A Faraway Summer Sun

Mumbai was not in our original itinerary; circumstances (by this I mean cheaper airfare) forced us to make a stopover in this city.

We only had 25 hours to experience the home of Bollywood, but I was excited to be back in India. We landed around 2a.m. and were told by the immigration officer that Trevor would have to register with the police the following morning because he was re-entering the country within six months – failure to do so could result in us not being allowed to leave. This is despite the fact that he had a double-entry visa. 

My friend, Sagar, picked us up from the airport at this god forsaken hour – we were very grateful. 

We woke up the next morning and took our time – the immigration officer had told us that the office was open from 10 to 4p.m. We arrived at the registration office at 1:30 p.m. That’s when the nightmare of dealing with Indian bureaucracy began.

First, we were told that the office closed half an hour ago. Then, after some pleading, we were told that because the immigration officer in New Delhi forgot to stamp Trevor’s first entry to the country, we would have to go back to Delhi and get the stamp. Finally, we were informed that they would send a fax to their New Delhi office and if they received a reply confirming Trevor had indeed arrived in Delhi, the necessary paperwork would be processed. Otherwise we would have to cancel our ticket to Dar-es-Salaam. During this whole process I never understood why it was easier to enter the country than leave it.

At this point, we knew we needed reinforcements. We called my parents, who called Chachi. She suggested that we call my Dad’s cousin who works in the Indian Foreign Service and is currently posted in Delhi. It is because of Sunil Uncle that we were able to make it to Tanzania on time. He hassled the Delhi office to get the fax to the Mumbai office and then hassled the Mumbai office to process our paperwork. 

While we were waiting, I met a British girl in the same office, who had lost her passport. As it turned out, without her passport no hotel would let her stay – it is against the law for them to accept a guest who cannot show their passport. Luckily, someone was kind enough to give her a room even though it could’ve cost the staff member his or her job. 

This confirmed what I realized earlier on our trek through India: foreigners have to be brave and adventurous to travel through this country. Even though there is beauty in the madness, it can feel overwhelmingly chaotic. Add to this the constant attempt by the locals to overcharge you for services. Many people don’t speak English. And as we found out, if something goes wrong, dealing with the bureaucracy can be a maddening experience. 

By the time, we walked out into the fresh air it was past 5p.m. – but not before we were practically forced to make a nice comment in the guest book. 

It had been an extremely stressful and frustrating afternoon.  We were mentally too exhausted to do any sightseeing, so we got into a cab and headed to Sagar’s office. 

The slum we passed en route, was the most interesting we had seen yet. It was settled on what was clearly meant to be a sidewalk and  was well-established – each of the supposedly temporary huts had it’s own postal number and satellite dish. 

Our evening was lovely – the perfect antidote to our afternoon. I bought some clothes at the mall. We had a fascinating conversation with Sagar and Anupama (his fiancee) over a delicious dinner about the insurance industry. We felt like ourselves again – relaxed and happy. 

We drove back to Sagar’s house, picked up our bags and then Sagar and Anupama dropped us off at the airport at 11:30 pm.  We got the nicest security officer in line. And just like that we were officially on the next leg of our journey – Kilimanjaro. But not before deciding, never to backtrack into India within six months until Trevor could get his PIO or “Person of Indian Origin” card making visas and registration unnecessary.

Note: On reflection, I wasn’t too happy with this post, so I’ve added a post-script in the Comments that’s much clearer about what I really appreciated about Kerala and why.

“Unchecked, the tourist will climb over the fence and come right into your house to take pictures of you in your habitat.  Cities mindful of tourists have built elaborate “tourist traps” which, luckily, work.  Tourists are kept confined to these, and few escape. There is, of course, the type known as the ‘intrepid tourist.’ This one has to be watched carefully or he can become most annoying.”

The tropical backwaters of Kerala are India’s sanctuary of peace and serenity, as far removed as possible from the bustle of Delhi or the dusty Deccan plateau.  A low-lying land of rice paddies intersected by natural and man-made canals, the backwaters fully deserve their moniker as the Venice of India.

