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.

Chapter 4 - Qutab Minar

Almost as soon as I re-entered the hotel, breakfast was brought to our room. We had pre-ordered a light Indian breakfast of masala omelette, toast and masala chai tea. The food quickly disappeared and we found ourselves back in the hotel lobby in anticipation of beginning our day of touring around Old Delhi. We didn’t wait long for the guide and his driver for the day. Climbing inside the small car, we bumped across the parking lot passing a small group of cows which had come to investigate the rubbish hill. As we passed, one man was offering a small amount of food to one of the cows. Ah, yes, this is the country of the holy cow. Turning the corner we passed a horse drawn wagon that was all decorated in bright colours and tinsel. Pointing it out as I took a photo, our guide told us that it was a marriage wagon, used in traditional wedding ceremonies.

My camera was kept busy as we drove down various roads. I was struck by the sharp contrasts of modern and ancient, of wealth and poverty. Large expanses of real estate were set aside for military purposes such as officers clubs for various different groups. Then crowded onto a roadside hill were shacks festooned with laundry hanging to dry with children oozing out of every nook and cranny of the dilapidated structures they had for homes.

Our destination was called Qutab Minar. As we approached our destination, our guide, a tall elegant man who had a gentle aspect, began to talk to us about the history of the ruins we were to be visiting. I have to confess that I didn’t listen very well, not because I couldn’t hear him, but because my mind was still racing from all that I had seen en route. I knew that I could find out all about the ruins later by using the Internet. My partner became the listener and asked questions to keep the stories coming.

I don’t know what it is about ruins that capture my attention. Perhaps it is decay that mourns for a time long gone. Perhaps it is the silence that lets one know that previously voices had been heard here, that lives had been lived here. Ruins are like magnets pulling one to trespass and to enter into a different space, a different time, a different way of being. Barely had our car stopped when I was out wandering taking photo after photo trying to capture some of what my imagination was sensing.

Of course, we weren’t alone at the Qutab Minar. However, we were the only obvious foreigners present. Thankfully we didn’t become the tourist attraction like we had experienced as we travelled in China. Perhaps the ruins were powerful enough to keep the attention of all who wandered through broken buildings and stone littered fields. One powerful site was an incomplete minar, or tower. The unfinished testament tells a story of unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

It was curious to note that many of those present were young, likely university students. Here and there throughout the grounds I could see them sitting quietly with books on the grass or in sunny corners leaning against a stone wall. Finally, one of them, a young woman had the courage to approach my partner, hoping for a photograph opportunity with the two of them together. Strange, it always works this way no matter where we find ourselves. There is something magic about my partner that draws others to be near her. Somehow, others unconsciously believe that to share a moment with her, to be photographed with her is a portal into good luck.

A final walk through the grounds with a final few photos taken took us back to our waiting car. It was time to visit our next destination, the Jama Masjid.

Chapter 3 - Delhi at Dawn

I woke often during the night, uncomfortable in the lumpy bed. Finally, with a hint of dawn in the piece of sky visible through the window, I decided to leave the bed and let my partner sleep better rather than disturb her with my tossing and turning. I put a chair beside the window and stared into the darkness. I was surprised to see that I wasn’t the only one awake. Two young boys came into view dragging large bags partially filled with what appeared to be garbage. They approached the long mound of garbage that we passed on entering the parking lot the evening before. A group of three others were on the low hill, older males. I watched as they went through the bags and separated the contents into various piles. With this done, the two younger boys took their empty bags and headed back into the darkness.

One other male was on the long, low mound of garbage sitting beside a small fire that was obviously meant for warmth and not about celebrating the Lohri festival. I continued watching almost feeling like a voyeur. These people belonged to the night, to a different world. These were people who were once called the untouchables, the lowest caste in India. As the dawn began to present a clearer picture, I got out my camera to record what I saw. Unbelievably, these people actually seemed happy as a few of them began to play. I could see them laugh as they chased each other.

Soon, they formed two groups, one group of three huddles around a small fire made from the rubbish, the other group with five were standing at a distance, huddled in a tight group. I watched as the largest of the males began to give themselves an injection of what I assumed was drugs with the three younger and smaller males raptly attentive to the mysteries of getting high. Though I am in a strange country, there is a sameness in how the desperate deal with unenviable lives.
The dawn had at last provided enough light for me to leave the room and begin wandering outside of the hotel. No, I didn’t feel fear. Being a small man who dresses rather nondescriptly, I am easily overlooked. I know how to fade into the shadows, to be in the fringes. I made sure to make no noise so as to not wake my partner. I slipped out the hotel doorway passed the sleeping security guard who was wrapped in a wool blanket and was seated in a white plastic garden chair, the same type of garden chair as I have at home.

