Thursday, December 24, 2009

2 Days in Delhi





Imagine you’re stuck in traffic on the Grand Central Parkway in front of LaGuardia Airport. You’re slowly inching past a cow munching on garbage to your right. To your left, a man is sitting on a high wooden stool, his head tipped back as another man lathers his face with shaving cream and prepares to scrape it clean of hair.

Welcome to Delhi.

We did have a lovely surprise when we exited the airport: Our driver, C.P., was there! We had asked the tour company if he could be our driver in Delhi as well, and they said since it was such a busy season they weren’t sure he was free. So it was heart-warming to see his friendly smile waiting for us.

And lucky for us, because he’s a agile driver and the traffic here is horrific. Worse than anything anyone has warned us about. The eye candy makes it all worth it though.

We took a chance in Delhi and booked a bed and breakfast stay ourselves (not through the tour company.) We fretted about whether the beds would be ok, if the room would be clean, if the house would smell.

Lubna is our host and she greeted us with tea and small snacks. When she found out we missed lunch, nothing could stop her from rushing to kitchen and returning with a rice that was both fruity and spicy and layered with flavor. We topped it with a little spicy chutney and some chopped cucumbers and tomatoes (hopefully that won’t come back to bite us in the ass.)

Her house is beautiful and reminds me of a Mexican hacienda. There’s a sky light that shines from four floors up all the way down to the foyer. The first floor has a sitting room with low couches sitting on carved legs and a coffee table with elephants for legs. As we climb up to our room on the top floor we pass by the private living area, through a mini outdoor area filled with plants stuffed into interesting planters in the shapes of frogs, cats and camels, up one more flight to our room. And it’s perfect, with comfy beds, a flat screen TV and free wi-fi! Woo-hoo.

The guides on this tour are almost as much fun as the site seeing. Our man in Delhi is called Lileet Kumar and he is the Indian version of John Travolta. Not only does he hav his face and dimples and chin cleft…. But he arrived to show us Delhi wearing tight shiny pants. (And yes, that is a tiger on the back of his sweater.) He walks with the same strut as John does in “Saturday Night Fever.“ We walk several steps behind singing the song under our breath.

He also has an impressive uni-brow that looks like a fuzzy caterpillar about to jump off his face. We chat about dating in India and he tells us his girlfriend married another man this past summer. He looks so sad when he tells us and we once again wonder about how many broken hearts are left behind by the arranged marriages that are the norm in India.

We nickname him The Mayor, because he seems to know everyone. Everywhere we go he shakes hands, with the other guides, with the guard checking passes at each temple and fort, of the hawkers trying to sell us post cards. He is the only guide that talks to the small dirty children that beg. He takes their face in his hands and tickles them under the chin and makes them giggle. It makes us see a different side to this kids that have mostly been aggressive with us, and also a different side to our guides.

But he’s just 29 years old and has the cockiness of youth. He texts his friends a lot when he thinks we’re not looking.

We visit the massive Baha’is Lotus Temple which looks like an enormous lotus flower growing out of the ground and reaching towards the sky.

Then we sit in bumper to bumper cow-rickshaw-car-motorbike for 40 minutes before arriving at Humayun’s Tomb. This Muslim tomb is impressive and looks a bit like a mini Taj Mahal. In an odd twist of irony, the entire building has the star of David carved into it all over the place. They use it as just another geometric form, rather than a symbol of Judiasm. But I’m sure the irony is not lost on anyone Jewish visiting the tomb (or or any Muslims that are against the state of Israel.) It’s imposing and graceful at the same time.

A girl’s school field trip is in progress and hundreds of young teenagers in uniform are swarming the space. Suddenly, a group of about 6 girls come up to us and say “Hello!” It’s the only English they know and they chatter to our guide who desperately tries to keep up with his translating. They ask us where we’re from, how old we are (they guess 25, bless them.) One in particular reminds me of myself when I was 14; even though I don’t understand I word she’s saying I recognize her spunkiness and need to push the envelope. She’s sassy and it comes through despite the language barrier. They are also hyper and giggly and Melissa and I are completely charmed.