Most visitors charter one of many private luxury houseboats that patrol the rivers, but the boats run on noisy, smoke-belching diesel engines and, in the evenings, moor close enough to easily hear the neighbours’ loud satellite TV on all sides.  They are very much a tourist trap, and Sakshi and I found a far better experience at the Green Palms homestay.  We booked rooms for three nights, and our stay was near-perfect.

From the moment we embarked on the paddle canoe and crossed the river, we felt different.  Far away from busy roads and cities, the Green Palm Homes was an idyllic refuge from the noise and crowds that we had experienced over the last few weeks.  Although I very much enjoyed the bustle of Delhi and Hyderabad, as we walked alongside fish ponds to our small but luxurious guest cottage, I realized that I had not heard silence in over a month.

Located on a small island in a river lagoon, the homestay is very much a part of its community; part of the proceeds are even shared with the islanders.  The homes were large, well-furnished and air-conditioned, and our cottage had a beautiful balcony view of the lush green rice paddies.  The homes are run by two brothers (Thomas and Michael) and their brother-in-law (Philip).  Philip was our host and a good reminder about making misleading assumptions.  Dressed in the traditional Keralan mundu, you’d never know he was an ex-financial advisor who had lived and worked in Manchester, England until he grew tired of the rat-race and moved his young family back to their roots.  Dinner was prepared by his wife and mother-in-law – it was simply amazing, full of coconut flavours and delicious, unqiuely Keralan “puffy rice”.

In the evening and mornings, Thomas would lead guests on stroll alongside the canals to the rice paddies.  As we walked, he pointed out kingfishers – small bolts of neon blue and red amidst the trees – and explained how his faith, the Syrian Christian Church, had arrived in Kerala from Arab traders centuries before the European colonialists.  Thomas’ love for his community and the land was clear whenever he spoke.  His authentic desire to share this with his guests and his welcoming nature made him an excellent guide.  The tourism brochures also called Kerala “God’s own country”, and seeing the lush abundance all around us, it’s hard to dispute the claim – we saw trees and fields blooming with rice, cashews, coconuts, bananas, jackfruit, pineapples, mangoes, passion fruit, tamarind and even more unusual fare like sapodilla.  We made the return trip by paddle canoe and Thomas led the oarsmen in singing local Keralan folk songs, their vibrant voices made louder in the darkness of the new moon.

Through Thomas, I learned far more than I can relate here about agriculture and the technologies of pastoral life.  I learned how essential and reliable the coconut crop is to village life and how it can be used for rugs, activated carbon (used in water filters like the LifeStraw), cooking oils or even home-brewed “toddy” beer.  I saw the turbines that the farmers use to flood and drain their paddy fields, glimpsed the German-made “paddy harvesters” that collect the rice, and smelled the pungent plants grown to repel pests (they still need to spray with pesticides, however).  I learned how the waterways are cleansed of thousands of choking water lillies by opening up the dykes to let in salty seawater, but the villagers must stockpile fresh water during this time and wash their clothes in the briny water.  Back at the homestay, Thomas showed me how their rainwater system harvested, filtered and kept water fresh for over a year and I watched Philip manage the pH levels of the farm ponds he had built before adding new fish.

We met some fascinating people during our stay, including a retired French couple who offered to house-swap their cottage in Bretagne for a vacation if ever we were interested, but perhaps the most illuminating conversation was with a man involved in India’s teak forestry industry.  He was forthright in explaining how pervasive bribery is.  Border guards demand large payments whenever lumber crosses state borders.  This eats up his profits, so to make his business worthwhile, he cuts more than his permitted share.  For every truck of licensed lumber that leaves the forest, two more trucks of illegal wood follow (with additional bribes for the forest reserve guards).  All companies do this, and although they do plant some trees, it is nowhere near enough to be sustainable.  The permits to cut down wood are sold at official auctions for the highest bidder, but here also bribes are essential for winning bids.

