Delhi: A bit like back home

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My evening in Lucknow was shorter than I had anticipated. Thankfully I double-checked my ticket and the train was scheduled to leave an hour and thirty minutes earlier than I had thought. This left me little time to eat but I had a nice paneer tikka at a rather upscale restaurant (the waiter squeezed my own lemon himself). I rang the bell they left for satisfied customers.

I was a little bit tight in terms of timing and I needed to trust a cycle-rickshaw to get to the station on time. Which he did. Barely. His chain came off a record 8 times. He promised me he would get it fixed in the morning. A quick stop at the cloakroom to get my bag and then I ran to my platform where the train was already waiting. I had to wipe the dirt from my sleeper class berth and brush away the flying moths and flies that kept landing on me.

The ride itself was decently smooth and I managed about 5 total hours of sleep. I kept being woken up at each station because of people having generally little consideration for other passengers, all the lights being turned on for some reason, and the tea sellers shouting “Chai!” as they walked by. Out of Delhi station I walked around all the need-auto-Sirs and ordered a prepaid autorickshaw from the booth. The next step of the process is to give the official prepaid paper to an officer of the traffic police who then assigns you to a specific rickshaw to take you to the destination on the paper. The problem here was that the assigned driver was trying to rip me off and was loading other passengers in his car. I went back to the police officer who was looking to set an example. He ordered the other passengers to leave and then he got into a heated argument with the plump driver, looking him over from his tall figure and determined to push the authority of the law. Despite all the pleading, the screaming and most probably swearing, the police officer stood strong like Eliot Ness and got the driver to surrender. It was a great demonstration of the war against corruption. The problem now was that the driver hated my guts by association.

The driver tried to sneak in another passenger at a bus stop but I made sure he knew I was onto him. Then “Pop!”. A flat tire. We had to stop at the first gas station to fill up the tire and give us some time. I switched seats in the rickshaw to reduce the stress on the tire and we were able to reach the next station. They didn’t have replacement tires so he flagged down another rickshaw who took me to Henri’s place.

Henri was kind enough to wait for me. After showing me how to use the washing machine and the keys to the apartment, he left for work on his blue Bajaj scooter. I did a bit of laundry with the help of the maid and hung it up to dry at the balcony of their terrace. I chatted a bit with Anita, Henri’s roommate and went exploring.

The Delhi metro is clean, safe and fast. The air-conditioning is a bit extreme, though. I was surprised to see it work so perfectly, as if it were out-of-place in this country known for chaotic traffic. The metro took me directly to the Baha’i Lotus Temple, which is a giant white structure covering a large prayer hall which is shaped like a lotus flower but looks like a rearranged Sydney Opera House. It is located inside a giant and serene park, welcoming visitors from all countries and faiths. After a bit of shoeless queuing, there was a short description of the Baha’i faith by local volunteers and then the doors opened. 10 minutes were enough to marvel at the architecture and take it all in. Going out, we witnessed temple employees throwing white stuff into the water of the basins around the structure. So that’s how they keep them so clean!

Back to the metro and then a cycle-rickshaw to go to a local mall where I could buy the Indian national cricket team jersey (at a freezing Nike store). Even though I lost some weight, I wear XL in this country. I was getting hungry but the only restaurant in the vicinity was a MacDonald’s. I decided to try it out and ordered a Maharajah chicken burger menu. The fries were great as always, the soda was chilled with ice cubes I didn’t know the origin of (I prayed for filtered water) and the burger itself was hard to operate: one bite and the cheese would get out from the back, one squeeze and the bread would fall apart… The chicken itself wasn’t that great.

Back to the metro and then to Safdarjang’s Tomb, one of the last products of Mughal architecture to be built. Its extravagance and twisty towers reminded me of the Lucknow Nawab architecture. I walked through it for about 15 minutes then I was off.

The Lodi Gardens, also on Lodi Road, is a free park where one can see the ruins of tombs and mosques built by the Lodi dynasty. It was also a great place for discreet lovers hidden under trees, in niches of the run-down tombs or holding hands on pathways through the park (I think I’ve seen the lovers’ garden of each city I went through!). I sat on a bench to watch parrots fight, hawks looking authoritative and squirrels looking for seeds and nuts. One couple was even feeding a whole group of white ducks. There were a lot of foreigners just hanging out on the lawns. I’ve haven’t been bothered much in this city by stares and curious teenagers. Delhi seems like it’s used to having expats and tourists in its system.

