Delhi, Part I

**video added on 5/11, post complete**

I didn’t fully get back to sleep after the 1:15a interruption, and finally gave up at about 4:30a.  By then it was already getting light out (dawn and dusk both seem early here).  I re-organized again now that I had my real backpack.  I checked out of the hotel about 7a with the night manager, and signed the same log book entry I had when I checked in, but this time with info about where I was going next.  I headed to the metro station, bought my tourist one-day pass for 150rs ($3), and asked how to get to Connaught, which station?  He told me Khan Market which I had remembered seeing on the wall map the day before.  I said, “Connaught?”, he said “Yes, Khan Market.”  He tells me the red line to the yellow line to the violet line (“violet” is just plain funny to hear in an Indian accent), and rings off the names of the connecting stations.  I’m thinking, dude.  I won’t remember the first half of the first half of that.  I get him to repeat it again to which I only really pay attention to the first leg, thinking I can figure it out from there.  I’m not even sure as I’m writing this that I started on the red line, but it is not important.

While I walking to metro station, a young guy had walked up close to me and started a conversation.  We talked for a bit, his questions were answered, though in America I would have never given such information.  In India, many questions are asked directly and without reservation that would make for an agonizingly awkward exchange in the States.  For instance: What country are you from? Why did you come here?  Do you have a wife and children?  What do you do?  How much do you make?  The irony (from what I’ve read) is that they often won’t ask your name as they feel that’s a bit too private.  So, I’m talking with this guy, and he’s suggesting for me to go to Srinagar (I’ve heard of it before and know it’s supposed to be beautiful and in the mountains, but I’m not interested).  He says why are you going on the metro, you should go over to this travel agent, and that Connaught is just 10 minutes walk from here.  I tell him that I have other places to go on the metro also, he asks where, I tell him, and he says the metro is not good for those places (which by the way proved by experience, is accurate).  I stand by my decision to take the metro, thank him for his suggestions and help, and head up the stairs.

After getting my pass and what I can remember of the directions, I head into the security check point.  I have to put my bag on the x-ray scanner belt (like in the airports), and get wanded.  He says, “Is there a laptop in there,” I say yes, thinking, OMG, I don’t want to have to unpack this beast right here right now in front of God and country to get to the point in the bag where the laptop is, let alone, do this every time I’m getting on a metro.  He says, “ok” and points in toward where the metro cars would be and then does the Indian head wobble.  The Indian head wobble is a quick left/right tilt of the head, while the face remains facing forward.  The wobble pivots your head on an invisible axis going from the bridge of your nose through to the back of your head.  Try it.  It’s awkward to do, apparently unless you have Indian DNA, and makes me a little dizzy.  Now, the meaning of the head wobble is Yes, No, and Maybe.  And it just depends on the circumstances and other body language or subtle behavioral cues.  All of which I am painfully unaware.  I’m leaning toward the “probably means yes” version, but as he is armed, I’d like to double-check before blowing past his checkpoint with a bulging backpack.  I point to the gate through which a person who has successfully cleared the security check enters the actual metro station.  I give him a thumbs up with raised eyebrows, thinking this may be a culturally universal way to ask if I am correct.  He responds with a  smile and another wobble.  I take my chances because the smile doesn’t look creepy, like “I’m about to get my ammo on”.  I pass through and am not shot or shouted at.  Todd - 1, Indian Head Wobble - 0.  (I will note here for the record that I received 1rs and 2rs coins.  On the 2rs coin, there is a hand holding up the traditional two fingers.  On the 1rs coin is a hand with the thumbs up I had just given the security man.  Apparently, it was not as universal as I thought!  He was probably thinking, “one what?” and “why is he smiling?”)

I find the way in the stations by following huge, color coded footprint stickers on the floor.  I manage to navigate to Khan Market without asking for further directions, as the wall maps are decently clear, and I’m remembering more of the station manager’s directions than I thought, when I see the station names on the board.  The problem ends up being that Khan Market is not the stop for Connaught, and I think he thought I was butchering Khan Market, so it came out being called Connaught.  Maybe he thought, surely this fool is not taking the metro to someplace a 10 minute walk away, he must mean Khan Market.  I don’t know, but what I do know is that I decide to switch up the itinerary and start from the furthest south point I want to look at, which is the Lotus Temple, a huge and impressive structure that looks like the petals of a lotus flower.  It’s a temple for the Baha'i faith which believes, among other things, in the unity of people everywhere.  I can get behind that.

