Delhi, Dilli, New Delhi, Old Delhi...

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There are about eight different cities that make up what most people simply refer to as Delhi, but not in the same way that L.A. is comprised of little cities. Rather, There have been seven capitals before the capital of New Delhi, spanning more than a thousand years. All of these capitals can be more or less seen around Delhi, although some are no more than crumbling walls.
Regardless, all of the Delhiites in the Delhis love Independence Day (August 15), so much so that no one works. There was talk of another terrorist attack, and probably more relevant, talk of chicken korma (I could smell it in the apartment next door), and so virtually every Indian stays at home the whole day, cooking, eating, talking, and flying kites. The latter seems a little un-keeping with the theme of doing nothing, but something about flying a kite is very enjoyable. Though it rained all day on Independence Day, at around four o’clock, the sun came out, and with it the whole neighborhood. I went onto the roof of my apartment and saw hundreds and hundreds of other rooftops full of Indian families flying kites. The sky was literally filled with the kites as far as the eye could see, like flocks of multi-colored birds. Most of the kites were very light and cheap, as though they could be easily replaced if lost or broken. They weren’t like American kites, which often have elaborate designs and are cherished without ever being used. Here, the actual flying was the enjoyable part. Families laughed and talked and yelled to other families on other rooftops. One of our neighbors gave me a kite to fly, encouraging me with a smile. I tried to launch the damn thing for about fifteen minutes, working up a sweat in the process. The closest I came to flying it was yanking it upwards so hard and fast that I stabbed my leg with a corner. I was worried that my neighbor would be offended if I put down the kite and went inside, but she seemed only too grateful to take back the kite. I had heard that Indians loved to fly kites but had never really imagined it was to such a pronounced degree. I have also heard of competitive kite flying in many Indian cities, with Delhi being a focal point for this sport.
My roommates and I tried to go buy a few bottles to have our own celebration, but the day was dry, and not a single liquor store was open. Quite a pronounced contrast from the Independence Day I know of. It began to rain again, so we decided to just sit around and read instead.
The next day, the rain had subsided a little, and the weather was cool. I took the Sunday as an opportunity to explore some of the city that I had not yet become familiarized with. I got up early (early for an Indian Sunday) and took the metro to the Central Secretariat. The area is reminiscent of the Washington Mall for obvious reasons: It’s the capital of the nation’s government. This was meant to be the centerpiece of New Delhi as envisioned by the British when they moved the capital from Calcutta to Delhi. It is a beautiful area. The main road is a wide, straight avenue known as Rajpath. It begins at the presidential estate, set on top of a hill and flanked on either side by the secretariat buildings. The buildings are extraordinary feats of architecture, made of elegant brown stone. They are very British in character, yet still retain a kind of India character, perhaps because of their large domed roofs and monoliths, or perhaps because they’re in the middle of India and I can no longer separate the building from the instantly recognizable country. The Rajpath then runs due east for a few kilometers to India Gate, with large grassy strips of land on either side of the street which are popular hang out spots for Indians of all walks of life, from young kids flying kites or playing cricket to old men having philosophical conversations to young couples on a date to government officials taking a break from their busy day. India Gate itself can be seen from the hill which the secretariat buildings and presidential estate sits on, and it looks grand indeed. It seems odd to me, then, that I had not yet been to this magnificent homage to Indian democracy. So much for the British idea of a centerpiece. There is no center in India.
I did the walk in about an hour and a half, making my way up to the presidential estate and then back down to India Gate. I still wanted to see more, though, and there was more to see, so I continued east, through the shade of green trees and across a few busy intersections. I was trying to find Purana Qila, the fifth (or was it sixth?) city of Delhi. The map said it was due east of India Gate, but I ended up at an old stone building which houses the Museum of Modern Art. No matter, as it was on my checklist anyways, so I headed inside. The entrance fee was jacked up 2500% for foreigners (250 rupees for foreigners, ten for Indian citizens), but I paid it anyways and made my rounds through the well-maintained and clean display of intriguing works of art. There was everything from European landscape art, realistically and beautifully rendered, to post-modernist Indian grunge art, disturbing and enticing. I was on a mission to Purana Qila, though, so I sped up my pace and cruised through the whole museum in about fifteen minutes, deciding I would see the rest at another time (probably never). I headed outside and continued east and a little north to get back on track.
I stumbled across a few crumbling red walls and figured I was close. Then I noticed a sign that said “Boating Lake.” Boating? In Delhi? I should have known they were paddle boats. But I could never have been prepared for where the paddle boats were. Embedded in a forest and hidden from the busy street, the small, quiet lake was set beside a bank, and atop the bank was a crumbling red fort, sneaking its majesty out from the woods to afford a view of delighted little children hanging from its ramparts. The whole scene looked like some sort of medieval playground, and I found my imagination stirred by the fantastic sight of decaying power amidst beautiful serenity. I marched around the lake, trying to find an entrance to the fort, eventually learning that I had to enter from the south east side.
