India, day 2... when Vicki learns that even locals have trouble haggling
We leave the hotel early and head for the bus stop. The back streets of Karol Bagh are relatively peaceful. But as soon as we near a main road, the constants asks ("Tuk tuk?") and incessant honking begin. Delhi demands 100% attention from every sense. Sight, smell, taste, touch—and hearing.
We ride a public bus to Old Delhi, past neatly uniformed children taking cycle rickshaws to school and men in traditional garb pushing overladen carts to the market. It feels like another time, another world, until you see a group of teenagers taking selfies on their phones, or a young woman in tight jeans darting by on a scooter, scarf trailing out behind her.
A woman in my group describes Old Delhi as "disgusting" but I find it fascinating. At first glance it looks like chaos: a mess of decrepit buildings, dangling wires, and roads filled with humans, animals and vehicles all moving at different speeds, or sometimes not at all. But it somehow works. The only frustration I see is directed at some cheeky, thieving monkeys.
For sure, I'm conscious of the fact that I can't just duck into Starbucks when I need the loo, and that the water isn't safe to drink; I see people washing in the streets, and wonder where they go when they need to pee. I see rats scurrying along the ground, and festering wounds on dogs. I see men chewing and spitting red paan juices onto the ground.
But I also see people in clean, bright, beautiful clothes. I see shop owners sweeping the dust from their tiny storefronts. I see people putting love into the food they make, or the flowers they string.
I had expected India to smell bad, but it doesn't. More than animals and waste, what I smell are the aromas of cooking. It's heavenly. I am happy to eat fresh parathas again for breakfast, and drink fragrant chai made on a gas burner in a back alley. I want to eat everything I see.
From shrine to mosque to temple
As we wander the streets of old Delhi, I see signs of religious diversity and commitment everywhere. We ride in auto rickshaws with little statues of Ganesh on the dashboard; turbans and skullcaps and burkas are commonplace.We visit a Hindu temple, where men bow down to touch their foreheads on the cool marble in front of statues of Lord Krishna, Ganesh and other gods. When the faithful walk past the open door, they stop to face the shrine, and then bow down, hands raised in prayer.
We have lunch at the Gurudwara Bangla Sahib, a Sikh temple that feeds thousands of people for free daily, regardless of religion. We watch little girls practicing the art of making chapatis, which we eat—sitting cross-legged on the floor—with dahl and potato curry, scooped from massive vats.
I wonder what everyone is praying for at these shrines and mosques and temples. I wonder if their prayers are the same as the prayers of people back home. I wonder how much of what they do is tradition and culture, and how much is faith. I think about my own lapsed faith, and the fact that I know very few people who still go to church, and wonder if India is different, or heading in the same direction.
Zig zag driving is prohibited
Late that afternoon, my friend Sameer picks me up in his luxury SUV. He was born, raised and still lives in Delhi, and he's keen to show me that India isn't as backwards as many people think.I worry about his car as we negotiate the narrow back streets that seem better designed for tuk tuks. He tells me: "God is in charge in India." There is no rational explanation for the way traffic flows—without rules, but also (mostly) without accidents. A higher power must be in charge.
There are rules though. I laugh at the road signs, clearly ignored by all:
- Zig zag driving is prohibited
- Three is not safe [on a moped?]
- Stop means stop
The other side of Delhi
Sameer treats me to a wonderful night out. I tell him I want to look more Indian, so he takes me to a market to buy kurtas, sari fabric, and bell-shaped jhumka earrings. He tries to haggle with the earring merchant, which results in shouting and arms thrown up in disgust. In the end, I still pay full price.We have dinner at Connaught Place—surrounded by young adults dressed like the kids back home, smoking hookah pipes and listening to familiar R&B hits—and then head to see India Gate, a war memorial with a peculiar amusement-park atmosphere.
Then Sameer takes me for dessert. Gulab jamun. Some sweet coconut thing. Another sweet thing. At a roadside stall he says "try this" and hands me an egg-shaped pastry shell, filled with liquid. "Put the whole thing in your mouth."
I obey, expecting another super-sweet treat. Instead, I taste sour, then salty, then sweet. "What was that?!?" I ask.
"Did you like it?" he replies. I nod. "Panipuri," he tells me. Chickpeas, potatoes, chutney and spices in a hollow puri shell, filled with tamarind water.
Panipuri: a good metaphor for Delphi. Sweet, and salty, and sour. Unexpected. Delicious.