped Leigh's hand tightly as we followed a covered walkway crushed by people on all sides. Horses, cows, auto-rickshaws, music, plastic trash, fresh food, rotting fruit. The hawkers moved in on us, pushing hard to sell us a ride on their auto rickshaws (three-wheeled motorized rickshaws with a backseat for two).
We turned the corner into a hollowed out building covered in a mountain of trash. It was insane. Leigh grabbed her nose and put her head down as we tramped over trash, dodged vehicles, and navigated a frenetic intersection. In the distance we could see the soaring red-sandstone walls of Red Fort, and we made a beeline, not stopping, not talking, not interacting with others. When you walk in Chandni Chowk, you just focus on protecting your feet, your bags, and each other. No time for small talk.
We heaved sighs of relief as we stepped into the gates of Red Fort. No cars, no horns, no traffic noise, open space. Let the historical tourism re-commence.
Red Fort occupies a central role in the history of the City and the Country. Originally it was a military fortress of the Mughals, who built and occupied the fort from the 1500's to the 1700's. The Mughals were Muslim-converted nomadic warriors who flooded into the subcontinent from the same direction as all the other land conquerers- the Aryans, Alexander the Great, the Persians. That is, they came from the northwest, between the Arabian Sea and the Himalayas.
Living in a militant time, in an exposed place, with a total lack of a central organizing authority, the Mughals built their Empire on paranoia and military might. Red Fort was their most vital fortress, and it was fearsomely fortified with moats, gates, double gates, spears, arrows, fire, swords, and more. However, it was also the domicile of the Mughal Emperors and their musicians, servants, and harems. For the most part, these Mughals Emperors were mediocre, dedicating exorbitant amounts of treasure, human life and energy to the pursuit of acquiring riches, sucking up pleasure, and brutalizing commoners. One fabulous exception was Emperor Akbar, who tolerated all religions, supported artistic endeavors, and promoted peace in his Empire.
We walked through the Hall of Public Audience, the center of justice and official proclamations. We observed the ornate white marble throne of the Emperors. We also saw the Halls of Private Audience, flanked by a private mosque, sleeping chambers, and the quarters of the Emperor's favorite wife. The royal baths were also nearby. All of the grounds were decorated with flourishing and geometric landscaping.
The Mughals declined as the British moved in. The Britishers ruled with increasing influence from the 1700's to 1947, but 1857 to 1901 was the true Victorian golden age for Brittania. The English took over Red Fort and re-purposed the entire structure as an armory, training ground, and officers' quarters.
In modern times, Red Fort is nationally famous because it was here, at midnight on Aug 15, 1947, that the Indian flag was first raised by Jawaharlal Nehru to declare the birth of a nation.
Full of our morning's history, we buckled down for our trek back through Chandni Chowk. We made it crosstown and back to the Rose by 2 PM, where we dove straight in to our next adventure: A six hour guided exploration of New Delhi and Old Delhi!
As I was quickly learning, such is the pace of travel with my irrepressible fiance.
We ducked into an air-conditioned vehicle with our private driver, Karan. The people of India draw their heritage from a vast range of peoples, from the Aryans of Central Asia, to the Dravidian tribes of the southern cone, to the Bengalis of the Eastern River Delta. There are hundreds of peoples and thousands of languages in this patchwork tapestry of a country. Karan was a dark-skinned native of Rajasthan, India's biggest province, just to the southwest of Delhi. He was friendly and talkative, but unfortunately he smelled bad.
We scooped our tour guide of the street, and began our air-conditioned car tour of Delhi. Our guide introduced herself as Uma. Dressed in a stunning turquoise and purple sari, and decorated with ornate jewelry, Uma was a striking 26 year old college graduate awaiting her results on her teacher's credential. She was single, conservative, and living at home with her parents. Throughout the afternoon, we would learn that Uma had once fallen in love with a boy from a lower caste, or social class. Her parents told her she would be disowned if she married the boy, so she cut off the romance. She was now engaged in a proactive search for her husband, using her parents, newspaper advertisements, online social networks, and more. Leigh and were floored to see this modern Indian woman still operating in the matrix of traditional matchmaking customs.
Meanwhile, Delhi flashed by outside of our windows. Delhi is actually seven different cities that have melded into each other over 1,000 years. The seventh and final city is New Delhi, which is the modern Capital that the British designed. New Delhi is blessed with the British heritage of broad boulevards, oversized roundabouts, logical grid patterns, soaring government buildings, and a breathtaking federal architecture that combines Neo-classical European elements with the red sandstone and smooth circles of Indian traditions. In the French tradition of the Louvre running through Napoleon's Gate all the way to the Eiffel Tower, or the American tradition of Capitol Hill running through Washington Monument all the way to the Lincoln Memorial, New Delhi's central artery is affixed in a straight line. The Presidential Palace is perfectly flanked by the two national legislative buildings, and points straight into the distance along tree-lined pedestrian parks toward the India Gate, a sort of Indian Arc de Triomphe. Unfortunately, the India Gate was on lockdown when we visited, as public protests had recently erupted there in response to incendiary incidents of the brutalization of women.