I fought onward, my sense of adventure renewed by the sight of the fort. When I finally found it, I was beset by hordes of Indians with the same idea I had; to get away from Delhi for a Sunday afternoon. So I paid my 250 rupees, and they paid their ten, and we all trumped in together. The inside of the fort was gorgeous. Sprawling gardens and pleasant walkways that led in and out of ancient buildings, all with the same faded red stone. It was quiet, with even the sounds of adolescent boys’ laughter drowned out in the open space (many Indians, I have noticed, pay their ten rupees to enter monuments and then just hang out, much like a park). Many families sat with picnics, others simply strolled, some read by themselves beneath a tree. A light drizzle did not even scare us away. I found myself a nice spot beside a flowerbed and watched with a smile my neighbors relaxing.
When I was done doing nothing, I got up and headed outside the fort. I was getting tired, but there was one more sight on my list for the day. Nizamuddin, a small Sufi Muslim neighborhood walled off from the rest of Southern New Delhi. I walked a few kilometers south, passing by Humayun’s Tomb and the Nizamuddin Train Station. I guessed at the location based on the map I had, and headed toward it, passing through a gate and into the site of an old abandoned mosque. Dozens of starving people lounged around on it, their emaciated ribs showing. I decided a picture would be indelicate, so I went through the opposite gate. Here I found what I hypothesized, and later confirmed, was Nizamuddin. The streets were narrow, like those of the alleys of the Muslim quarter south of Chandni Chowk, but the buildings were colorful and older, and the whole place had an old smell. Besides this, nothing was old. In fact, it was very much alive. Young children ran around me. Shopkeepers chatted amicably with customers. Rickshaw drivers weaved their way through the beggars who sat on the ground, their outstretched hands sporting deformed and broken fingers that around change in odd ways. Some people even smiled at me. I came to a wider area of the street where literally everyone wore white curta pajamas and had bushy beards, and I did not see a single women’s face behind their black veils. I passed fruit sellers and meat shops. In one meat shop, a butcher was sharpening his knife while another opened the cage and pulled out a chicken. I turned my head away as though I had never eaten a chicken before. The whole neighborhood was completely cut off from traffic (besides the bicycle rickshaws), and the basic way of life seemed to not have changed in a long, long time. But even so, there were travel agencies, banks, and internet cafes. I reprimanded myself for conjuring such an exotic image in my mind before visiting Nizamuddin. This was not the time warp I had planned on. I eventually got lost, however, and so I had to stick it out in this place. I stumbled upon a dirt park where all ages of children played, talked, flirted, and smacked the ground with cricket bats. The rain started again and all of them screamed in delight. I continued down another alley, become more and more put off by the number of smiles I attracted. Surely they had seen a white person in their neighborhood before. I wondered if they were making fun of me. But I quickly shook the paranoia aside, telling myself that Delhi had made me colder than I used to be. I kept an open mind and wandered deeper into the neighborhood.
I saw a few people running inside of a building. I thought it was a mosque but was unsure. A man noticed my inquisitiveness and motioned for me to approach. He told me to remove my shoes and go inside, putting a ring of flowers, like a lei, around my neck. I did as I was instructed and went inside, happy to be removed from the rain. I was in a dark corridor, and I went deeper and deeper, cutting around corners and past beggars who sat on the floor. A few windows opened up to the sides of buildings. After maybe ten turns down the same long corridor, the pathway opened up into a courtyard, where a beautiful green shrine sat under a large white marble dome. It was the Hazrat Nizamuddin, the Sufi shrine. The ground was marble as well, and a few children slid around on their bellies in the sloppy rain. The shrine was noticeably more informal and much louder than other mosques that I had been in, and people shouted and yelled to one another while I looked on dumbfounded. A man showed me inside the shrine, and after I emerged again, he gave me a little rundown of the complex, which included a hospital, a school, and free meals to all. He did not offer me a free meal, but he did ask for a donation. I gave it and left the shrine, feeling I had made some sort of contribution. I was tired and ready to go home. When I left the shrine, I smiled at a few people, all of whom smiled back. I made my way to a rickshaw and paid an exorbitant amount to get home. I was coming to terms with the fact that I would be paying more money than Indians for things in India, but somehow it seemed fitting. I was a guest in this country, and the Indian concept of a guest is a little different than what I was used to, I suppose. No free rides, but it was better that way.

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