Day 14 - Screwed in Delhi

Sunday 13 November

Our train docks on time at 8, and we are back at the Suriya Plaza - a home from home - by 8.30. We find a  chequered canopy slung across the street outside, and the remains of a wedding feast. A raucous brass band in white and gold uniforms performs oompah music, and, as if on cue, the wailing and veiled bride and her distraught family emerge from the little shrine next door and she is dragged to a waiting car. Children scrabble in the dust for coins thrown over the bride, but I don't spot the eunuchs, who maybe put in their obligatory appearance earlier in proceedings. This is is my third street wedding (and a funeral).

The hotel staff greet us like old friends and allocate a temporary room so we can freshen up, then we head out again. Breakfast and Metro. First, to the Bah'ai Lotus Temple; but it is closed for its 25th anniversary celebrations. Bah'ais only. From there to Qutb Minar, the 900 ft. high tower built by India's first Muslim sultans in 1193. Until the Eiffel Tower was bolted upright, this was [pause while I squash a cockroach, but it's only a little one. I spotted one in RB's room earlier, but didn't point it out ] world's tallest tower. Massively impressive is an understatement. The surrounding buildings (gatehouse, mosque, tombs) are from 1200s to 1500s and intricately decorated. The "Archaeological Park" draws a huge crowd of Sunday afternoon visitors - Indian nationals pay Rs. 10 (13p), foreigners Rs. 250 (£3.50). I treat this as a subsidy to enable poor locals to enjoy their heritage; RB regards it as screwing foreign tourists for all we're worth.

But then we are very nearly screwed [non-rude meaning] good and proper by a tuk-tuk driver. We ask him to take us to the nearby Sufi dargah (shrine) at Mehrauli, but he says it is closed. "Today Sunday," he says, "All sites closed. Only Qutb open." We smell a rat, and insist. "Trust me, " he says, "You waste time. I take you somewhere else." Ah, so that's the game. But we are adamant, so he drives us there (almost), stopping short where the road is up (or rather, down) for drainage works. As we walk, I glance over a low wall and unexpectedly find myself peering down into the ancient void of a terraced step well called a baoli. Delhi still has several baolis; some have dried up, but not this one with its deep green pool at the bottom. Medieval Delhiwallas drew water here, taking refuge from the summer heat on its cool terraces. 

 

Imam and Son

A little further on we enter a narrowing passage which leads to the Dargah. There are stalls selling offerings (flowers, sweets, incense, perfume); we buy a basket, and a young man (who likes to be called Dandy) takes us in tow, handing us on to the Imam at the entrance to the shrine. Dr Syed Habib-ur-Rehman (he hands out cards) shows us the various canopied shrines to Sufi saints (donations expected), we listen to a group of musicians, then take tea and buns with Dr Syed and his young son (who he hopes will one day follow him as Imam). 

Imam Syed is grey-bearded and kindly with penetrating eyes, and tells us about the liberal values of Sufism. He also knows a sucker when he sees one and, needless to say, the donations book comes out yet again (and not all donations are recorded!) Finally, at about 5, the muezzin calls and we go to the wall to pray. RB, who had shown some reluctance, says what a good experience it all was. Just seeing RB feeling silly in a shrine with a handkerchief on his head was pretty good too.

Back for a beer on the balcony; eat again at Khosla Cafe, where they allocate us the outside table. They know my preferences by now.