Dreary Delhi Day

Delhi. Old and New. To the dismay of my friends from Mumbai, I enjoyed Delhi better. The green spaces, the flowers and the wide boulevards appealed to my senses in a way that the madness of Mumbai did not. Although, Delhi has its own madness. Never so obvious as in Old Delhi, which stands as a testament to the timelessness of India. Where else can you be in the middle of a capital city and pass by a sleeping cow? I also had the negative/positive experience of experiencing the city in the rain. The Target loafers I brought with me may never be the same.

Bit gloomy

Unfortunately, as the (few) faithful readers I have may remember, I will have to resort to Pictures with Imagination again. My camera has finally decided it would like to die in India. Perhaps I should give it a proper funeral ceremony in the Ganga when I travel to Benaras. In any case, I was only able to capture a few in Delhi. There is a certain freedom in not clicking photos during a trip - in just experiencing and fully seeing the world unfold. Or so I tell myself as I take mental photos and convince myself that its just as good.

Here we go.

Qtab Minor. Ruins from the 12th century. Eating parathas alone on a bench, trying not to make eye contact with a group of men my age watching me gleefully from their perch atop a window ledge of a standing wall of the old mosque. Finally resigning myself to my fate and taking four photos with each of them. Am graciously thanked. Peering down an old well to find (no surprise) a three-foot pile of  plastic water bottles. Intricate stone carvings of demons and Gods, their faces long since scratched off. A mystery to me.

Me, freezing as stated

Humayans Tomb in the rain. A Moghul tomb standing in the center of Delhi. The marble floors slick under my feet from the rain. Look to the right for a picture of me freezing.

Old Delhi. As seen from a hastily hailed rickshaw conducted by a skinny man with calves of steel. I suspect. I didn't physically check. A dog sleeping in a bright bed from sari scrappings. Electric wires a teeming mass above the streets making wooden telephone poles literally buckle under their weight. Shops selling everything from wedding invitations to fireworks. Me, your freezing and pretending not to be protagonist, sitting in my first legitimate rickshaw and dreaming of soup. And, turning a corner from one narrow street to the next, the dome of a mosque rising above the madness like a sanctuary.

The Mosque. Jaame Masjid. Quickly discovering that the only thing worse than wet, wool socks is taking off wet, wool socks to place my barefeet on sodden sandstone and marble floors, slick with the recent rain and other things I prefer not to think about. Splashing with Geeti and my faithful Delhi friend, Deeraj, as we marvel at the gradual color change of our toes from pink to white to blue. Climbing an increasingly narrow staircase to the top of one of two minarets and pressing our faces to the metal window grill, the only thing separating us from the chaotic world below.

The world below. Chaos. More roofs than can be counted. Streets teeming with people and cars and animals and rickshaws. The red fort in the distance. Palm trees and shopping malls and shacks.

Devouring warm gulab jamun standing up shoulder to shoulder with strangers in a crowded cafe. Syrup dribbling down my chin as I eat with questionably clean fingers.

Shopping in New Delhi

Overpriced tea at the Imperial Hotel, sitting in the same dining room where Gandhiji and Nehru once planned the future of India. Feeling terribly under-dressed.

Eating bagels at midnight in a cafe in the posh, Greenwich-like neighborhood of Hauz Klaus. Recently pushed out of an antique store where I considered buying an elephant saddle. Settled for postcards from 1956 instead.