I get off at the appropriate station, and am given a hard look over by the military people in the station.  They follow me for a bit, and then watch me.  I’m trying to move as quickly as reasonable, so I can avoid any trouble, but I also don’t want to be walking a half hour in the wrong direction.  Remember, this is India.  And it’s summertime.  And I’m carrying my FULL backpack on my for the whole day, including 2 liters of water (my daypack is squeezed inside my backpack).  I find the info I need and head in the right direction.  The road is bordered by a slum.  I am not in a nice area.  I am being stared at hard-core, and in the Indian style of staring, which does not necessarily stop when you return the stare.  Apparently not many white people with ginormous backpacks come out of the metro station and travel through here.  The smell is of rotting garbage and decaying human sewage.  I’m starting to sweat a bit, but I’m making decent time.  My lungs don’t bother me much anymore, and I’ve forgotten a couple of the Advair doses without ill effect, so I’m comfortable with the level of exertion.  The road starts winding right, and it looks like the road is taking me away from the temple which is now visible on the left.  I decide to follow it for 10 minutes or until I can’t see the temple anymore.

Meanwhile on my right is a huge line of people.  I mean thousands of people in line about 3 or 4 humans wide, and it goes on and on and on.  There are kids there, fathers/mothers, young single people, old people, broken people.  I have no idea what it is.  I mean some of these people look like they would fit if it’s a soup kitchen type thing going on, but some of these people you would never find there… too upper class looking.

I go down the road further and find a gate to the temple.  Three guards and officers are sitting on stools about 15 yards from the closed gate.  After standing there for a few minutes, one of them yells out “closed.”  I say all day or for now, and he says 9 o’clock.  I look at my phone which says 8:05a.  I’m thinking I didn’t just huff this sucker through the metro and down through the ghetto to just turn around.  I walk across the street and sit by some trash which seems also to be a park of some sort.  People walking all different ways, pushing huge carts and barrels and even one guy pushing a motorcycle with what appeared to be his grand-daughter on it.  They are all going uphill, most of these people appear to be getting in line.  I’m thinking Justin Bieber must be here or something, right?  After a while a woman sits down pretty close to me on the left, even though there is a solid 100ft of sit-able ledge on either side of me bordering the trash park.  She’s probably 2 feet from me.  A little while later two more ladies, this time with Muslim garb come and sit within two feet of me on the right.  (One specific metro train had separate women and men’s cars, and I got into the women’s one.  My wife is going to kill me for this, but I thought, I must be headed in the right direction to Khan Market because of all the women headed there to shop.  I seriously thought that.  I’m standing there for probably 5 minutes before a woman comes up to me quite abruptly and tells me in English that I am in the wrong car and I must leave and go to the men’s car.  I then notice the absolute dearth of men, sheepishly apologize, and walk through a few cars to get to the first men’s coach where I stand for the duration.)  So, I think, here on the border of trash park that I’m now sitting in a women’s zone of some sort, and what is this nonsense, and that sort of thing, when a man that belongs to the Muslim ladies walks up.  I offer him my seat, which he refuses (all of this without using words, by the way), and later on after the woman on my left had left (only to be replaced by two younger ladies who managed to give me about 10 feet berth), I scooted down and the man took his seat next to his women.  I thought, at least I’m not the only one gonna get yelled at.

Lots of Indian staring later, a few foreigners pull up in high end cars with drivers and get out.  A couple minutes later, the guards inside stir, and start yelling at the people to (apparently) wrap the line in a different direction.  They open the gates and into security I go.  Yes, it’s a backpack, and yes, there’s a laptop in it.  And a camera too.  They want to see inside the pack.  I open it up, he pokes around a bit and starts laughing with his cohorts, and says ok.  He never sees the laptop or the camera.

