Four Days in Delhi
When I told travelling companions that I was on my way to Delhi to transact some business, I received a mixed response. Ok, so it wasn't that mixed.
"Aww, I would come with you man, but I just hate Delhi!" "Whoa, Delhi? Good luck..." "Why Delhi, it's like, hell on earth?! Haha"
So my plans changed, and instead of the four week stop over I had planned, I cut it down to a brief four days to get my computer some long overdue repairs at Delhi's IT hub, Nehru Place.
Preparing for my visit, I got on to couch surfing, and organised my first stay with an Indian man from the North. He was a sociable sort, well versed in the ways of Couchsurfing (having hosted 80/90 surfers over the last six years).
Luckily for me, his home is situated in the suburbs to the South of Delhi, which put me out of the way of the hustle and bustle of what I assume is the more touristic and populous north. This made a good base for my operations, which ended up being some of the calmer and more pleasant of my experiences in India.
On arrival, I made my way through the Delhi metro system to my hosts apartment, which took me about a half hour once the cyber cafes had opened (I forgot to note down his address before I left my previous stop). The Delhi Metro, which opened only seven years ago according to one commuter, is a welcome break from the often punishing ritual of rickshaw negotiation, opening me up to some free exploration of the sights of New Delhi in the days to come.
Dropping off my bags, I noted the precise colour coded arrangement of the book shelves and the profusion of gay fiction, before enjoying some left over dal fry, offered by the attentive housekeeper. My host woke from his post-work nap about six o'clock, and we made our introductions.
A thirty year old, gay social media publicist from one of Indias Himalayan regions, he told me a little about his Courchsurfing experiences of the last few years, while I asked him about Delhi's cultural hot spots, and the recent step backwards in legal rights for gay Indians.
He told me that for the most part, the LGBT community had been unaffected by the recent revocation of the 2009 High Court decision granting gay people civil rights. What's more, that transgender individuals had recently been granted these same rights, the disparity causing confusion for the rest of the LGBT community, but also offering hope for change. He told me that he had been disappointed by the supreme courts decision, having previously been very progressive in its rulings, but he was very confident that as a 'developed nation', India would soon grant the community full legal and civil rights.
The night, we went out to a little know hipster enclave located a short way from Hauz Khas Metro station: The Hauz Khas village, costing about Rs 40 (40p) by rickshaw from the station.
The young hipster population were out in force, wearing a uniform of jeans and flannel shirts. The refined bars, restaurants, and fashion boutiques would not have been out of place in the classier areas of London. Via a door marked 'No Entry', we entered a new eatery where the owner, one of my hosts friends, was entertaining a few private guests, while the lengthy restaurant licensing process drags on.
Here I met a few of his friends, made up of representatives from the Delhi bohemian and gay communities. I also sampled some of the upmarket fare, a black gram curry served with shaved coconut and ground rice, which was delicious, though admittedly a little dry (More gravy was provided on request). After that it was back home for my first night on the couch, where I politely turned down an offer to sleep with him in his air conditioned bedroom.
Over the next few days I visited several of Delhi's popular tourist destinations.
The Bahai house of worship, or lotus temple as it is affectionately know, is Asia's continental capital for Bahai worship. The Bahai faith, started by baha ullah in the late 1800's, preaches a message of tolerance and acceptance, claiming all the great religious profits to be messengers of the one god, tailoring his message to the needs of the seekers of that time and place. The temple, identifiable by it 27 over-sized concrete lotus petals, is open to followers of all faiths, who gather in the quiet interior for silent prayer and meditation.
The approach to the temple is lined with lawns, which were not open to guests at the time of my visit. The paths and steps leading up to the temple are made of a rose marble, which soaks up the heat of the sun quite efficiently. Subsequently, visitors, who are instructed to deposit shoes before entering the temple, are directed to walk on straw mats laid down for their comfort.
Inside the temple are rows of marble seats, reminiscent of Christian church pews, which new groups of tourists and worshipers are ushered in to about every five minutes. Representatives of the church monitor proceedings, calmly hushing noisy visitors with a vertical palm to the lips.
I meditated in the temple for about half an hour before I made my way back to the station (the one after Nehru Place on the violet line), where I stopped in at the bulk supermarket situated beneath the platforms, and picked up a rare find in India: some jarred olives sans-preservatives and other E numbers.
Next day I woke up bright and early, intent on visiting the National Gallery of modern art. I had tried the day before, en route to the lotus temple, but Lonely planet sites the wrong metro station, so I carried on to the stone lotus confused and doubting my memory. However, today would be different.
It wasn't. I spent a good amount of time traversing the streets between Central Secretariat and Connaught Place, a set of concentric roundabouts that house some of Delhi designer stores and other up market fripperies. After a little while I spotted the Rajiv Chowk Metro station standing proudly in the middle of the roundabout, and realised something wasn't adding up.
Why would I have walked 45 mins to get here if I could have gotten off at this station? Asking around with locals in the area confirmed that this was not the site of the Modern art gallery, and a quick internet check confirmed that the Gallery was located at India Gate, another, smaller, roundabout a half hour in the opposite direction from Central Secretariat Metro Station. It was now four o'clock, and the gallery closing at five, I decided to visit my second choice, the National Museum.
The National Museum houses a predictable mixture of stone carvings and other Indian artefacts. I was at first a little unimpressed by the place, remembering what a museum is and that it takes a lot of sign reading to contextualise the exhibits, until I came across the museums collection of Indian miniature paintings.
The miniatures are a significant piece of India's artistic heritage, inspiring the 'Company' miniatures, commissioned by workers of the east India company wishing to take home the Victorian equivalent of snap shots to remember their travels.