We were worried Delhi would swallow us whole. But so far it’s been nothing but kind, if not a bit frantic.

After a fabulous night’s sleep, followed by cold shower. Lubna’s help make us a breakfast feast: scrambled eggs, toast, Indian bread with onions, hot tea, fresh papaya. (All Indian families have help, even middle class families, because labor is so cheap here.) We talk with Lubna about work, Melissa’s boyfriend Dave, and shopping. The same stuff women all over the world talk about. She offers to take us shopping for an outfit for the night before a wedding, either a Saiwerkamz, which are baggy pants and a long shirt that comes below the knees with intricate embroidery, or a Langa, which is a skirt and top that are covered in beading and shiny stuff. She also says we can borrow some of her costume jewelry!

We meet our Travolta guide and C.P. for another day of traffic, forts and shopping. We visit the massive Red Fort which sits on the edge of the old city, as well as Jama Masjid, the second largest mosque in all of Asia. Indian families often travel together and one large group asks if they can take a picture with us. We agree. It’s not the first family of Indians that have asked to be photograph with us. We seem to be more of an attraction than the mosque.

Then we hire bicycle rickshaws and plunge into the maze that is old Delhi. Every narrow alleyway sells different items: one lane for saris, one for ribbons and trim, another for wedding directions, and yet another for desserts. The rickshaw drivers somehow manage to slip around obstacles where there seems to be no way to move forward. The seats are narrow and we both clutch the handle to hold ourselves steady.

Finally we hop off the rickshaw and walk around the old market. Laleet buys us street food; hopefully we won’t get sick later. First a jalebi, which is fried dough that tastes like a donut soaked in syrup, a hot spicy samosa with minty chutney, a treat that tastes like whipped cream with nuts and a foreign spice we can not identify, then a pured carrot mixture -- I know that sounds gross but it was yummy!

We still need something to wear tomorrow for the pre-wedding party. We slip off our shoes and step into a narrow shop selling Langas. But Indian women are smaller than Americans; it’s comical as we try to stuff our busty figures into tiny tops, the process involving a delicate dance of the shop keeper helping us while not touching us, while we try to keep our shirts underneath in place. As we don’t have enough to have one made, we quickly decide that Langas are out.

After a quick conference, we decide that maybe another sari is in order. We had bought saris in the U.S.; Lubna was shocked and appalled at how much we spent on them, so we knew we could get them much cheaper at the source.

We start feeling fabrics that are flapping from the open storefronts and eventually we’re lured into one shop. Nothing happens in India until you are seated and have declined a cup of tea. After we do this, sari after sari comes off the shelf. Azure blue covered in silver studs, hot pink with gold sequin swirls, royal purple with a princely velvet trim. There are so many colors and fabrics and designs that it’s exhausting to look at, let alone decide on just one.

Mr. Travolta looks like he is in physical pain. This is one shared manly trait; hatred of shopping, especially with women.

We finally choose; royal blue with a pretty silver flower pattern for me, turquoise with gold and black sequin flowers for Melissa. A man from the shop walks us down the lane to the tailor who will make our blouses. Just a little random fact for you non-Indians: all saris are the same size - 6 yards. You just wrap them more or less to alter the fit. And they all come with an extra yard to make a blouse, so that it’s the same color match.

The Gandhi museum provides a welcome break from the sari spectacle. We see the bed he slept in and where he was murdered. It’s familiar from the movie. The entire area is very quiet and calm, the opposite of what lays beyond the walls of the museum.

What do we do next? More shopping of course! And what do I buy? Another linen of course! But even Melissa buys something here, so I don’t feel so bad.

It’s dark when we’re dropped off at our hotel. We tip Laleet and C.P. well; not just for their services but for being silent men in a women’s shopping world.

We love Delhi.

1 comment:

  1. delhi rocks! especially when you get in an auto rickshaw that wont start and the driver gets out, pushes it while running and it turns over!!

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