Dizzy in Delhi
Our guesthouse in Delhi had sent me an email warning me about the “zillions of people and the overwhelming noise” in the Delhi airport, so I was well prepared for chaos when we arrived. The thing is, there was no chaos. There were a lot of people in the line for immigration and some of those people cut the queue, but most of them were Western. Coming out of baggage claim, our driver was the first person out of the door holding a placard with my name. Chaos? Eh?
Though there was no chaos, I can honestly say that the Delhi airport is the worst I have ever seen. It was filthy and looked as if the entire thing was going to collapse at any given moment. It was worse than the Australian regional airports (Avalon, I’m talking to you) that T and I were always complaining about.
Our driver met us with no problem and drove us in an old-fashioned taxi to the B + B where we were staying, in the suburbs. I was all prepared for some crazy Indian driving, but again, nothing! The B + B owner was still awake and took us to our room, where he showed us how to use the hot water heater and the flat-screen TV. I was very excited.
The next morning we awoke (after a beautiful sleep on the memory foam mattress) to a neverending Indian breakfast, and we met the other occupants of the B + B: a lovely French couple with a tiny baby named Alban, who have been living in China for the past 3 years. We had breakfast with Pervez, the owner of the B+B as well, and he gave us directions for getting our train tickets, because we were unable to get them online.
Pervez had warned us about the train station and how everybody will try to point you in the wrong direction, and he had told me very clearly where to go. Unfortunately, I misinterpreted where he was saying and thought he was saying bargainside and blackthorn one, which was really pahar ganj and platform 1. This did not make things easier. We still manged to make it to the train station, but of course, were greeted by dozens of people trying to send us in all directions, including one seemingly helpful man who told T I looked Punjabi (exciting as this was, it is not entirely true. We have a Punjabi friend and she is HOT).
It took at least a half hour of going back and forth around the train station and being literally dragged by people in the wrong direction before we made it to the tourist office. We waited about 10 minutes and came to the desk. The man asked us where we wanted to go. Amritsar, we said. He told us two trains leaving for Amritsar the next day—one spendy, one cheap. We want the spendy one, we said. Is it possible, we asked with awe? “If you wish it, it shall be granted,” he replied and printed out our tickets. Never in my life have I wanted to kiss a transportation official so much.
From the train station, we decided to walk down to Connaught Circle, which sounded very English and clean and modern. It was not, though it could possibly pass for London during WWII. It was very British looking, but also very decrepit. The people here were very friendly (friendliness, we soon realized, is the defining characteristic of the entire country), and as we stood around with our guidebook looking for our destination, a number of nice men came over to tell us which block we were in. Of course, since I have trust issues, I assumed they were trying to rob us, but I think they just wanted to talk, because they never got close to us, never tried to sell us anything, and didn’t follow us when we left.
The best example was a young guy who came up to us (again when we were trying to figure out where to go) was a young hipster guy who appeared out of nowhere and started talking to T. “Hey, where are you from? Oh, England, are you from Devon? There’s good surfing in Devon, yadda yadda yadda.” I was riveted by him because he looked just like my brother’s friend Sam, so I was even more shocked when he extended his hand to me and said, “Hey I’m Sam. But the ladies call me Sexy Sam.” I was so shocked that I even let go of the bag I was clutching (still in fear of the zillions of people who were supposedly about, but whom we had never seen) to shake his hand. And then, off we went. Friendliness. Weird.
From there, we took a rickshaw to Humayun’s Tomb, which was a more difficult undertaking than I expected. We thought it was a popular tourist site that all the drivers would know, but no one seemed to have any idea what we were talking about. Eventually, T took out the book, and after a consultation between a number of drivers, we were on our way.
Humayun’s Tomb is a Mughal-era tomb that is meant to be a kind of precursor to the Taj. We walked in, and while it was very pretty and quiet, we weren’t too impressed. Then we walked through a gate and saw the main attraction. The actual tomb is enormous and intricately designed, with the beautiful ornately carved windows. As we stood gawking at it, a girls’ school field trip suddenly appeared. We smiled at them, and were surprised when the ones at the front started shaking our hands and saying hello. The other girls immediately formed a line and we stood and shook hands with about 25 middle schoolers. It was very cute. People love us in Delhi.
