Delhi, and Finding Myself in Rishikesh

« Return to India

And awoke to every conceivable annoying racket you can think of. Horns in the key of F, people screeching, bells ringing, cows mooing, high pitched horns in a key of E, cocks crowing, alarms buzzing, dogs barking, exhausts backfiring, horns in polyphonic fugue, goods crashing, wood breaking, babies crying, jackhammers crunching, and horns to the tune of Final Countdown, as performed by a chorus of rusty chainsaws. At 7am, the Main Bazaar of Pahar Ganj was in full swing. For those who don’t know, I am half-deaf, and many times on Modern Gonzo I have relied on my right ear to block out the sounds that might wake me from blissful slumber. With this superpower, I can sleep through almost anything. But not Pahar Ganj, Delhi. I went for a brief walk around the neighbourhood, which lasted exactly ten minutes before sweat streamed from my pits and my face began to twitch from the over-stimulation. Combined with the clatter was frenetic, hard-paced activity, and in the midst of it all, well-fed cows. Fortunately I had my report to write, some DVD’s to watch, and an old friend to expect. It had been years since I had last seen my university buddy Greg, and by sheer coincidence he was arriving in Delhi the following day on a family holiday with his girlfriend Penny. They now lived in Shanghai, and would be doing India in style. I caught an auto-rickshaw to meet them at the Intercontinental, a genuine first world hotel, not ten minutes away from the madness of Pahar Ganj. Naturally it took an hour to get there. Waiting in the impressive lobby, I embraced the air freshener, the carpets, and the sheer amount of space around me. I used a western-toilet for the first time in weeks and didn’t want to stand up. I know, I know… if I wanted my home comforts on trip I could have just stayed at home.

Our first stop was the beautiful, 17-century Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque. The pigeons co-operated for a spectacular photo. Pahar Ganj had broken me in sufficiently to walk the bustling streets of Chadni Chowk, looking for a spice market that didn’t want to be found. We took in a Jain Temple with a bird hospital, as well as a few rides on a rickshaw pedaled by men with legs of uncooked spaghetti, and minds as sharp as Michael Jackson’s lawyers (”Did I say 30 rupees, I meant 150 rupees!”) It was a pity that just about everyone we came across wanted to take us for a ride, but Greg and Penny did have their Canons strapped around their necks. The Red Fort, built in 1638 out of red sandstone, was recently turned over by the Indian Army to the government and is probably Delhi’s premier tourist attraction. It must certainly be India’s only tourist attraction where you enter and find yourself staring at imminent death. That the army had a checkpoint with a mounted, large-barreled machine gun aimed at my nose made me a little nervous. Judging by how things worked in India thus far, it could easily go off on its own accord. Or be eaten by a cow, accidentally triggered during digestion, sending a hail of bullets in my general direction. Inside the Red Fort, the noise and chaos of Delhi disappeared. The emperor’s throne, entertainment palace and gardens were gorgeous, affording precious moments of tranquility. We chatted away on the grass, watching hordes of Indian tourists enjoy themselves as the sun began to set, lighting up the red sandstone. Inside a museum, I learnt about India’s fight for independence, and some of the massacres perpetuated by the British in the 1800’s. It’s a remarkable story full of remarkable characters, all the more so considering India’s unity was the result of people of all religions, castes and traditions working together - with an incorruptible leader, Mahatma Gandhi, for everyone to rally behind.

The rickshaw ride home was uneventful, except the following: The driver violently assaulted a young beggar girl who approached us; had two minor collisions involving a bike and a car; got stuck in a traffic jam where we had to cover our mouths to avoid choking on the pollution; took a short-cut through a toilet; and sexually harassed Penny when we left her for a moment to retrieve some clothes from my hotel. When he asked for double the amount he quoted, Greg very nearly punched his lights out. Back at the Intercontinental, we hit the pool and for a moment, I forgot that I was staying in a room where the sheets last saw soap around the year of India’s independence, that is, 1947. I had my first hot shower in weeks, used a fresh towel, and stole the shampoo bottle. Unlike Goa, there is nothing that makes you feel like a crack junkie faster than staying in a rat-bag hotel in a big, dirty city. You don’t need much at the beaches, where simple shacks have charm amidst the coconut groves. In Delhi, I was enjoying every precious drop of luxury (including the free bar snacks). “As long as you’re in an ex-colony, it’s always time for a sundowner,” said Penny, wisely. Later, Penny’s friends treated us to an incredible meal at one of Delhi’s best restaurants, where the spices seduced in my taste buds and I even braved the mouth-watering chicken tandoori, my first meat on the sub-continent. I topped off the meal with paan, the chewing tobacco that Indians chew and spit. Paan, for those who are interested, is just one vowel short of pain.

Gonzo Gallery for Delhi, and Finding Myself in Rishikesh

view full gallery

Tweet