I slowly made my way down a narrow lane taking photos of the area. Several buildings were being repaired, some weren’t. Piles of building materials and piles of construction refuse made an obstacle course. From between two of the piles, a rat appeared. He didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry as he checked out bits of garbage among the broken bricks. I reached the first corner and saw across a small parking lot, a McDonalds fast food restaurant. On one side of the restaurant was a Dominos Pizza outlet and on the other side was a bank outlet. In front, a small Brinks truck was stopped and two armed guards were keeping watch while the ATM was being restocked with money.

One store on the opposite side was in the process of opening for the day though it was still very early. A young woman in traditional clothing, a sari, was outside the shop sweeping the small piece of sidewalk. Traffic had begun to pick up on the street outside of the little shopping area. As I reached the roadway, I came across a small tent that was home to a small family that had just begun to serve a hot beverage to customers who were waiting on the sidewalk.

Walking along the line of shops which included a number of Internet cafes and ATM bank outlets, I was presented with a scene where a barber was giving a customer a shave. The barber’s shop consisted of a chair on the sidewalk with a mirror hung from a nail on a power pole. As I took a photo of the scene, the barber looked at me. I realised that I wasn’t invisible. And, being seen, I was accepted. He was as curious as I was. Our eyes met and that was enough.

Fading back into the edges, I decided to head back to the hotel and get ready for the planned tour of Delhi.

Chapter 2 - The Lohri Festival

Not far from the airport, the traffic began to slow as we merged with cars from various different directions. When we stopped for lights, people quickly appeared at our windows trying to sell newspapers, clothing or some unknown merchandise. I had put the window down a bit to let in the cooler evening air but was directed to put it back up as hands began to reach towards the open window. Manu indicated that the beggars were a nuisance and hard to get rid of if given even any kind of opening.

We were travelling down the roads on the left hand side as though we were in Britain. Of course, that made sense as this was a British colony for such a long time. The traffic was speeding up and slowing down as though some mad dance. In a space meant for three lanes of traffic I saw four and sometimes five rows of cars squeezing through. Only a few centimetres separated one vehicle from the next, sometimes even less. My partner noted that it appeared as though every vehicle had dents and scratched paint. This was not a time to relax.

Staring out the windows we saw black and yellow taxis, three-wheeled mini-taxis and curious looking white cars called Ambassador cars. Amazingly, we saw animals wandering at will through the horn-blaring circus. Passing through an uncountable number of round-a-bouts we finally emerged into a quieter part of the city, almost as though we had entered into the suburbs.

As we made our way deeper into this nether region of the city, I noticed fires, bonfires, burning on sidewalks with small crowds around each one. I knew that it was a chilly evening and assumed it was simply some of Delhi’s homeless attempting to keep warm. Yet, it didn’t make sense seeing as the bonfires were right in front of shops still open for business.

Still, we both felt we were being taken into the ghettos of Delhi. Our driver turned into a parking area with broken pavement. We passed by a sizeable rubbish pile and then stopped. Where the hell were we? What had we gotten ourselves into? Had we been taken in by the man who had booked our month-long stay in India? Apprehensively, we looked at each other with worry in our eyes.

Manu asked us to go into the hotel with him so that we could register for the room. Passports were produced and registers filled out. Manu took this time to present us with our documents for our stay in India.

‘Please, keep this with you at all times as it contains all the vouchers for your hotels and activities,’ advised Manu showing us the various vouchers. ‘If you have any questions, please do call us at the numbers indicated for each city.’ Looking through the booklet I saw that it all was there as we had anticipated. Relieved, I began to relax.

‘Thanks, Manu,’ I said as I passed the booklet on to my partner.

‘Are you hungry?’ asked Manu.

‘No, we ate frequently on the plane,’ I replied. ‘I think all we need is a good night’s sleep so that we are wide awake for tomorrow’s activities. Will you be meeting us tomorrow morning?’

‘No. A knowledgeable tour guide will be taking you around Old Delhi. He will be better able to explain the history as well as answer your questions. My job is in the office and making sure our guests are welcomed and taken to their hotels.’