With the exception of an unpleasant Ayurvedic massage, we felt an overwhelming sense of peace throughout our stay.  Although we took no photos of their “habitat”, Thomas and Philip were extremely generous to open up their homes and give us a authentic look at their lives in the backwaters.  One afternoon, we tried fishing with plasti thread tied to a short bamboo stick: we caught eight small fish, threw half back and fried the rest with chilies and coconut oil for dinner.

Mostly, we simply enjoyed sitting on the edge of the short ferry pier outside the homestay, watching the river traffic – ponting boats and canoes, with the occasional ferry.  At noon, dozens of the lumbering houseboats would chug by, looking like armoured water bugs scooting about on the water.  But once they had gone, we were again left with tranquil silence, broken only by birdsong and the soft slap of washerwomen cleaning clothes in the river.

It has taken me ten years to make it back to Hyderabad. I absolutely loved it on my first visit – everything from being picked up at the airport in an official car complete with the Indian flag (Chachi is the Principal Auditor General for the state) to exploring Golconda Fort with Chacha to reading bedtime stories to Sahir and Tarini. I was excited for Trevor to experience it all. 

This time, Trevor and I arrive on a hot, sunny Friday afternoon at a new airport. Chacha and Chachi are waiting for us and have brought two cars – one for our luggage and one for us. Tarini had mused that we must be carrying lots of luggage on our six-month journey.

At first glance, Hyderabad is different from what I remember – located at the centre of the Deccan Plateau, it has a dry landscape and giant rock formations, balancing at precarious angles but actually immovable for thousands of years. But the next day, as we drive through the older part of the city, it is just as I remembered. There are historical buildings in every corner, re-purposed for modern use; one is now a hospital, another a college.  Unfortunately, when we visit Chowmala Palace, we discover that some have been destroyed. A dining hall that once seated 100 people and whose acoustics allowed even those at opposite ends of the table to converse with ease was demolished; in its place now sits a road.

Even within India’s incredible diversity, Hyderabad has a curious history.  For over two hundred years it was ruled by the Nizams, a remnant of the old Mughal Empire.  When India won its independence, Hyderabad had no intention of joining the Indian union and continued to operate as an independent state until the Indian army invaded and annexed it in 1948.  Hyderabad sent a delegation to the United Nations seeking membership, but it arrived too late.  Currently part of the state of Andhra Pradesh, even now the city of Hyderabad seeks recognition as an Indian state in its own right.

Golconda Fort is still my favourite historical site. It was home to the Qutb Shahi dynasty that lasted seven generations before it fell to the Mughal empire. The entrance to the fort is a beautiful, ornate, heavy door. I wonder how many men were required to open and close it. At the entrance to the inner fort, a clap at the right spot can be heard at one of the highest points – this was used to alert the royal family of danger. There’s a room where you can have whispered conversations standing at opposite corners and hear each other perfectly because of the acoustics. And when the king went to his royal court, his seat would be carried by four men – two short and two tall so that he would be level while coming up the many stairs.  Unfortunately, there is graffiti everywhere, even on the walls of what was once the workers’ mosque. 

At the other end of the city, “Cyberabad” is the future of Hyderabad.  Founded by a forward-thinking ex-Chief Minister, Cyberabad now boasts many large IT offices, including the second-largest Microsoft office in the world and a growing, successful MBA school, the Indian School of Business.  We met many of these MBA students at a party that Chachi held in our honour. They were interesting, ambitious and well-travelled.  When we toured the MBA school, I also got the chance to catch up with a childhood friend of mine – he was the third friend from Riyadh that I’ve managed to connect with on this trip.

From our comings and goings from Chacha and Chachi’s house, we learnt the government built an apartment complex directly across from the local slum and gave it to the slum dwellers as a new home. The slum dwellers, however, would rather stay put and rent out the apartments for additional income (so they are, quite literally, slum landlords).  The persistance of the slum continues to frustrate the other area residents, particularly as the only road to the neighbourhood runs through the slum and is badly potholed and in need of repairs.  The road cannot be fixed until the slum is cleared, which the government is reluctant to do for fear of reducing their reliable vote bank.

