Six days in Delhi

Dear all,

Having discussed possible itineraries at length with Shalini I worked out what was possibly and hopefully the most rewarding way for me to spend six days in Delhi. I would visit the Chandri Chowk because it is lively with a variety of goods on sale (though I'd seen this before), the big mosque (Jamar Masjid), the Red Fort, a tall Islamic tower called Qutab Minar (because its a world heritage site, not because I'm particularly fond of tall towers), an organized tour of an attempt at a capital of India (number five of seven), the biggest and most ornate Hindu temple in India and probably the world, and a day trip to Agra where the Taj Mahal may be found.

First was Chandri Chowk, a continuation of my trial by fire of India. It was a hot, busy place, with crowds of touts, rickshaws, auto rickshaws, beggars, and people having a nap on ledges and traffic islands. I didn't know where I was going so I wandered at random for a while, discovered that most of the stalls were still closed so I observed people fetching water, washing, shaving and having breakfast instead. There were many dead ends and locals watching me with amusement but there was nothing new there, it even happens in England sometimes.

When I became tired of wandering I hailed a rickshaw to take me the Mosque. I tried to become accustomed to the constant beeping. If you listen for long enough it becomes tuneful.

Fortunately it was not prayer time. I hadn't realised yet that nobody else was wearing shorts so on entering the Mosque I had the opportunity to pay 10 rupees to rent a longee (essentially a sheet wrapped round your legs) in addition to the 10 rupees for a guy to keep my sandals and 300 rupees for the entry ticket itself (there was a 3 written over the 2).

Inside there was white matting along key routes to allow visitors to walk without burning their feet, many more people having a nap, children sitting on rubble and more Indians - young men as usual - wanting a photo of me. Here they are:

The Mosque itself was a large open space with an anticlimactic prayer hall, a large open covered space. That hall was beautiful from the outside however. When I told an Indian guy later than I had visited the Mosque, he said, "Why? Are you Muslim?". Tourism can be unintuitive sometimes.

Inside a Muslim man beckoned for me to sit down next to him. He began by asking where I'm from and what I do. It turned out we were both C# software engineers but unfortunately we didn't dwell on that subject for long as he changed tack and tried to convince me of the existence of God by means of the watch / watchmaker argument. I objected that it is erroneous to explain the existence of a complex thing by positing the existence of a more complex thing but he didn't take up my objection and instead asked for my email address, promising to do further argumentative work to convince me of the truth of Islam via email. He hasn't contacted me yet but he did provide some leaflets that promise that Islam may answer all my emotional, political and spiritual needs in this life.

While walking Chandri Chowk, practising ignoring all the shopkeepers and rickshaw drivers calling out "Hello friend!" (it is more difficult to ignore a tout who is speaking English) I was occasionally hearing drumming and loud bangs. I saw a mass of people followed by a cow hauling a cart moving down the other side of the street so I crossed to the intersection to watch. Here I was accosted with some enthusiasm. Many young men shook my hand and some pressed pieces of banana, a lime and a bag of water into it. I began to closely inspect the bag of water (it said something about "reverse osmosis" on it) but the men began to yell "drink, drink!" so I drank. One young woman took her friend's arm and encouraged her to shake my hand. She remains the only female stranger to shake my hand thus far. I tried to shake the hand of the young lady who was so keen on others handshaking but she would not.

The cow kept on stopping because it was scared of the firecrackers being launched ahead of it. The lady in the blue sari wasn't keen on it either. Many were making music and dancing - I was given a pair of cymbals and ushered to the centre of the crowd. Here I found another bewildered white man; I danced and banged with him and everybody else. But I was only just getting into it when they took back my cymbals, shook my hand many times again and waved me off. Perhaps a white man is only good luck for a short time, perhaps I banged out of time, or perhaps they wanted to return a proper religiosity to their festival, undiluted by unbelievers.

Cathy, the retired lady from Australia from the truck had lived in Delhi for a while. There she made friends with Sureka, an Indian lady of similar age. This lady also happened to be my host's niece. Both independently suggested I get in touch with Sureka to take one of her tours. Given this input I decided I had better do so.

I met up with the group at 7pm in front of a metro station. I saw three white people waiting and chatting, concluded they were the group and introduced myself. They were middle aged ladies from Australia and The Netherlands and were pleased to make my acquaintance. Two pretty young women from the UK turned up. I tried to strike up a conversation with them but that was more difficult. The final group was quite a crowd, fourteen or so people.

Sureka took us on rickshaws to a shady spot, pointed out a ruined gate and began telling us about the  founding of the fifth city of Delhi, Feroz Shah Kolta. Delhi as a city was founded and destroyed seven times as the fortunes of different empires rose and fell, leaving, like Rome, the residue of previous civilisations scattered beneath the city, occasionally not demolished by future development.

While she talked a crowd of curious Indians gathered to watch the white people. Some of them were quite close to us. Sureka shouted at them in Hindi and warned us to keep an eye out for pickpockets and gropers. Looking around me I couldn't tell who were simply curious and who had more nefarious aims in mind but they all needed shooing regardless.

As we walked I exchanged the basic background details (origin, length of trip, occupation) with my fellow group members but most seemed uninterested, with the exception the aforementioned ladies and a lone Indian man working in IT. These were not truckmates, these were couples and families looking for an engaging history lesson only and had little desire to make new acquaintances.