Adjacent to the political center of the nation was the cultural, residential, and commercial distract called Connaught Place. Why this neighborhood was named for an Irishman I have no idea, but judging by a few streets in the neighborhood (Tolstoy Lane/Cervantes Way), it seems that the British may have had the deciding votes in naming New Delhi landmarks. This toney part of town brimmed with international brand name stores, public parks, white-washed classical architecture, and three story apartments that were surely once the provenance of the British Masters and the Indian elite. The chaos of India still showed everywhere, but the mere fact of organized road infrastructure, buildings constructed to code, and open parks made this part of the city a pleasure.
Now it was time to leave New Delhi for Old Delhi. We left our car and returned to the Metro, as driving into Old Delhi is pure chaos. With Uma at our side, we emerged back into the Old Delhi we had skimmed over in the morning. She quickly hailed an auto rickshaw. The advantage to these mini-taxis was maneuverability; the disadvantage was that, with no windows or doors, the sensory overload of honking horns, animal waste, human bodies, crushing heat, and stench was unadulterated.
Thus began a 45 minute narrated tour of the most dense, chaotic, mixed up, fascinating, shocking disorganized chaos of human life I've ever seen. Ever. The rabbit warren of streets we navigated through beggars description. Hundreds of electric lines hung above us and scattered legally and illegally into every building. Sikhs, Muslims, and Hindus emerged from every doorway and all rushed in every direction at once. People were missing all kinds of clothes: Shoes, shirts, pants. Others were missing limbs. Deep-fried street food piled high on food carts.
Though the chaotic density was out of control, the businesses of Old Delhi were booming. A whole subsection of the city was dedicated to weddings. Each street boasted twenty different shops that all offered one key wedding item: lace, invitations, headdresses, pastries, jewels, saris. I glanced at Leigh to see if she wanted to pick up a few items for our Monsoon Wedding, but she shook her head side-to-side (which in India, means yes!).
We stopped in at a food stall where the first Indian Prime Minister- the revered Jawaharlal Nehru- used to patronize for Chapati. We moved on to Haldiman's, an international chain of Indian restaurants, where we consumed the three best Indian dishes I've ever eaten in my life. It was my first meal in India, and I began to realize that much like with Chinese food, our American versions of these cuisines do not match what people are eating in the Mother Countries.
After our late lunch, we crossed the bustling central thoroughfare of Chandni Chowk, taking our lives in our hands. It was time to enter the flagship Sikh Temple of Old Delhi. This was a transformative experience.
The Sikh religion is the newest of India's religions. Borne partly out of a desire to fuse Hindu and Islamic tradition, the Sikhs emphasize the equality of all men as enshrined in Islam, while taking the tolerance, mysticism, and gender equality more celebrated by Hindus. The Sikh men are united by Five Rules (The Five K's). The Sikh men must be well-groomed, tie their uncut hair in turbans, carry knives for self-defense, and wear metal bracelets to represent purity. All the men take the surname of Singh, to demonstrate equality among believers.
The temple emanated shakti, or spiritual energy. We removed our shoes and handed them to smiling children. We washed our feet in filtered pools, covered our heads with cloth, and climbed white marble steps into the Temple. Inside an explosion of light, color, music, and joy consumed me. Bearded men rocked from side to side, chanting to God, strumming stringed sitars, banging tabla and drums. The music, respect, and beauty of the scene define what I hope Heaven might be like. I stood transfixed by this sensual Glory, which somehow complemented the chaos outside.
We drifted next door into the Cookhouse, where Sikhs worked in an industrial kitchen with steel pots the size of automobiles. The Sikhs deliver 15,000 meals a day out of this room, for free, to believers from any religion. At an age in my life where cynicism can begin to creep in, this Sikh experience felt transformative.
Towering temples from other religions were just next door. The ascetic, all-life respecting Jains had the street corner. Somehow the Baptists had constructed a Church across the street, though it looked devoid of activity. We proceeded to our final stop, the Hindu Temple of Chandni Chowk. We removed our shoes and climbed white marble steps once more.
Now I've seen shrines, paintings, sculptures, Holy Books, movies, and countless other Hindu representations, but I'd never entered a temple. The idolatry was unrepentant and beautiful. Krishna, the blue-bodied God of Love, danced in his recessed alcove shrine. Ganesh, the Elephant God and patient scribe of the Ramayana, rejoiced in his golden-colored finery. Shiva the Destroyer emerged from the depths of the earth gripping a Triton wrapped in a python. Vishnu the Creator was being re-decorated by Hindu priests. There was no official ceremony, no clear worshipping space, no altar or music. Instead, the Hindu temple seemed to be an organic, ad-hoc, everything space for whatever its worshippers wanted and needed.
The tour had come to an end.
Leigh and I bid Uma farewell, and Karan returned us to the relative sanctuary of our pedestrian village. Jetlagged, overstimulated, stuffed, and fascinated, we drifted to bed by 9 PM. Our first full day in India, like this blog entry, felt like a lifetime.
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