Perhaps our most unusual experience was visiting the state legislature to see the government house in session. I should note that the legislature is not open to the public but Chachi managed to get us access to the Visitors’ Gallery. The proceedings would take place in Telegu (the local language), but we would get headphones with immediate English translations.  Security was shockingly lax and laissez-faire, and nobody knew where the Gallery was. Some people didn’t know there was a Gallery; others pointed us in the wrong direction. Finally, we were informed that the Visitors’ Gallery was closed and instead were directed to the Media Gallery. My enquiry about headphones was met with a blank look. What we got instead were baffled stares from journalists wondering who we were and how we got access. Interestingly, we got much more attention as we were leaving. It seemed that every ten steps, a security guard stopped to ask us who we were, how we got in and what we were doing. After we answered the same questions for the tenth time, it became comically frustrating.

One night, I accompanied Chacha to the local pharmacy to pick up medication for Sahir.  I was surprised that we didn’t need a prescription for the antibiotics. Chacha’s medical degree comes in handy at these times but those with no medical background tend to rely on advice from the shopkeeper, who often has no training as a pharmacist.  To stress-test this system, the next day Trevor tried to purchase Valium with Chachi’s amusement and cooperation; they were unsuccessful only because the doctor’s name wasn’t registered in the pharmacy’s computer.

A tour of Apollo Hospital revealed more surprises about India’s health care system. Every private hospital has their own fleet of ambulances and their own emergency number. The emergency room is small, but the wait times are non-existent. The hospital advertises heavily using many hoardings on the streets – “When my brother got into an accident, I chose Apollo.” The communications department includes a sales staff of six to eight who market their services to smaller clinics in the hopes that patients will be referred to them. Competition for patients amongst the private hospitals is stiff. From what we heard and saw, the CEO’s focus was dedicated to getting more patients and maintaining an excellent customer experience.

My favourite memory of Hyderabad would have to be our second-last day. Trevor, Sahir, Tarini and I woke up, got dressed in old clothes, put oil in our hair and stepped outside. We were ready. Once our bucket was full of coloured water and our pichkaris (water guns) were loaded, the games began. It was Holi, the Indian festival of colour, and I’m happy to report that when I got back to the house, I was soaked and colourful. At one point during the proceedings, Trevor dangled me over a massive barrel of red water, poised to throw me in. At the last minute, he changed his mind and put me down, perhaps to get away from my screams. I was lucky; if the roles were reversed, Trevor would have gone home red as a tomato.

I’m always surprised to discover that sometimes I get the most enjoyment doing everyday things in a different city. Perhaps, this is why, when I look back at our short week in Hyderabad, I will remember our fascinating conversations at the dinner table ranging from politics to how both my Dad’s brothers changed their names. I will remember going grocery shopping with Chachi and having staff not only bag the groceries but also carry everything to the car. I will remember baking vegan cupcakes with Tarini, and how she savoured a small, delicious bowl of the batter – my favourite part of baking. And I will always treasure washing out the red colour from my hair after the Holi celebration.

“Nationalism is an infantile disease.  It is the measles of mankind.”

It’s 9:30 at night.  Ian and I are standing in the cramped compartment between train carriages.  We’re standing there because – technically – we don’t have tickets.  Opposite us are two big, thuggish-looking guys.  They reach into their bag, saying they have something they want to show us – but I’m getting ahead of myself.

LIVING ON THE EDGE (OF THE INDIA-PAKISTAN BORDER)
Varun, Pallak, Ian, Sakshi and I wanted to get away from Delhi for a weekend, and Amritsar seemed just the thing.  With our Uncle Vinod’s help, we got a travel agent to book us seats on the Shatabdi train.  We contemplated booking only a berth on a bench, but it’s a twelve-hour round trip and we didn’t want to squeeze in with twenty other riffraff too cheap to pay for an actual seat.

