Chapter 6 – Raj Ghat

Climbing back into our car for the day with guide and driver, we slowly made our way away from the hubbub of Chandni Chowk. The poverty outside the windows of the car was almost overwhelming making me feel helpless. Even if I gave up everything I owned, every dollar that I had saved, I knew that I would not make a difference, would not affect even a bit of change in the life conditions in India. As we passed one man, sitting the on the edge of the city road wearing only a loin cloth, the term ‘street people’, the homeless took on a new dimension. Along the walls between the roads and the buildings hidden behind the walls, a community of makeshift tents created yet another tableau of need, of the dispossessed. I saw all of this knowing that more than one hundred and seventy million people in India were living in this state of poverty. But poverty wasn’t the only face of India I saw.

Mixed in with the street traffic of Delhi were animals. It was hard to imagine how wooden carts being pulled by cows with painted horns could fit in the same picture as expensive cars and a never-ending stream of taxis, buses and trucks. It defied logic. The pace of transport was centuries removed from modern day. And yet, here it seems normal, just another ordinary occurrence.

Crossing from the central part of Old Delhi, we came upon an area of green, a large park-like expanse. We had arrived at Raj Ghat, the memorial to Mahatma Ghandi, the father of modern India. Ghandi stood for all that I held as proof that man can rise above personal selfishness. I saw my early days as a flower child as a personal memorial to this tiny man who changed the face of the British Empire. The belief that love, respect and non-violence could work miracles in the lives of the ordinary masses, as well as exert a powerful influence upon the privileged and mighty was proven in the life of Mahatma Ghandi.

In the park, we followed a path to the entrance to the memorial site which was through the side of a hill. We decided to first walk around the top of the hill enclosure to get a better sense of the place as well as to better prepare myself for approaching the memorial flame that burnt within the holy site. I walked slower than M. and our guide, taking my time for photographs of people as well as the memorial, not that the two could easily be separated. Having finally completed walking all four sides of the protective hill, it was time to enter into the open-air sanctuary.

As at Jama Masjid, it was necessary to remove our footwear before entering. We then joined a line of people who were walking around the altar that held an eternal flame which marked the tomb of Gandhi. On the four corners of the altar, marigold flowers were placed within white circles, a contrast to the black stone of the tomb. Another white circle held more marigold flowers. And, on a stone step before the altar were placed more marigold flowers. The evident respect that Gandhi still inspired in India was heartening for me. As I finally came near the centre of the tomb, an Indian family asked me to take their family photo with the memorial as a background. For an instant, I was a part of it all, not a stranger, not a foreigner, but a fellow human.

I finally was able to take a photo of the memorial, a distraction free photo. M. knew that this was the highlight of our time in Delhi for me, so to honour that, she took my photo with the memorial in the background. With a last look at the memorial, it was time to leave, time to return to our hotel for the evening and prepare for our travelling to Rajasthan in the morning. On the drive back to our hotel, we passed an impressive statue of Gandhi leading a line of other people on the voyage to an independent India. Talk about synchronicity, a meaningful coincidence. Delhi had delivered its promise to me.

Chapter 5 – Jama Masjid

I guess the obvious place to start is by saying that this mosque is not simply another tourist photo-opportunity; it is a living and breathing centre. Entering the inner court of the mosque we removed our footwear, a sign of respect. All inside were barefoot. Some, like us, were wearing socks. I was unprepared for what I thought was a centre of prayer and holiness.

What I found was, instead, a place for people. Some were simply resting in the sunshine, sitting on ledges along the wall surrounding the courtyard, sitting on ledges around a central shallow pool in front of the main entrance where a prayer podium waited for call to prayer. Some of those found in the courtyard were sitting quietly, others were visiting with family or friends, some like ourselves were studying the architecture and taking photos – tourists, a few were stretched out sleeping on the stones.

Around the central pool, a few were washing their feet, a ritual that was to wash away the dirt of the outer world so that one would be purified before entering the holy place of prayer.

I wandered into the central building and found a hall that was open to the outside air, a hall filled with prayer mats. In one corner, a group were obviously engaged in prayer, in the opposite corner a few individuals were finding their personal way to their god through prayer oblivious to the shifting scenes of ordinary people engaged in everyday life within the courtyard.

At the end of the hallway, I was able to look out on a district noted for car parts, a place called Chor Bazaar or “thieves’ bazaar”. It is in this area that stolen cars are taken apart and sold for their parts. It was a busy area. Strange, how such a place was so industrious. Even with all knowing its role, it continued to thrive. Where was law and order?

Looking back from the Chor Bazaar to the steps leading back into the Jama Masjid, a curious gathering rested on the steps. Some were visiting while having a lunch; some were almost unclothed except for a few rags. These tattered, dirty and lost souls had a space around them like some sort of protective zone around which others flowed. A few of these unwashed, untouchables slept on the hard steps in the full sunshine. It was hard to understand, too hard. Turning aside and walking back towards our original entry, it was time to leave.

Descending the steps from the Jama Masjid, we entered Chandni Chowk. Not too far from the mosque we climbed into a bicycle rickshaw for a ride through Old Delhi. The rickshaw bounced over the uneven pavement, slowly threading a narrow path through the crowded narrow streets. Chandni Chowk was a warren’s nest crowded with pedestrians, bikes, motorbikes and the occasional car. Overhead, electrical wires and telephone wires appeared to be on the verge of falling into the streets below. How workers were able to sift through the mass of wires to do any repairs was beyond comprehension. The streets were just as chaotic as the wires nested above, as chaotic as it is possible to be and still have people move through it on the way to their various destinations. The rickshaw finally came to a rest, back at the base of the Jama Masjid.