Calm Chandigargh

Greetings from Chandigargh, Punjab Province. Likely India's most planned and modern city. An experiment in grid-based modern urban planning. Designed in the 60s, Chandigarh is home to a fairly middle class, predominantly Sikh population. It is a different world from Delhi and I regularly have to remind myself that I am in fact still in India. I came to Chandigarh to visit my friend Jas, a former co-worker from my days of mind-numbing IT sales. His family lives here and timing worked out so that he is visiting now. He invited me to attend a party his family was hosting to celebrate baby's first Lohri. Lohri is a Sikh harvest festival, marked by bonfires and the eating of a popcorn and nut mixture. Jas' brother recently had a son (9 months or so ago), and boys being auspicious in fairly patriarchal Indian culture, it was time to celebrate. I will elaborate more momentarily, but for now, I would like to go back for a few more reflections on Delhi.

Despite being an assault on the senses, I rather liked the experience of being in Delhi. It is perhaps the most maddening place you could imagine. It is so exaggerated that it becomes surreal. I imagine that one could adjust to its frenetic movement, but for one unaccustomed it can be rather overwhelming. My time there began when I fell prey to one of the most obvious and infuriating of scams. Despite fancying myself to be rather savvy of a traveler, I was nabbed. Our guide books clearly warn us to be wary of taxi drivers leaving you at undesired locales. To avoid this, one must use the government run pre-paid taxi service. Here the driver does not get paid unless you are delivered as requested. Nonetheless, I still somehow managed to allow the driver to drop me in an entirely different part of Delhi than I had hoped. An elaborate scheme that involved asking for directions twice, being unable to 'find the address', and taking me to the (privately run, profit driven) tourist office for help. It is here that the taxi driver took my voucher, my hotel confirmation and disappeared. It is here that the tour agency crew (well dressed, well spoken, quite westernized) kill you with kindness and begin to facilitate a relationship of dependence. I was weary but reassured by an American girl who said she had known them for over a week and that was cool (silly girl!). I conceded to sleep at their hostel of choice for one night (costing me about $5-6 more than expected) and even went out with and dined with them that evening (they paid so I sort of broke even?!?). By then I was aware that I was not where I wanted to be, so I recruited a British guy (the only other guest at the hostel) and early the next morning, we made our escape. Off to Paharganj, the main bazaar located next to the New Delhi train station and main backpacker center (although we saw surprisingly few travelers there or anywhere else. Wonder if it was few travelers we saw or simply so many of everyone else?).

Once checked in, we hit the street. A harrowing activity as everyone wants a piece of you. I now know that you simply cannot answer people when they approach and ask questions. The touts are relentless and the curious kind folk are indistinguishable. Everyone seems to have advice and unsolicited it becomes draining. I had been warned about the staring but was not quite prepared for feeling as if I was from another planet or had some of yesterday's meal on my face (they stare at me in Chandigarh too). We ate market food, Chow mein and samosas. Affordable as our combined meal came in at about $2. We tried to visit Connaught place but jet lag and harrasment got the best of us and we ducked into a westernized coffee shop for a pricey break. Even there we were greeted by do-gooders trying to suggest which tour companies we should book a trip with (tourism is big business and everyone gets commission for bringing suckers in). We then got in an autorickshaw (a three wheeled mini taxi) and headed to a muslim part of town. Hazrat Nizam-ud-din is a shrine to a Sufi saint and we got there as the sun left the sky. Such a different feel to what we had seen earlier, my first time in a muslim area and although so foreign, I somehow felt quite safe as if the people in the market would protect me if needed. We visited the shrine, observed worshippers in prayer and had tea with a man named Pilal, a devout muslim who invited us to his shop and spoke to us about his family and faith. All was well until we somehow got on the subject of ill action. Drinking specifically. He told us matter of factly that if someone in his family is caught drinking, they'll kill them. It was time for us to hit the road. After an overpriced taxi ($5-still having no sense of the price of things) back to Paharganj, we treated ourselves to a mediocre meal, sampled one of India's sweet, and much needed, beers, Kingfisher, and watched the cows, dogs and people meander in the street below.

Day 2, Delhi: After a troubled night of sleep, awoke late with a sore throat (the air quality in Delhi leaves something to desired). Nonetheless was in much better spirit and ready to face the day. Had a quite tasty breakfast from the small line of stalls facing the train station. Fried chapatis and some kind of curried something. Decided to take the metro to the Old Delhi, likely the most chaotic and mind-numbing part of Delhi (by contrast 'New Delhi' built by the British has wide streets, clean architecture and even some trees). The metro is relatively new and sparkling clean. Riding it was a treat. Getting to it was not! Simply on the otherside of the station, one must take an overhead pass over the tracks. This alone could drive an unstable person to the brink of insanity as countless people, dragging all forms of luggage, push and shove to get through. There were times it felt as if the 100 meter overpass would never end. Or that with a crushed spirit, jumping over to the tracks below would be preferable to going onwards.
Old Delhi, Chowdi bazaar station. Hello madness. Cows, rickshaws, people, people, people, people. All sorts of transport. All sorts of delivery. Horns, HOrns, HORNS. Buildings, once fine, crumbling from overuse. Smells. Food, animal, piss, shit. Chaos.
We visited the largest mosque in India, Jama Masjid. Beautiful red structure. Amazing arabic/indian architecture with ornate archways and impressive halls. Were kicked out for afternoon prayers. Meandered through a market. Locals thought I mad for photographing engines piled. Off to the Red Fort. The head of the Mughal empire when they ruled India. Walking through the gates, the long corridor that once housed mechants of finery, and the impressive layout, cannot help but make one imagine the splendor that once surrounded this place. Sadly we arrived just a few minutes prior to closing, and although we were sold tickets to enter (250- $7 or so), we were kicked out just a few moments later. After dancing through fun Indian beaurocracy we were granted access to the director of the site (a world heritage site btw), and ultimately were given permission to come back the next day on our existing tickets. Back to the market. Purchased my first Kurta (India dress shirt- lovely blue with gold), food at a middle-class restaurant, and the nutty descision to walk home. While not geographically too far a walk, still we baffled locals as foreigners are rarely seen walking Old Delhi at night. A pedal rickshaw driver followed us for a full half an hour. As we walked we saw the people of the street settle in for the night. Food stalls and shops were closed, goods put away as people settled in to sleep at the side of the road. Rows upon rows of people sleeping in the streets. Some sleep in their rickshaws, others in their market stalls. I saw a man sleeping in a pile of dirt. Tough.

Day 3, Delhi: Review of day 2. Crazzy overpass at train station, metro to old delhi madness, the red fort. Today we had time to visit this spectacular building. Now a shell of its former splendour, one is still left with a feeling of how this place may have been at the peek of the Mughal empire. The marble carving is beautiful and the richness evident. By luck, and by asking, we were granted a private showing of the Shah's river overlook, an area normally closed to tourists. Impressive. Back to the markets. Frayed nerves. Back to Paharganj just in time for the drumming, bonfires in the streets and Sikh families celebrating to mark the begining of Lohri.

And now, Chandigarh.