Amritsar was like traveling twenty years back in time, to how I remembered India from the last time I was here.  The streets are clogged with refuse and garbage: plastic bags, food, ash, picked over by starved mongrel dogs.  Where Delhi’s traffic is busy but orderly (in its own way, to its own rules), Amritsar roads are a tangled madness of cars, motorcycles and three-wheeled tuk-tuks.  Our taxi driver thought nothing of driving into oncoming traffic for a block, because it was faster and easier to make the turn to our hotel.  Until Amritsar, I never understood how far Delhi had come in being a cleaner, more modern metropolis.

Once we checked into our hotel, we piled into a taxi and headed for the India-Pakistan border.  Chachi had arranged VIP seating for us at the Wagah border crossing for one of the most unusual ceremonies I will ever see.  Just like at the Presidential Palace, we passed through three security checks and at each one, “Sakshi Mehta” opened the gates for us.  This time, however, the experience was more foreboding as we were stopped by serious-looking and seriously-armed army soldiers instead of bored police officers.

At ground zero between two highly antagonstic and mutually-suspicious nuclear powers – still technically at a state of war – I expected to see crack military marching, propaganda slogans and jingoism amidst a tense, volatile atmosphere of seething antipathy and mistrust.

I was not expecting a rock concert.

THEATRE OF WAR
The Wagah border crossing must be the only military checkpoint in the world outfitted with a modern Bose speaker system; it was pumping out Hindi music with patriotic lyrics for the benefit of a large, vocal, happy crowd waving small Indian flags sitting about 50 metres back from the actual border gate.  Youth took turns passing a gigantic Indian flag to each other like an Olympic torch, running up the road to the border and giving it a vigourous wave before returning back.  It was patriotic, but felt no more sinister than Canada Day at Parliament Hill.

A brief public safety announcement (“if the other side starts firing, please run for the exits,”) and it began: the most ridiculous, campy spectacle of silly walks, high kicks and mad cheering I could have imagined.  Indian soldiers wearing tall Napoleonic fezes bedecked with poofy frills and feathers took turns speed-walking up the road as fast as they could without bending knees or elbows.  Once he or she reached the gate, they stamped about like an Irish dancer before delivering a series of straight kicks (like vertical splits, not karate kicks) where their shins nearly touched their foreheads.  Meanwhile, an MC on the microphone led the crowd in feverish, repetitious cries of “long live India!” and an occasional one-breath, rising crescendo that sounded like a Latino soccer announcer celebrating: “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!”.  This continued in various iterations for the better part of an hour.

I assume that similar theatrics were on display on the Pakistani side of the border.  High walls blocked our view of the other soldiers, but we could see the Pakistani crowds – men and women seated in separate galleries – and hear their MC shout competing “long live Pakistan!” chants.  Occasionally the guards would open up the border gates and we’d see get a glimpse of both sides strutting their funny dances before each other – the Pakistanis in black uniforms, the Indians in tan, both wearing equally silly caps – but the gates were always quickly shut after a minute.  Only once, when the gate was first opened, was there a palpable sense of danger.  An Indian and a Pakistani soldier, each wearing regular army fatigues and gripping a machine gun, stood back from the costumed ‘performers’ and eyed each other warily through dark sunglasses.  Only after the gate closed did I sense both crowd and soldiers relax, knowing this ceremony would pass without incident, just like every other evening in the past 53 years.  At the ceremony’s conclusion, the last Indian and Pakistani guards shook hands, the Pakistani with an impish grin.

It was bizarre, but much less confrontational than I had anticipated.  It seemed to me that the primary audience for these ludicrous displays of militant athleticism weren’t the opposing side.  It was an entertaining spectacle for the domestic audience, intended to spur national pride and loyalty rather than show the other side who’s boss.  Pallak told us afterwards that the soldiers are actually very cordial with each other, and they regularly (albeit unofficially) cross the border for dinner and card games.

