A Couple Days in Shahjahanabad

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With not much to do except wait until my department meeting (which has been postponed once already, and God-knows how may more times it will be), I decided to kick up some dust in Old Delhi, or Shahjahanabad. I left early by myself, deciding to take a rickshaw the whole way from Mukherjee Nagar (maybe thirty minutes), and reached the Red Fort by 10 AM. Maybe it was the lack of imagination I had been victim to of late, but Old Delhi was the most exciting place I have experienced thus far in Delhi, and completely rekindled my sense of adventure once again.
To begin, Old Delhi is often likened to the worn phrase, “time warp.” I don’t see the connection. Although there are crumbling old buildings and places of worship dating back hundreds of years, the gorgeously decaying architecture is kept alive by the frenetic life of the people within it. The area is large, and its actual borders are determined by the crumbling walls enclosing it, which would include the Muslim quarter surrounding the largest mosque in India, Jama Masjid, and the main thoroughfare running west from the Red Fort known as Chandni Chowk. North of Chandni Chowk are government buildings and a few parks, and the area ends at Kashmeri Gate, where the Shahjahanabad rulers would leave to spend the summer in Kashmere, but now it is merely the site of a few deserted graveyards and a vast interstate bus hub. The city walls, which have most disappeared, originally had fourteen gates, although today only four remain, including Kshmeri Gate and Delhi Gate. Today the gates are no ore than un-glorified dirty brick structures in the middle of busy streets. And scattered in and around these areas are countless narrow corridors and alleys selling everything from women’s bangles to discounted microwaves. South of Shahjahanabad but still part of the modern designation of Old Delhi is the Raj Ghat, where Gandhi was cremated after his assassination.
I began my day at the Red Fort, a beautiful sprawling complex enclosed by walls seemingly a hundred feet high. Because I was there early, the fort had not yet been overrun by tourists, and I had much of the fort to myself. It was an incredible piece of history, having been constantly used for almost 500 years. Built in the sixteenth century, it was used as a military base and even the residency of a few Mughal rulers. Then, following the 1857 revolt, the fort was placed under British command, serving as a barracks and military outpost. In 1947, after Indian independence, the fort was placed under Indian military control, where it was used as am army base until 2003. It was then designated a World Heritage Monument and converted into a kind of open-air museum, although it was still run by the Indian military as far as I could tell, with soldiers acting as security. It’s rich history provided a fascinating juxtaposition of architecture, with pompous Mughal mosques and halls made of white marble sitting next to old Victorian-style British residencies, with modern Indian army busses driving past. Inside of the walls was a well-maintained layout of these curious buildings, grassy areas, and pools, and it was a beautiful place to explore. There were also a few museums, housed in old Mughal buildings. I could not get over the whole medieval atmosphere of much of the fort and buildings inside, and was completely enraptured by the whole compound.
I left the fort in good spirits, and they stayed that way for most of the day. I made my way across the street to Chandni Chowk, which was a bustling bazaar full of excitement. There were aggressive vendors yelling at the tops of their voices, old Sikhs, Muslims, Jains, and Hindus wearing traditional holy garb while in route to prayer, beggars missing arms or legs or eyes, behemoth white bulls carrying carts full of spice bags, trendy middle-class Indians shopping for dirt-cheap merchandise, and tourists standing in awe, generally lost, and either completely exasperated or totally in the moment. I tried to remain in the latter category for most of the day.
I first stopped at Lal Madir Jain Temple, which had peaceful private meditation rooms and an adjoining bird hospital to help sick or injured birds brought in from the chaos of Delhi. Next I walked past a large Gudwara (Sikh place of worship), with its gold dome atop white walls and its constantly audible music. I also took the opportunity to indulge in Old Delhi’s delicious street food and sweet shops, stopping for pani puri at a streetside booth, a sohan halway (an out-of-this-world good butterscotch and cashew creation, kind of like peanut brittle but more oily and sticky) at Ghantewala, which is a two-century old sweet shop, and ending with a raj kachori from Haldiram’s which is a fried, yogurty concotion beyond my explanation and beyond by ability to convey its tastiness. I walked all the way down Chandni Chowk, looking at the many themed alley ways, which would cater to selling one product (shoes, saris, bangles, appliances, etc.) competitively. At the west end, I stumbled upon a spice market. Inside of a large dilapidated building, dozens of workers were shouting moving hundred-pound bags of spices, chili peppers, and dried fruits and nuts, all wearing coverings of their mouth and eyes to protect themselves from coughing. I was almost smashed a few times so I decided to leave.