We headed towards a ruined mosque. Despite its state, this place was still very much in active use. It was dusk and there were scattered crowds of Muslim men, women and children sitting on the grass round fires, some gathered round shrines inset into crumbling rock. Kites (birds of prey) swooped overhead, dominating the skies with their presence. I struggled to make out the faces of those nearby, but I knew that some were part of the group, some were curious onlookers following us, and others were passing by.

Sureka enlisted the services of two security guards. Their role was to unlock doors for us and keep locals away. All nearby onlookers were distrusted and kept out our way. As the light grew dimmer we lit torches and ventured deeper into the ruins. Many ancient rooms held one or two worshippers, supplicants, burning incense, making offerings, attempting to appease the Dijjins, potentially malevolent spirits with the power to bring good luck or misfortune.

We had children with us and some were a little scared. Unfortunately the torches we had were insufficient for this darkness. The Australian lady entrusted me with hers because I am taller and asked me to light people's way in order that they not trip on the uneven rocks and steps. As we ascended to the roof Sureka talked about an iron pillar and I approached the edge to balance my camera on the rocks to take a long exposure of the crowds on the grass below that were now shrouded in darkness. However I was called away lest I fall. After the liberating attitude of Dragoman leaders to personal autonomy and exploration I was unused to such babysitting.

The darkness was now such that we could not continue the tour and so we headed towards our final destination, a place of great personal interest to me. We were to visit the Parsi community in Delhi, the dwindling adherents of a once widespread religion, Zoroastrianism. This religion was the first to come up with the concept of hell and influenced early Christianity. Yet neither history nor their priests were kind to them - in addition to not being taken on as a State religion by any successful empire and being overshadowed by the spread of Islam the religion had banned adherents from marrying outside the group. As a result there are only seven hundred and fifty Parsis in Delhi and a few thousand in Bombay. These are among the largest Parsi communities in the world.

Not being pure Parsi we were not permitted to enter the temple of fire, we instead made do with entrance to their guesthouse. It still felt somewhat like an alien space but unfortunately the priest talked more about his wildlife photography projects than the religion. I also learnt much about Parsi food from the cook. The dhal was made with Parsi Marsala, a rare and complex spice mix whose recipe is known only to Parsi. I sampled the dhal with great anticipation but was not stupefied by the flavours - a diner from England commented that it tasted like our yellow and bland "curry powder" - I begrudgingly admitted that they were right. Another reminder that the rare and exotic is not necessarily superior.

During our meal I conversed some with those I was sitting with. Without exception they were fortunate, well off expats, two working for embassies (American and Dutch) and another working for the British Government Department for International Development, recently moved from a posting in Brazil. His well spoken children were born in Brazil and had spent little time in Britain but were indisputably British. All three were somewhat reticent in conversation, being more intent on finishing their meals and going home. When I told them I recently crossed China I saw some surprise and raised eyebrows, one asking whether I hitchhiked or took public transport. I assured them in my own words that it was far more civilised than that.

I was working on a second helping and dessert when I noticed that all had departed apart from the British civil servant and his children. Sureka understood he had a car at his disposal and that I did not and promptly offered his services in giving me a lift to the nearest metro station. He was too polite and I was too curious to refuse this offer.

I tried to make polite conversation while sitting with his chauffeur in the front seat (he wanted to sit in the back with his children). He seemed impressed when I told him I worked as an IT contractor but I think I lost my good standing when I quizzed him more about his life than was appropriate for the situation. I felt relieved when we finally arrived at the metro station.

The next day, on September 20th, I visited the largest and most ornate Hindu temple in India, Akshardam temple. This was a strange place. It was free to enter, but not only were photos prohibited, but no electronic devices of any sort were permitted and neither were bags. Each person went in stripped off all their data collecting capacity besides their senses and memory. This was not accidental; some religions and governments fear the exposure of recorded words and images. Personally I was able to take one photo from outside the gates.

This temple is sold as a tourist attraction and a Hindu place of worship but it was not. It was dedicated to extolling the greatness of a man and his spiritual forebears, all reincarnations of the spirit of the divine founder of the religion (an abstinent holy man whose Hindi name sounds like "nil c*nt"). It borrowed much from other Hindu faiths but this connection was accidental rather than integral.

Their founder was deified and as a result all his successors were also considered divine. Claiming divine descent is a risky strategy but if successful can bring much influence and / or riches. 

The temple itself was stunning, massive and beautiful. It was built only of white marble and every inch was intricately carved and perfectly clean - a rarity in India. However its beauty was marred by pictures of the holy founder and his successor scattered in every corner. The interior showed many painting of him at every stage of his spiritual journey, performing good deeds and miracles, and on reaching the centre, the most holy place, the visiting Hindus were confused to find not a familiar idol of Ganesh, Shiva, Laksmi or Buddha but a statue of an unfamiliar man seated in the pose of Buddha. I watched them for a while - most paused, then touched their forehead to the floor and prayed. They are Hindu, and this was a Hindu temple, so why should they not?

There was an IMAX cinema attached to the temple. This showed a film depicting the life of Nil, a boy who at twelve gave up all worldly ties and left his family in the middle of the night to wander India alone and become enlightened. There was also an "ride", a series of rooms of animatronics, short films and a boat ride extolling the virtues of the religion. By the end of the day I was tired and offended at having been subjected to such a barrage of propoganda and had concluded that one should never trust a place of worship that has its own IMAX cinema. It was a misspent day but I had had worse. I was not disspirited - the next day I was to take a day trip on the train to Agra and the Taj Mahal.

Stephen