Sakshi had a very different opinion.  She expected the show to be less hostile, more cooperative, with soldiers from both sides marching through the gates and performing before both Indian and Pakistani crowds.  Instead of encouraging friendship and goodwill between the two countries, the show was designed to encourage the divide. When the gates closed, someone made an offhanded comment about how the Pakistanis should stay on their own side; it was disheartening for her to hear.

WAR AND PEACE
After Wagah, we discussed what we had witnessed at a local restaurant before heading out to the Golden Temple just before midnight.  The Golden Temple is the holiest site on earth for Sikhs as it is the resting place of the Guru Granth Sahib, their holy book and spiritual leader (in Sikhism, the book and the current leader are one and the same).

The actual Temple is on an island in the centre of a bathing pool filled with catfish, encircled by a marble walls and smaller temples.  The first moment we saw it, Ian and I both let out an awed expletive: with its gold-plated exterior, the Temple is a breathtaking, shining sight, particularly at night when the gold is accentuated by orange-colored spotlights for an extra glow.  The temple was peaceful, with sleeping worshippers lined along the walls on mattress or in sleeping bags, and  volunteers quietly going about their tasks.  As Varun explained, to volunteer at the Golden Temple, no matter how menial the chore, was an exceptionally pious act for Sikhs, and the waiting list to volunteer was months long.  As the Sikh community is one of the richest and most close-knit in India, many of the volunteers would have been very, very wealthy businessmen or from well-to-do families.

Walking barefoot on the cool marble floor around the Temple in near silence, it was incongruous to learn that, 28 years ago, the Temple was caught up in a battle between with separatist terrorists and the Indian army.  Cannon and gunshots were fired and blood spilt on the white marble and tranquil pool.  The Temple was shattered and the Indian government offered to repay and rebuild it in full, but the Sikh community refused to accept the offer and funded the complete restoration themselves.  The Golden Temple looks immaculate today.

Our final visit was to Jallianwalla Bagh, a garden where in 1919 Imperial British soldiers massacred hundreds of Indian civilians breaking curfew to discuss independence.  The displays treated the massacre in an abstract manner, telling a grisly blow-by-blow account of what happened without really imparting any sense of sorrow or remorse for the loss of human life.  If anything, it was the opposite: the preservation of the bullet holes that pockmarked the brick walls surrounding the garden, and the stories of the man who tracked down the British commander and assassinated him over a decade later in England, seemed to sensationalize the deaths and the event.  Worse yet, an artist’s painting of the massacre depicted the soldiers as white Britons, but Pallak later explained that those firing had been fellow Indians serving in the British army – an inconvenient fact ignored by the displays.  I felt vaguely nauseated by the place, by both the fact of the murders and the garden’s lack of authentic respect for the victims, and I left with the impression that the garden was no sombre memorial, merely a shrine to weaving the nationalist mythos.

HONOUR AMONG HITCHHIKERS
Three hours before we were due to catch our train home, we received a call from our travel agent.  Our “guaranteed” tickets weren’t actually confirmed after all, and after much discussion, we learn that only Varun and Pallak had confirmed seats while Ian, Sakshi and I had been wait-listed, despite having already paid for our return tickets.  Of course there was no question of splitting up, so we found an empty carriage car and piled in.  The ticket conductor didn’t seem to mind, so we planned to simply take a seat until the rightful occupant arrived, then move down to the next empty seat.  As we moved through the train, it became evident we weren’t the only ones playing musical chairs; we met at least two other parties in the same situation.  We commiserated together and wished each other well between stops.

This worked for about two hours until the train began to fill to capacity.  Three times the ticket conductor made a big show of asking us for our tickets (despite the fact we’d explained our dilemma to him earlier) and by the halfway point, it was a full house.  Sakshi and I had luckily found seats belonging to no-shows, but with three hours left in the journey, the conductor returned one final time and evicted me from my spot.  (Our seat-mates afterwards told Sakshi it was likely that one of the other hitchhikers had paid him off for a seat.)