Outside of Haldiram’s I caught a rickshaw the Raj Ghat.
The immaculately clean Raj Ghat is basically a quiet, large grassy area by the banks of the Yamuna River. Red brick walkways coming from four directions meet at a grassy hill in the middle of the simple yet elegant memorial. Here at the center lay the spot where Gandhi was cremated. A black marble pyre had been erected at the spot, with the words, “Oh God” (Gandhi’s dying words) written in Hindi, and an orange flame kept perpetually burning around fresh flowers adorning the pyre. It was a powerful testament to a great man’s simple message, and I left feeling both centered and wizened. Across the street from the Raj Ghat is a small but effective museum dedicated to Gandhi, including thousands of photos of him, artwork dedicated to him, and a collection of his personal effects. Among these effects were a bullet pulled from his dead body and his blood-stained robes, put on display in a corner of the museum. The sight of the robes especially was overwhelming, and I was completely in awe of what I was looking at. I eventually was able to draw myself away from the sight, and, feeling, drained, left the museum.
With no small change to take a rickshaw, I walked the couple kilometers from the Raj Ghat to Jama Masjid. Along the busy streets, I passed Delhi Gate, which seemed to be collapsing as I traveled by it. I also stopped for more food at the ritzy Moti Mahal, unable to resist the temptation of what my Rough Guide had labeled as a delicious perrenial favorite. I ordered a murg massalum, which was a chicken curry mixed with liver and egg whites. It was very rich, but tasted amazing. After my indulgement (which cost the equivalent of about four US dollars), I continued on towards Jama Masjid.
Perhaps my Old Delhi experience would not have been complete without getting lost in the cramped and crowded corridors of the Muslim Quarter. With the call to prayer from unseen mosques eminating all around me, I wandered about, completely turned around and, though I refrained from mentioning it to myself at the time, utterly lost. I passed many interested stares, some intimidating and approaching xenophobic, as well as butchers, jewelers, milk shops that did not sell milk, and dozens of women in black purda the color of twilight. After what seemed like an hour, I suddenly emerged from what I thought was a dead end, and there before me stood the daunting Jama Masjid, built with ornate red brick and standing on a hill over the city. It was cramped from all sides by Old Delhi, but it seemed to have its own mystical separation from the city. However, I was not allowed in, for reasons unbeknownst to me even now. Something about it being closed, even though three white tourists walked past me and up the stairs as I stood talking to a security guard. Either way, I decided to return the next day, and I took the metro back to Mukherjee Nagar.
The next day was more successful in my attempt to breach the mosque. After exploring a little of Kashmiri Gate (there really wasn’ much there of interest to a tourist), I met with two of my roommates back to Jama Masjid. This time, we got in. We walked up the tall steps and walked through the gate, removing our shoes and having to pay the Muslim “guards” around it 200 rupees for taking in a camera (though I have serious doubts that they actually worked there). Regradless, walking into the large congregational court yard was like entering another world. I had always been intimidated by mosques, being fairly unfamiliar with Islamic prayer customs and having heard some horror stories from other EAP students who had already visited Jama Masjid (this was my first time in a mosque, besides a random dilapidated one we had found in Dehradun). But all of my fears were put to rest, and I felt so calm and observing that I did not understand why I had ever felt differently. Many Muslims used the area to lounge around, talking and reading or sleeping. There was a large pool in the middle to wash one’s hands and feet, and two minurets that stood high above the rest of the city. I tried to walk to the top but it was “closed.” Besides this, however, I felt welcomed to the mosque, and explored its quiet sanctity as I had any other house of worship that I had been to in India. The inside of the mosque (I’m not sure of its actual term), or what was the area supported by pillars under the huge dome at its front, was cool and relaxing, with a few bookshelves holding what I guess were copies of the Koran. At the call to prayer, which was magnified through loudspeakers at the front of the mosque, I sat by the pool and listened, entranced by the beautiful voice and its impressive magnitude. Eventually, we were asked to leave for the actual prayer, and we walked out back into the chaos of Old Delhi.
We met with the rest of our roommates and went to Karim’s, a famous old dining hall tucked away into a side street south of Jama Masjid. The atmosphere was welcoming, if a little masculine, and people from all walks of life sat and enjoyed the food. The food itself was the best meat I had had in India. Huge racks of mutton and chicken, spiced to perfection, and plenty of it. The same medieval feeling I had gotten walking throughout Old Delhi was awakened once more as I ate to my heart’s content. Feeling stuffed and refreshed, we stumbled out of the dining hall and back to the metro, and I felt I had finally become acquainted with Shahjahanabad.

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