A cool start to the day, and the blanket-sellers are out on the streets. We go separate ways; RB to see Humayun's Tomb, I to Lord Krishna I/C. I am out of favour with the god, and the netbook stubbornly refuses to connect to wi-fi, so I use one of their PCs. This turns out easier to operate, though first need I must upload the photos and pre-written blog onto a memory stick. I'm learning new tricks, too, as you may notice from the previous 2 posts. Then on via Metro to Nehru Place, a vast open mall of a market place surrounded by small electronics outlets on 3 levels. I check Oli's list and ask around for music software, paying Rs. 400 each for 3 plain silver CD Roms which allegedly have the programmes he needs. I know I'm being taken for a ride, but at least I've tried. Way Hay! A Hari Krishna gang lollop past, "Haaari Haaari Krishna," they sing, banging their drums. People smile at them and test out the cameras on their newly-acquired mobiles. Indians, too, love taking photos, usually of each other standing in the shade (!). It feels good.
So where next? It's already 1 pm, and I'm on heritage overload, so fancy a walk in the woods. Following the sun I walk to a small park, very suburban with park benches, well-trimmed hedges and flower beds, and people lazing on the grass. It could be Kensington. A turbaned old mali (gardener) is watering the seedlings in the flower beds. From here by auto-rickshaw to the top edge of Jahanpath Forest. Delhi has several urban forests, only semi-tamed, and Jahanpanah is one of the biggest, stretching for some miles. These are the city's lungs. At Jahanpanah's northern tip the paths are well-swept (with witches' bezoms) but no fitness trail. Some trees are huge and ancient, and there are bamboos of enormous girth, leathery-leaved peepuls and honey-scented frangipani (a favourite from E. Africa days). I try for a tuk-tuk (it's rush hour so most are taken) on to Haus Khaz Metro, but the first driver who stops doesn't understand and can't read a map, and the second, a young Sikh, says he has just arrived from Punjab and doesn't know the city. There's no London cabbies' "method" here. Passengers are expected to know where they want to go.
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| Mme, Sadhu & Babaji. Sacred firepit to right |
The light is fading when I get back to Pacarganj, and I call at one of the little Hindu temples near the metro station where some women are banging drums and tunelessly chanting . A Sadhu with marigold robes and a long knotted beard beckons me in, and sits me against the wall of a small dark room with a central firepit and images round the walls. Babaji the Guru sits behind the pit and calls me forward to mark my forehead with ash. There's also a drably dressed Frenchwoman from Marseilles, who squats on the floor and declaims in heavily accented English about "Motheer Eendiar", though it's clear that our Sadhu and Guru barely understand one word in ten. There is a sort of benign glaze in Sadhu and Guru's eyes, but Mme has obviously long-since succumbed to craziness. "Now we all share chillum pipe," she says, grinding dark substances into the bowl of a brown clay pipe the shape and size of a hosepipe connector, which we solemnly pass round and puff. I too begin the feel the liberation of Motheer Eendiar and hope I can still find my way back to the hotel. Sadhu's eyes are kindly and deeply penetrating and, note this, he does not ask for money! I leave without making a donation, as the smallest note I have is a 500 (£7), but then buy bananas nearby and nip back with a 50. Come back for prayers at 7, they say. Which I do, but have missed them. Prayers were early, and Sadhu has gone off for a drink with Mme. But Guru Babaji smiles benignly and gives me prasad in the form of a banana before we part.
I head up Main Bazaar Road in a fruitless search for a block-printed tablecloth. I explain clearly what I want, but am repeatedly offered other things such as embroidered bedcovers with sparkly bits, or shawls. I keep noticing new details about the street - the advert for "Flu Jeans", the "Sham Hairdressing Salon", and then a side alley to explore. Main Bazaar Road is at best narrow, litter-stewn and ramshackle, but down here is another world, like descending into a lavish low-light filmset of the slums of Georgian London. Beyond the tiny shops and stalls are single-roomed houses on two or more storeys where barefoot children scamper around and drably dressed mamajis fry up food on charcoal stoves. I feel an intruder, and am politely shooed back towards the bright lights of Main Bazaar, which suddenly seems so cosmopolitan.
Tonight is the last supper at Dhosa Cafe and my very last sweet pineapple and mango lassi. I can hardly believe it. They bring out an extra table so we can sit on the street; but it is already past 9 and Main Bazaar Road starts to close down for the night. As the shoppers diminish, and the rickshaws (watch out - no lights!) are less urgent, cows begin sidling along, slowly disposing of any edibles (and some inedibles, too). The beggars are out in force, or maybe just more obvious with fewer other people. I am approached by the same young man for whom I bought the milk last week. He remembers. "Money, no milk". He is dressed in the same rags, with all the colour and comfort of an old coal sack. He has pleading eyes, and knows I really want to give him something. Through the inscrutable subtelties of eye-contact, he knows I know he knows. But I was warned not to, and the cafe staff eventually shoo him away, with many a backward glance. A dusty coloured street dog (very like my childhood companion, Brownie) takes his place by the table, sitting very still, looking at me with the occasional lift of a ear. I can understand how it feels to be a Hindu god, but I make the offering in reverse, tossing him a couple of pieces of soft chicken knuckle, which disappear in entirety.
I try again for a tablecloth, but get no further. A group of young blokes crowd round me offering to help, but a bearded young Muslim in a white khanzu beckons me away. "These are bad men," he says. He can't find a tablecloth either, nor can he change a Rs. 100 note so I can give something to the old wreck of a beggar nearby, but instead gives my Rs. 5 to pass on. Further on, in the dhabas (street cafes) I watch men making chapatis, rolling the dough into balls, flattening it in a shallow bowl, then tossing it so it sticks to the inside of a cylindrical charcoal oven. I part with a ridiculous sum of money for a bag of small cakes. It must be the time (or the chillum pipe) lets me be so easily conned. There's no fool like a 50-year old (well, 62) fool. They must think I've only just arrived, but I've been here over 2 weeks, and tomorrow I'm off home.
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