I wandered off through the train and found a comfortable spot in the compartment between carriages, until I began to be surrounded by soldiers.  One of them asked if I had a ticket.  I explained that my cousin Pallak had my ticket (mostly true, she had documentation of my wait-listed ticket) and they had a brief conversation in Hindi: “something something hitchhiker something.”  I thought it prudent to move elsewhere on the train and was relieved to discover Ian standing in another carriage compartment.

Opposite us were two big, thuggish-looking guys.  They were interested in us.  We struck up a conversation.  I was wary but accommodating.  Ian half-joked afterwards that he thought they wanted our kidneys.  The two guys said they had something to show us.  They reached into their pack and pulled out…a digital camera wrapped in a Canadian flag.

Turns out they had been to Toronto, Mississauga, Brampton and Niagara Falls (they even showed me photos to prove it).  They were actually very well travelled: in addition to having driven across Canada, from Ontario to B.C., they had been to Hong Kong, Great Britain, China, United States and other countries.  They’d gone to Amritsar to visit the Golden Temple, and were now returning home, having made the twelve-hour round trip in a single day.  Ian felt comfortable enough to leave me with them while he went to check on Pallak, and I spent the remainder of the trip chatting about the countries we had both visited and the sights we had seen.  When we reached Delhi, Varun and Sakshi came looking for us and Varun did a double-take to see me happily chattering away with my newfound, dangerous-looking friends.

On the whole, hitchhiking was a fascinating experience – one which I hope never to repeat again.

“The practice of soulful travel is to discover the overlapping point between history and everyday life, the way to find the essence of every place, every day: in the markets, small chapels, out-of-the-way parks, craft shops.  Curiosity about the extraordinary in the ordinary moves the heart of the traveller intent on seeing behind the veil of tourism.”

You can literally trip over the relics of history in Delhi.  Over the last thousand years, seven different cities have been constructed and razed on the same terrain, one atop the other.  Testaments to Aryan, Mughal, Persian, Afghan, British and other Indian conquerors are scattered throughout the city.  Modern Delhi has grown up thick, fast and close around these monuments, and you sometimes find them where you least expect it: on a traffic island in the centre of a roundabout; on a patch of land just off a major highway or industrial area; wedged between dusty buildings in a residential neighbourhood; a brief glimpse while riding the above-ground metro system.

The temples, mosques and palaces that we saw are kept in surprisingly good condition, although their surfaces are scarred with the same lovers’ graffiti found the world over.  Still, the structures remain, particularly at the Red Fort, where the buildings are enclosed within a massive red-walled compound that served as the seat of the conquerors’ courts.  Even now, Indian Prime Ministers or Presidents will occassionally deliver a speech from the battlements overlooking the city.  Most impressive are the towers and surviving arches at Qutb Minar; here, the surviving walls are kept free from scribbles and and display beautiful Islamic caligraphy and intricate detailing.

Modern Delhi’s edifices are no less impressive.  In the centre of Delhi is a road connecting the iconic India Gate with the Presidential Palace, very similar to the axis between Parliament and the War Museum at Canberra.  Sakshi’s Chachi (father’s younger brother’s wife) is the Principal Auditor-General for one of the Indian state governments, and with her help, we were able to secure a tour of the Presidential Palace for Sakshi, Varun, Ian, our cousin Ashvin and myself.  There was some brief confusion at the security entrance, but a call to Chachi’s contact, and we were allowed to pass through.  We were stopped again at a second checkpoint, but no confusion this time – we simply rolled down the window, said “Sakshi Mehta” and the guards let us through.  ”See how your name opens doors”, cracked Varun.  Forty metres later, we were stopped at a third and final security check but, like “open sesame”, the words “Sakshi Mehta” raised the gates and sent us on our merry way.  The Palace itself featured some of the most beautifully-painted frescoes and audience halls I’d ever seen, although we only saw a small fraction of its rooms.