The smaller-than-life painting depict scenes from Indian epics, of romance, nature and other aspects of pre-colonial Indian life. The images seem at first child like in their disregard of perspective and realism, but closer inspection reveals an enigmatic quality which is emotionally evocative and very pleasing to the eye.
I lingered here for some time before moving on to the remainder of the collection, which did not much stimulate my interest, being somewhat tired and disheartened by my unneeded journey across Delhi's intercity highways.
The last day, I awoke with conviction. Today, I will make it to the Gallery.
Having learned from the previous two failed attempts, I knew I must turn right from Central Secretariat, and make my way to India Gate, a war memorial to Indian soldiers who died in battles all over the world. From Central Secretariat, I saw grand buildings in the distance, which I gather are the 'Presidential Residence', cutting a strong and impressive shadow across the skyline. In the other direction, my destination, India gate, just 2km walk down the long straight Rajpath.
Walking, or speed-walking, this street, was one of the high points of my trip to India thus far. I was fairly sure that I didn't leave anything behind in the UK, to miss or long for, but you know, there is nothing like a nice patch of grass on a sunny June afternoon to made you glad to be British. Most of the lawns in India are made of some kind of evil super grass that sticks in to the skin leaving you itchy and hard-done-by, whilst others have given way to the hot Indian summers, drying in to dusty patchworks of crab grass and sand. Not Raj Path. Nearly two kilometers of unspoiled lawn, dutifully watered, and interspersed with small ponds and reclining Indian workers on lunch break. The smell and feel was of the grass of home, making the journey to India Gate a welcome stroll down memory lane.
Arriving at India gate, I was impressed by the simple beauty of its architecture and the smaller structure behind it, a sandstone gazebo, surrounded on four sides by smooth stones shells resting above small water features. Very picturesque.
From here I cut across to the other side of the Gate, and finally saw the National Gallery, heralded in to my sight by the vision of an enormous stainless steel bucket pouring a frozen stream of stainless steel kitchen utensils on to the grass. This was definitely the place.
The gallery gardens are decorated with a number of stone sculptures that line the way to the main Gallery and gift shop. Inside the gallery, the collection had been arranged chronologically, starting from the artistic influence and commissions of the colonial British, and ending with the more contemporary pieces, incorporating many of the cubist and abstract themes which have become synonymous with non traditional art in the west. However, informational signs were keen to stress the unique trajectory of Indian art in it's travel through the fight for independence, early Indian socialism, and later globalisation and westernisation.
I was struck by the work of several artists, namely Nicholas Roench, M A R Chughtai, Biren Day, GR Santosh Vasundhara Timan, and Sud's Ceremony of unmasking, which is a series of three dark paintings hinting at some kind of brutality and death, by use of dark and silhouetted figures, masks and a blue skull.
There was a special exhibit on the work of an 'eminent architect' whose name I forgot, who had also produced some interesting paintings of his works. Though the models looked very nice, the meaning of it all went a little over my head.
My trip to the gallery complete, I walked the green mile back to Central Secretariat, to make my was back to my hosts house, picking up a sliced cucumber on the way for good measure.
Despite what I had heard about Delhi, and to some degree experienced on previous transits through the town, the rickshaw drivers at the Metro stops had been extremely considerate of my refusals of their services, presumably because there is a steady flow of potential customers who do not need to be squeezed and cajoled in to taking an overpriced ride. I would, however, note, that some will offer tourists cheap rides in exchange for shop visits, which will earn them a Rs 30 voucher, as one forthcoming taxi driver informed me.
So, on my way to New Delhi, having cut it a little fine walking back from the Gallery, I decided to hail a rickshaw, rather than taking the less expensive but slightly longer Metro ride to the station. I negotiated Rs 150, and was watching the meter with much interest to see whether I should feel cheated or guilty about the deal I had struck with the pleading driver.
As we approached the destination, I began to notice that the driver looked very glum, and thought to give him an extra Rs 10, as he had wanted for the ride. Then the depression turned to fatigue. Then his eyes began to teeter shut while he negotiated lines of traffic and pedestrians.
We were quite close to the station by now, so I did not intervene, interested to see whether he would make it to the station without driving us both in to an early grave, after all there's not much damage to be done with an auto-rickshaw, which you can probably pick up with one hand.
We finally made it, a little to my disappointment, the driver perking up when he realised he had stopped in a line of moving traffic, and I bought some emergency bananas for the journey.
As I write this entry, I sit on a twenty four hour sleeper train to another of India's bustling metropolises. Indian trains are always a fascinating look at local life. Opposite me sits the loving mother with her two children, beneath, two Mexican travelers eating Bhel Puri, a mixed of chopped veg and puffed rice, from the bunk next door, an eighteen year old science student regales me with information on India's population and geographical status, practicing his English. This is essential for a well-paid job, he tells me, a sharp focus of the Indian of today, with the every present possibility of the slide in to poverty, and little to no safety net provided by the Indian government.
Up and down the aisles, men and women march with baskets of fruit and samovars of 'CHAI, CHAI, CHAI' for Rs 6 per sugary sweet cup. Clapping eunuchs extort donations from Indian travellers wishing to avoid the embarrassment of further harassment, though should they wish, they may request that the individual lift their skirt to reveal proof of their special status. Understandably, few do.
In an hour, I disembark and begin my month long stay in one of India's most crowded cities, where I will stay in a friends apartment as I await treatment for a medical issue which is holding back my yoga routine.
Warned off Delhi by my friends screams of fear and torment, I was understandably relieved by my hosts encouraging words about my next port of call.
"I hate it. It is so crowded and dirty. Four years ago I sat in the back of a taxi cab and promised that I would never set foot there again, and I never have.
I don't know why you are going there anyway. My friends there all travel to Delhi for their medical treatment. Delhi is much nicer!"
You can't win 'em all, eh?