Leave Aylsham at 7.20 in the Rustmobile (memo: don't be rude
about it in future) and reach Norwich station with ample time to
spare. No newspapers available, so started Jeff in Venice, Death in
Varanasi, by Geoff Dyer. Enjoyable, but I am already asleep by the time
the eponymous Jeff reaches Stansted en route to Venice. At this reading
rate, I'll get to Varanasi before Jeff. Heathrow Terminal 4 is in
festive swing (it's October!), with stars and Christmas trees already
decking the departure halls.
14.15 flight QR12 to Doha with Qatar Airways. It's a smart 777
plane with the most legroom I've ever had in cattle class; tasty food,
too (beef, chicken or veg., inevitably). Qatar Airways boast they have
been "voted top Middle Eastern airline six years running." I haven't a
clue where Doha is, or Qatar for that matter. My fellow passengers are a
cross-section of the world's population, mostly of short stature and
brownish faces (so I don't feel out of place), perhaps reflecting their
onward destinations. And most are in transit. Probably not many go to
Doha for the sun, sand, etc. On-board announcements, in English and
Qatari Arabic, are delivered at break-neck speed, more like gargling or
blowing bubbles in the bath than recognisable verbal communication.
Changing flights at Doha involves a long bus ride almost to the city
centre for the smart new departure terminals, then onto another 777,
another "prepared in accordance with Muslim principles" dinner (go for
the chicken this time - I don't fancy spicy beef at 1 am UK time), and
eventually a glimpse of the blood-red sun rising over Afghanistan. It
looks peaceful and beautiful from up here.
Arrive Delhi 08.30, 30 minutes late, the captain's attempts at
making up time having been thwarted by airport departure congestion. The real
splendours of Indira Gandhi Airport are not representative of general
Indian mayhem.
Check through quickly, visit the duty free, reclaim baggage, check my
mobile SIM is still valid (it is, until 2020), then take the super-fast
new expresslink metro to New Delhi station, just a short jog in a cycle
rickshaw to the Hotel Surya Plaza (in the well-known backpackerland
known as Paharganj). They are expecting me - "Passport, please..."
Passport? Where is my passport? It's gone! The Surya Plaza is not up to
much - like others I've stayed in, the foyer promises levels of
sophistication that fade immediately beyond the desk, from where it is
basic and a bit grubby. But the staff are wonderful - concerned,
solicitous, informed. A travel agent who knows the ropes is summoned
from nearby; he finds the 'phone number of the British High Commission
(for a replacement passport at £100+) and explains the procedure re. police
reports, etc. He offers (for an immodest £10) a car and driver to go back
to the aiport in case it has been found, and so we head back through the
smog and traffic jams, park in a multi-storey and try to explain my
plight to the armed soldiers who guard every entrance of fortress IGA.
Their purpose, of course, is to keep out anyone who cannot show a
passport, which makes it a little difficult. The persuasive charms and
persistence of my driver does the trick and eventually we are ushered
through to "Lost and Found". And found it has indeed been. Phew! Within a
couple of hours I'm back at the hotel entertaining myslef by practising
with the loo's waterjet thingy. Sanity restored. Put in a call to Sara
then drop off to sleep. It's been a long day, so far.
Head out again at 5, hoping to see a little of the streets before dark.
It's a pretty buzzy area with lots of little shops and stalls, narrow
alleys jammed with rickshaws (cycle and auto), beeping motobikes and
occasional cars, where they fit. There are few "good" hotels round here,
and Surya Plaza may be one of the less adequate, but it has shown its
colours in other ways (and I have paid in advance - almost £20 a night! -
so it's a bit late to jump ship). At least my room is spacious with
double and single beds, has en suite (including water jet "thingy" in the loo), a TV and
fridge that works, and, best of all, a balcony overlooking one of the
less noisy alleys. That's where I'm writing this, sitting on a low table
(they couldn't find me a chair to sit on). There are pack horses
tethered just outside the doorway; I saw them earlier transporting huge
rolled-up plastic packs like round hay bales. Some of the less-basic
hotels on the other side have rooftop restaurants. I have been instead
for a spiritual thanksgiving as well as culinary nourishment.
Worship time at the Ramakrishna Temple (next to the mainstream Hindu
temple near the Sikh gurdwara near the nearest metro station) runs from 6
to 7. It's a welcoming space, like a carpeted Greek temple surrounded
by little garden plots growing medicinal plants. I leave my shoes in the
shoe-rack room, removing socks too for good measure (most worshippers
are sock-less), enter and sqat near the back in an attempt at the lotus
position. My joints protest madly, but I recall that showing the soles
of the feet is insulting, and I can't otherwise hide them. More and more
people come in, all ages. There are a few children too, who mostly wear
an expression I've seen in churches too - boredom. Some
American-looking women ostentatiously throw themselves prostrate on the
carpet in front of me. A line of male devotees (priests?) now enters,
some in saffron robes, others in white with their heads tightly bunched
in white headscarves. One opens up the iron lattice screen to give a
better view of the life-size and very real-looking statue of the Holy
Ramakrishna, seated (lotus-like, of course) on a gold throne surrounded
by vases and garlands of flowers. Then, oh shame, a man comes over, taps
me on the shoulder and says "Excuse me sir, but that is the side for
men," indicating the south side where all the men have been gathering.
Only then do I notice that I'm the only person on my side not wearing a
sari!
Now the music starts, a sort of growling harmonium-sound as a bass, a
jingling bell, rhythmic drumming and chanting a bit like an atonal
version of Gregorian chant. There are some laminated sheets available
which a few people collect and join in singing. The priest brings a wide
casket of belching sweet incense and wafts it around the walls of the
worship hall, then returns to the sanctuary, lights containers of smoky
candles, waving them above his head in front of the seated figure. It is
all quite mesmerising. Instead of going straight back to the hotel, I
find a small restaurant (the Khosla) "as recommended in the Rough Guide" for a tasty
veggie meal washed down with mango-flavoured lassi.
No comments:
Post a Comment