A beautiful as the old historical sites were, I didn’t just want to see empty ruins and staid buildings – I was most excited to see living Delhi.  Living with family afforded us the opportunity to see what everyday life is like, and everyone was generous enough to make time to show Sakshi and I around.  Mama and Varun own a printing business and took us for a tour of their factory.  The printing machines are high-tech European technology; Varun had flown to Poland to negotiate the purchase in person, and it was shipped and assembled by local workers on site.  By contrast, when Mama took us to see a tenant factory’s merchandise operations, they were using silk-screen printing methods to print NASCAR logos on seat cushions and stitching satchel bags (the kind given away at business conferences) by hand. 

Opposite the factory is a small slum, and Mama took us on very quick stroll to the other side.  The sights and smells were pretty much exactly what one might expect, but it’s important to note that the residents weren’t destitute: scattered across the corrugated tin rooftops were satellite TV dishes, and surreptitious glances into the tiny rooms revealed fridges and lamps powered by the morass of electricity cables syphoning power off the main grid.  Even in the slum, business in booming: we saw a barber, a corner store, a ladder-maker (essential for a multi-layered slum) and even a doctor’s clinic.

Mami took us to the private school where she was teaching about six classes of preschoolers a dance routine for a “Grandparent’s Day” performance.  Watching the kids stand by their marks and going through their dance steps was adorably cute, and also brought to mind our “Pappu” dance lessons.  Although we only saw only the kindergarden section, the school includes cricket and soccer fields, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

Nani took us to the health clinic which she helped found and still manages as part of the Board of Directors.  In only twenty years, the clinic has grown from humble origins to encompass two wings, a mobile clinic van, women’s health wards, physio-rehabilitation and even a small surgery.  The clinic also includes a one-year elementary school program, where preschoolers selected from a random lottery are given all the medical immunizations and check-ups they need while receiving schooling, then being re-integrated back into the mainstream.  Nani has been involved in every step of the way – fundraising, recruiting permanent staff and volunteer doctors and nurses from other hospitals, planning expansion, day-to-day management – her achievement in starting a clinic from scratch and ensuring it’s economic viability for years to come is truly impressive.

Perhaps what I most liked about Delhi were the markets.  The energy, the commerce, the sounds, the sheer busyness of sidestepping hawkers, shoppers and the occasional beggar (there are far, far fewer beggars than I recall from twenty years ago); markets are the heartbeat of modern city life.  Even in Delhi’s roads, where it seems the entire city is one, uninterrupted endless row of shops and vendors, a few marketplaces stand out for their uniqueness.  The Palika bazaar is an underground market that is literally underground – it is situated directly beneath a major park in the downtown core where families go picnicking and spend a Sunday afternoon.  (Even stranger, some of the city’s most designer retail shops encircle the park aboveground.)  In the bazaar, you can buy cheap knock-offs for clothes and software in a warren of blue neon-lit hallways and circular rooms that are guaranteed to get you lost.

The other market experience is Chandi Chowk, in the heart of old Delhi.  Jewellers and roti-vendors rub shoulders in the cramped lanes.  The streets are so narrow, barely three people can walk abreast yet rickshaws and motorcycles still weave and force their way through the pedestrian traffic.  Above the streets are impossibly tangled ribbons and Gordian knots of wires stealing electricity from the mains.  Sakshi bought a payal (ankle bracelet) from a silver vendor, but we doubt it’s real silver.

Our most rewarding experience in Delhi was when we volunteered as part of a “soup kitchen”, serving puris, aloo and halwa to anyone who requested it.  One of Mama’s family friends had started the tradition of pitching a tent and handing out food on Shiva’s birthday (the Hindu god of creation and destruction), and has grown to include dozens of volunteers.  The puris were prepared in three gigantic woks of boiling oil, and the aloo and halwa served in stainless steel tubs big enough to bathe in.  Well over a thousand people were served that day, and all of us took a place in the line to serve.