Manu began talking to my partner while we were waiting for the documentation was being processed. I took some time to note that others in the hotel were Indians, Hindu and Sikh. Music was blaring and the bar was busy, something I didn’t expect. The hotel board announced three separate parties were in progress. Each party was put on by one or two sets of couples. My guess was that these were either wedding parties or engagement parties. The board noted that they were called Lohris.

‘Manu?’ I questioned, ‘What is a Lohri?’

‘A Lohri is a festival that marks the beginning of the sun’s journey to the north. It is an auspicious time for beginning a new part of one’s life journey. It is a Punjabi festival, also considered as a harvest festival. ’

‘Would I be right in guessing that the Lohri parties here are engagement parties?’

Manu turned to talk with the clerk behind the desk before turning back and responding, ‘Well, they are parties to celebrate three recent marriages. The Lohri festival is also a time for celebrating important events such as marriages and the birth of a family’s first boy child. Are you worried about the loud music?’

‘No.’

‘The hotel host tells me that the music will end before midnight.’

‘That’s fine.’

I asked Manu to tell me more about the Lohri festival while we waited.

‘The Lohri festival is also called a bonfire festival. A bonfire is built in honour of the god of Fire, Agni. People gather to pray and celebrate. Food is fed to the fire for Agni.’ Knowing that he had my attention, Manu continued, ‘Another part of this festival is about praising a man from the time of King Akbar, a man called Dulha Bhatti who was India’s version of Robin Hood. He stole from the rich and used the money to help the poor and the oppressed, especially women who were to be sold into slavery.’

That explained the bonfires we noticed on our way to the hotel, the scenes weren’t about poverty and homelessness, they were about celebration, kinship and worship. The bonfires became our first authentic experience of the real India.

Finally, the clerk’s assistant returned with our passports which had been taken elsewhere for photocopying. We got our room keys, big old-fashioned keys. Thanking Manu for his help and his warm welcome, we headed for our room.

Chapter 1 - Namasté

The plane sat on the tarmac filled with more people heading to Delhi. As I left the city of Changzhou earlier in the morning, the first snow seen in years was just beginning to fall. It’s the beginning of the Spring Festival holiday for me now that my marking at the university was completed. I had five weeks of freedom to explore India, five weeks away from the bone-chilling cool weather in a land with no central heating. In my apartment two small electric heaters try valiantly to assist the combo heater and air conditioner. In the classrooms there has been no heat at all while the temperatures dip to the freezing mark and below. Five weeks away from the classroom has been well earned. I had planned for quite some time to spend this time in India as I didn’t think I would be back in this part of the world in the future.

We waited more than an hour for the world to be regulated and ordered so that the flight could get underway. I didn’t get upset in the least with the waiting on the runway at Pudong Airport in Shanghai. Waiting is easy once you get used to the unexpected. It is simply a matter of letting it go and being in the moment. A book helps. That was my tool for making it through the wait. Eventually, the plane did take off and I was on my way across the skies of China to visit an even stranger country. The hours quickly fell away, but not without draining away energy. Drifting between listening to canned music while reading and checking out the video offerings, sleep was elusive. My partner was luckier. She slept.

With an announcement coming at the same time as I began to feel the descent, Delhi became more than a thought, it became a reality. Touchdown was uneventful, and soon all escaped the stale dry air and the uncomfortable seats. Baggage was collected and immigration channels navigated leaving us in a long queue winding through a huge crowd waving placards and bits of paper. Everyone was trying to capture the attention of one of hundreds of passengers from a number of flights. This is a scene I got used to when arriving in Shanghai. However, here in Delhi, it seemed even more chaotic. I slowed my walk through the human gauntlet looking carefully for a sign with my name on it.

Finally, we spotted a young man holding up a paper with our names on it. He was a good looking modern young man wearing a soul patch under his lip. I also noticed that he was wearing a jacket and a scarf. Though he looked chilled, the air wasn’t all that cold in comparison with what had been left behind in China. We stopped beside the young man who greeted us with the expected ‘Namasté!’ The young man was called Manu. After we returned his greeting, he placed wreaths of marigolds around our necks. Traditionally, these wreaths were used to crown gods and goddesses; in modern day India, marigolds are a symbol of respect and reverence, a good message to offer new visitors to India. Though the strong pungent odour caused some annoyance, I left the wreath around my neck because I didn’t want to show disrespect.

We continued our way through the milling throng of men who lined the long walk to the outside. We then climbed into an older car which was to take us to our hotel for the next two nights. Though it was dark outside in the late evening, we searched through the windows for our first views of India. What will it like? Will it be more similar than different to what we have yet experienced?