The walk to Humayun’s Tomb looked shorter on paper. It took a while… Thankfully, Delhi avenues in this area are covered by trees which can provide shade to all passers-by. There are traffic lights in this city which are somewhat well-respected. After my whole trip, oddly enough, that feature stands out as original for me over here. Also, I had a cold bottle of soda that kept me cool until I reached the Tomb. There are traffic lights in this city which are somewhat well-respected. After my whole trip, oddly enough, that feature stands out as original for me over here…

Humayun’s Tomb is a precursor in Mughal architecture to the Taj Mahal (bulbous domes, great archways…). It could be stylistically sandwiched between Akbar’s tomb and the Taj Mahal for its equal use of marble and red sandstone. The last sunbeams of the day would reflect on the stone surface and in the fountains. It was the best moment to be there. I posed for a picture for a guy with his son (I have no problem with that, if I’m asked to do it), and I caught some teenager red-handed filming me while I was sitting on a bench, pretending to take a panorama of the city (I can’t stand that). But how could I complain? I kind of do the same with locals…

The park around the tomb was beautiful and full of birds just crowding the huge trees. Some took little baths in the water ways connecting the fountains, or had a little drink (it’s hot for everyone!). The sound of a thousand tweets by sundown was quite deafening.

I was to meet up with Henri at the Tomb of Nizzamuddin, the holiest of Sufi Saints, in the middle of what seemed to be a Muslim bazaar. I got there early and just watched the parade of people going in all directions. There were vendors selling dishes, prayer rugs and flowers on carts, butchers selling out of their holes-in-the-wall, and I could smell a very appetizing kabab barbecue stand. There were a lot of beggars in the area as it is a major Muslim destination for prayer and contemplation. Henri joined me with Marion, a French girl who’s been living in Delhi for 2 years. We snaked our way through the narrow lanes leading to the tomb, dodging the inevitable “Hello, Sir!”, “Shoes here!” etc… At one point, a lunatic would use a bunch of peacock feathers to hit us and make us move, laughing sardonically like a cartoon villain. It was weird. Inside, we sat on the hard marble floor, waiting for the usual qawwali music on Thursdays that never came. I argued with Henri and Marion that the Spaniard sitting next to us looked a lot like George Clooney; they didn’t seem to agree that much with me… We heard casual screams of women in trances exorcising their inner demons, and watched as a guy carrying some kind of flag energetically fanned people sitting and minding their own businesses. The wind produced was quite strong and startling. He had two different techniques: the back-and-forth and the helicopter. They both involved lots of head banging.

Then we were to meet up with some friend of Henri’s at a French rooftop restaurant (where else?). I watched Marion negotiate for our rickshaw while Henri was following us on his scooter. The restaurant was packed with French locals, including Pierre, a friend of mine from classe prepa I hadn’t seen in ages! Pure coincidence. We’ll meet up later in the week-end. We sat with Henri’s friends who were already eating escargots and we ordered cordon bleus. I was given a glass of wine a bit against my will (alcohol with my current diet might not be the best of ideas, plus I don’t drink wine anyways) but I needed to fit in, didn’t I? We shared our experiences of travelling through India, joking about transportation, hotels and hippies. The check amounted to a whopping 10,000 rupees split 8-ways. Expats definitely have a bigger budget for food… Plus, there seems to be a “comfort premium” one would kindly pay to get a familiar taste from back home.

Back at Henri’s, I noticed one of my clean t-shirts lying on the seat of a motorcycle down stairs, it had flown off from the rack and somebody and laid it out for me. That was unexpected…

Daily nugget: At the Nike store, employees would be wearing FC Barcelona jerseys. I did a bit of research and asked them who they knew played on the team. “Ronaldo” Nope. “Wayne Rooney” Nope. “John Terry” Nope. The only girl in the store said “Messi” and got it right.

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