I go up to the temple, trade my shoes for a token, and go inside after a brief and stern instruction to remain quiet once inside.  There’s a prayer service here at 10a and I figure I’ll stay.  At this point it’s pretty hot, and I’m glad I have socks on or my naked feet would be blistering on the hot concrete and marble.  I go in and spend the next hour alternately being in contemplation and being amused by the young attendants, non-verbally taking people to task (who are much older than they are) for making any kind of sound.  They get especially excited when someone starts a conversation.  One guy at least, I think does this on purpose just to give the attendant a hard way.  The acoustics in this place are absolutely amazing.  The lotus petals are the same on the inside also, and so there are many chambers which each seem to echo on their own.  A few birds are up in some of the chasms and have a call that I’ve never heard and it’s beautiful.  They are calling to each other.  Maybe like hide-and-seek.  Anyway, their quick songs bounce around all over the place and I silently ask them to fly down to where I can see them.  Which they do.  They are dark (I think black) but with white patches on the bottom side of the wing, or at least something like that where the patch is either not visible or not as noticeable as when they fly and it has a blinking appearance.  The prayer service starts, and a Hindu sings a chant, then a Muslim, then something else, followed by a verse in English written by (but not spoken by) the Baha'i equivalent to Jesus Christ or the Buddha.  The acoustics in here are amazing for song sung slowly, as the one voice provides its own harmony, like a sustain pedal on a piano.  But for songs sung quickly or reading text aloud, the acoustics are disastrous.  I can’t understand a thing, but I’m glad I stayed to see/hear it.

I walk outside, re-exchange my token for my crocs, and I’m on my way.  I get out to the entrance, and there is a tuk-tuk driver (autorickshaw-wallah) who says he will take me up to the metro for 50 rupees, I say 20 instead of 10, because I don’t want to walk up the hill.  He agrees and I make my way to the 3-wheeled contraption.  It is a one-way street that we’re on, so we need to go around a different way, he says.  It is, in fact, a one-way street according to Google Maps which I looked at while I was waiting on the ledge earlier.  I confirm the 20rs fare and get in.  He says, he’ll take me by the “best” market on the way.  I know it’s a ruse, but I agree anyway because I intended to go the government shops at Connaught, but missed them because of the metro misunderstanding, and also finding out that the government shops are closed on Saturdays (or so I was told).  He drops me at a store, not a market, and men come out to greet me.  This is looking like a hard sell.  I nod to them and meander quickly through, appearing somewhat disinterested.  I pick up something and ask the price.  He tells me and I counter at half of what he says.  He shakes his head, and I put it down in a ruse to let him know how much I don’t care.  Meanwhile, I’ve seen something I think my wife would really like, so I’m trying to work the Indian process to my advantage.  They walk me through a couple of other areas, “Pashmina” and carpets and wood carvings and bronze Hindu deities, which I think would be cool to have, but I’m not adding anything bronze to my backpack.  I go over to what I was thinking about for my wife and ask how much.  I haggle a bit, but he says “fixed price” and points to a sign which says “fixed price”.  The price is more than reasonable as is, so I’m not really sure why I’m negotiating, but mostly because I think that’s the way it goes here.  I buy it at the full “fixed price” and he wraps it up, and I look for someplace in my backpack, to put it.  The crew try to detour me to a couple of other things, but I say “No thank you” with a little force behind it, making my voice a bit deeper than usual.  I walk out to find Mr. Tuk-Tuk driver and he is not with his ride.  I ask where it is, he says over here and points.  I follow.  Into the back of the same place.  A large short man with a friendly looking face comes up to me and tells me what’s inside.  I decline, and grab his hand in a strong-ish slow shake and thank him.  And I point to the driver with a playful wag of the finger and a head tilt. with my one eyebrow cocked.  He knows what I mean.  We head for the “auto”, and he asks me how much money I spent.  You see that’s the way it works.  He gets his cut for bringing “clients” to the business, and he wants to make sure he gets his fair share from the business owner.  I tell him a number that’s 60 times the amount I actually spent.  He looks incredulous and I realize that I don’t want him getting his hopes up, so I let him in on it quickly.  He gives a laugh and a nod and we miraculously head right up the direction from which we came.  Right up the hill going the wrong way on the one-way.

We pass the line of people and I ask if Bieber is in town.  No, I kid!  I ask him what’s it for, and he says it’s a Kali temple for the Hindus and like Christian church services on a Sunday morning, the weekends are the time for working people to pay their respects and give their offerings.  We arrive at the metro station, and I give him his 20 and no more, for diverting me. 

Back into the station and I head to India Gate, or the nearest metro station there about.  Which is actually a bit of a walk in the heat with the pack.  I feel my skin getting more than its share of Vitamin D and am thankful for my pre-trip tanning.  I don’t end up burning at all, despite being out in the sun for quite a bit that day.  I ambitiously cross a 7 lane road, burdened like the beast I am, and another young man approaches and asks my itinerary, etc.  Also asking about Srinagar.  They must make good commissions on the folks who go.

