Awake two hours before our morning wakeup call. At all hours of the night the party rages in Delhi. Cars with drivers shamelessly laying on their horns, passing trains and distant sirens never cease. Lights do not dim. This city too never sleeps.
Buffet breakfast offers little in the way of traditional Indian flavors. There is toast, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, cereals and yogurts. There is a mildly-spicy curried vegetable dish with bread (not naan) and chilled curried rice. The vegetables are good, the cold rice weird, and not so good. There is little time for us to digest, we have much to see today.
The Red Fort is a 17th century fort complex constructed by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan that served as the residence of the Mughal Emperors. It also served as the capital of the Mughals until 1857, when Mughal emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar was exiled by the British Indian government. It is a somewhat-holy site, so we are asked to go barefoot while inside. Architecturally, the fort is far more interesting for its massive size than for its design or the materials used to construct it. Inside, rugs are rolled out for worshipers. In America, England and all points west of Mecca, you pray facing East, as that is where the Muslim holy city is in relation to most of the world. The Western world, anyways. In India you are east of Mecca, so worshipers pray facing west.
WIld dogs roam the streets outside the fort. Many lay lifeless on the pavement, the combination of temperature and pollution sapping all their energy.
That’s kind of important to know about Delhi. The pollution here is startling. You can see it, taste it, you cough it up and sneeze it out, the black soot, because the air is so thick with it it coats your lungs. Smog blocks out the sun.
At the entrance to the fort dozens of three-wheeled rickshaws tempt tourists with chances to see the nearby bazaars and back streets of Old Delhi. Alright, show me. Through narrow streets packed high with food vendors, pharmacies, bookstores, fresh produce and spices, squalid apartments…below dangerously low-hanging electrical wires…beside locals shopping for food and supplies, enjoying mid-morning tea, begging, pissing, fondling themselves without care, soaking in the scene and the smog, worrying maybe one of those taxi cabs might kill you, or your rickshaw driver might hit a pothole…it was a fantastic time.
Eid al-Adha is approaching. Many Muslims are making the pilgrimage to Delhi. We pass a goat auction. All those bought will be sacrificed and consumed. There are two Eids. I believe the goat one is the more important of the two holidays.
Rajghat is a marble platform that marks the spot of Mahatma Gandhi’s cremation, Antyesti (Antim Sanskar) on 31 January 1948, a day after his assassination. It is left open to the sky while an eternal flame burns perpetually at one end. It is located on the banks of the river Yamuna. A stone footpath flanked by lawns leads to the walled enclosure that houses the memorial. It’s a beautiful, sprawling park where young lovers canoodle under trees, ornate gates lead in and out in all four directions. Hundreds of schoolchildren are here on a field trip. They vie for attention, say hello, ask to take pictures and touch the women who pass by.
The Laxminarayan Temple is a breathtaking work of architecture. Another holy site dedicated to Laxmi (Lakshmi), goddess of love, beauty and prosperity. Barefooted and instructed how to worship, we put our hands together, bow, offer a soft “namaste” and pray for love, luck and happiness. It’s more spiritually rewarding than sending a text to a crush and awaiting a reply.
We drive past the Presidential Palace, the largest estate for an executive in the world. But since Presidents in India are little more than figureheads appointed by Parliament we don’t really care. Sorry Doctor what’s-your-name, current President of India. I’m sure you’re a good person.
Our next stop was lunch at a fucking carpet store. Samosas and tea. I wanted to claw my eyes out. How can anyone justify coming to India and “lunching” while some salesman pitches you to buy one of his cashmere or silk carpets. I found it entirely out of place and distasteful following the preceding holy sites.
The Tomb of Humayun is the resting spot of the Mughal Emperor Humayun. The tomb was commissioned by Humayun’s wife Hamida Banu Begum in 1562 AD, and designed by Mirak Mirza Ghiyath, a Persian architect. It is considered to be a precursor to the Taj Mahal, only instead of a husband building it for his wife, this was a wife building it for her husband. More schoolchildren swarmed to the visitors from the West. A gorgeous tomb housed in a double-domed structure that was criminally marred by the pollution. Every attempt to capture and highlight the colors was ruined by Delhi’s perpetual haze. 17 million people and all those emissions. Rough.
The Qutub Minar is constructed with red sandstone and marble, it is the tallest free-standing stone tower in the world, and the tallest minaret in India, with a height of 237.8 feet. It contains 379 stairs to reach the top (too bad it’s closed!), and the diameter of base is 14.3 meters where as the last story is 2.7 meters. The Construction was commenced by Qutb-ud-din Aibak in 1199 A.D and completed by Iltutmish. The Qutub Minar is notable for being one of the earliest and most prominent examples of Indo-Islamic architecture. We squeezed in as they were closing the gate for the day. More beautiful ancient stone work. I loved the second tower in the complex, the one that was supposed to be twice as wide and twice as high as the first, but it was abandoned and left unfinished. Very unfinished. I found it to be so wonderful for some inexplicable reason. A monument to failure. The Iron Pillar in the courtyard bears an inscription in Sanskrit in Brahmi script of 4th century AD, and is famous for its never having rusted. Since the 4th century. No one knows why.
Home, a 10k run (6.2 miles, fuck the metric system!). Shower and bed. Tomorrow wakeup is at 3am, as we’re taking a train to Pushkar in Rajasthan.
Radio Delhi #1 [MP3]