When we finished at the tomb, we walked outside to find very few auto-rickshaws available. The ones we spoke to would agree to the price we wanted, but wanted to take us to stores on the way home. Oh, hell no. As we were walking out of the parking lot, we spoke to a single bicycle rickshaw driver, who didn’t speak English. When we asked him how much it was go go back, he held up 5 fingers; assuming he meant 50, we said ok. We got into the back of the rickshaw and he started pedaling. It was only once we staretd moving that I realized that A: this was going to take forever and B: the poor man had a bum knee, which must have made it even more difficult to drag us around. He struggled and struggled and pushed and pushed to get us back and even had to walk us up one hill (at which point I promised to take my diet plans more seriously) and eventually T leaned over and said “You don’t think he meant FIVE rupees, do you?” I told him that even if he did, we were giving him 50, because he damn well deserved it (in my mind, we shoud have given him 500). So, we eventually arrived at Ashram Chowk, our destination, and we hopped out of the seats. The poor driver was sweating and clearly exhausted, and T handed him 50 rupees. Suddenly, his whole little face brightened, and he waved the money in the air and shouted “YAY!!” I think maybe he did only expect 5 rupees…
That night, we had booked to have dinner at the B + B, so at 8pm, we went down to the table, where we were joined by Pervez. Pervez is a very nice, rotund Indian man who works in real estate and has been running the B + B for 2 and a half years. We talked for a while about our jobs, and he tried desperately to get me to tell him what I make per story (I held strong, because I don’t like to admit to anyone that I make $.00002 a year). Then, his wife Lubna joined us and we started to talk about their guests. Pervez likes the Brits more than the Americans, but Lubna prefers Americans to Brits. Pervez told me that their first American guest was a Chinese-American woman who was the stepmother of a top movie star from Calilfornia, and could I guess it? When I said Tom Hanks, he almost fell out of the chair. I was the first person to ever guess it! How did I know? Lubna looked up from her dinner and very calmly said, “This is why I like Americans.”
On our last day in Delhi, we decided to go to Gandhi Smitri, the place where Gandhi lived the last few months of his life, and where he was assassinated. We walked into the main room, where they had his few possessions hanging on the wall. They had his tiny little glasses in the case, and I almost cried. I had no idea that seeing Gandhi’s glasses would be such a moving experience. The complex is full of panel after panel of information about Gandhi and India, and there is a short animated film, as well. Upstairs, there was a multimedia exhibition about him that was 50% weird and 50% entertaining. Outside, there were tiny footsteps in concrete leading along the path that he took on the day he died. The place where he was assassinated is now a large field with a small memorial. Though much of the complex was excessive information, it was also very serene and touching.
After that, I was feeling pretty dizzy but I wasn’t sure why (I suspect it had something to do with dehydration and the fumes of a billion tuktuks and cars). We got in yet another auto rickshaw and went back to the B + B, and then took a walk through Friends Colony to get some lunch. Friends Colony is a leafy, quiet, suburban gated enclave where I could easily live. Most of the houses were guarded, and there were parks and very very quiet streets. My favorite part about it, however, was when we were turning a corner, I looked at a window of a house and saw a woman standing there. She gave me a giant grin and blew me a kiss. She did the same thing on the way back through. I liked that woman. I wanted to be her friend.
We managed to find a Subway in the restaurant area (at this point, we were running late and had to eat fast), so we chowed down and walked back to the B + B as fast as possible. Despite having eaten, I was still feeling pretty disoriented, so the taxi ride to the station was not delightful. I started to wonder whether I was going to feel this way the entire time we were in India.
Gireejesh replied:
Hi… This was an exellent story… I wonder why you make only $0.00002 an year
The depiction of daily experiences that you had are almost able to bring a moving picture of events as they must have occured. I happen to be from delhi since my birth… and as a matter of fact, my family hails from Delhi to the extent that we have a history of about 450 years in this city.
It was great to feel that there are people who carry positive feelings about our city to the world and who spread the word of faith about it.
Thanks and lot for the article
February 27, 2008 at 2:35 pm. Permalink.