I walk up to the main attraction, a huge Arc de Triumph kind of thing, and am approached by a guy who has something cool in his hand and he demonstrates it.  He says “for your kids and your grandkids” and holds out a handful.  Clearly he doesn’t understand the English words he has memorized.  “How much for one?”  He gives me a price, and I counter at a bit more than 5% of his asking price.  He laughs.  I laugh.  I start to walk on.  He then counters and I keep low-balling him.  This thing is cool, but I’m having fun in the haggle too, and I’m giving him the impression I can and am walking away.  We settled on a price for 3, and he hands me the thing, but he can’t make change he says.  I say ok, and hand the items back so quickly he instinctively takes them.  I renegotiate for 4 and structure it so that he doesn’t have to give me any change.  He agrees.  What did I pay for each?  My original offer of 5%+ of his initial asking price.

We parted and I found a place under a tree near the India Gate so that I could get my camera out of the top of my pack.  I’m feeling pretty good about my haggling success when a nice looking older lady smiles and says “Welcome to India,” while simultaneously producing a small paper Indian flag and uses a straight pin to pin it to my shirt sleeve.  This maybe took 2 seconds total.  I say, “Thank you,” she says “Donation.”  I’m like wow that didn’t take long.  I say what for, and she says children’s fund, and I say, “no thanks.”  Now what is she supposed to do?  She gave me the flag and I refused to donate.  She starts talking about “books for education” and “chocolate” and some other things which I’m not sure where they fit in, and I decide to give her a little something as she has on a uniform like organized charity type places have, and she seems nice, like she’s got nothing to lose, so I don’t think the money is for her.  She sees me digging in my pocket to see what I have (opening my pocket without taking my cash out), and starts naming numbers like 500, 300.  I hand her a bill and say 10 and she says “nooo…   no..” so I start putting it back it my pocket as if to say “ok, see you later” and she says, “ok. ten ok.”  I hand her the money, get some shots of the India Gate, and decide I’m done.  I want to get to the railway station and see if they have a locker or room where I can put my bag.

I head out to the main street and only wait for a minute before an empty auto rolls up.  I tell him Old Delhi railway station, he says 400, I say 200 (which is 4 bucks).  He says, more for traffic congestion and something else, and another tuk-tuk pulls up.  I leave the first guy and go up to the second.  He says where, I say Old Delhi railway station.  He says 50rs, I confirm and he repeats.  I stick my pack in and off we go.  He points out some things around the area as we drive, and seems to be a nice man.  We pull up to the New Delhi railway station.  I say, no “Old Delhi railway station".  I think his look of confusion and disgust was legitimate and aimed at himself.  He tells me (truthfully) that we have to backtrack quite a bit and travel a fair bit more to go there and he needs 100 additional to do that.  I say no problem, because I think it was honest mistake and the other guy refused 200 to do the same thing, without the detour mileage and fuel.

We get into Old Delhi, which is rough on every edge, and make it to the station.  As I’m getting out, the driver points to where it is, and informs me that there’s no u-turns here (I see a sign that says the same).  I give him a 50rs tip for being honest about the mix-up, helpful for the attractions along the way, and not overcharging me.  I am on the wrong side of about 10 lanes total, but emboldened by the audacity of the pedestrians we saw getting here, I time it with some car-length gaps in the traffic and the signal lights.  On the ride to the station, there were unattended 3-4 year old beggars standing in the middle of traffic that operates the way fish swim in a coral reef, no seeming sense of direction or coordination, but not crashing into one another.  These children are bobbing and weaving and are below hood-height, so the visibility is poor.  The cars are going around them, and when we stop for the light, a little girl reaches into the rickshaw and puts her black hands on my leg to get my attention, and is saying “Sir, sir.  Sir.  Sir, sir.”  She is begging for money, and though I want to because I am a father and a human for that matter, I know how that system works.  The children must give the money to their handlers, and in exchange, they themselves only earn their inadequate sustenance for the day, it’s essentially indentured servitude, but for beggars.  I ignore her.  And her matted hair, her filthy-torn rags, her impoverished frame, and her huge beautiful black eyes.  I miss my daughter.