We are growing accustomed to the sounds of the night - the distant hoots of trains, the early morning chanted cries of hawkers, and the grey horse that lives opposite champing his hooves and snorting. Today he has an early morning mission, leaves before light and returns as we are getting up, rewarded with a bucket of water and a forkful of hay. His silver ornamented harness is folded away and the delicately painted two-wheeled trap he has pulled on some nuptial errand is wiped down and covered with a tarpaulin. It could be a scene from Jane Austen, not a Delhi backstreet.
We breakfast on "full English" washed down with fresh water melon juice (current favourite drink) and later sip coconut water straight from the severed nut. The streetside coconut-walla says he has no wife, no children, but nine dogs, and he introduces each to us by name. We check out the papers: there are almost as many national English language newspapers here as in England. The Hindustan Times relays the latest statistics that Delhi's population has risen to 1.7 Crore (that's 17m.) but has 4.25 Crore mobile 'phone connections and explains how people separate phones for different contacts (work/family/others). The Hindu has a leader headed "Sh*t, caste and the holy dip" on the continued scandal of human scavengers (see blog on Sulabh Toilet Museum, 1 Nov. 2011). Collect Sara's jacket from the tailor, then back for a preliminary pack, deciding which items of clothing to discard to enable her to fill her case with all our new treasures. I forgot even to mention the Kashmiri silk rug!
S. stays put in Room 101 (she has a touch of the DBs) then goes out to buy yet another book about the Dalai Lama and take tea with her favourite shopkeepers. She likes being fussed over. On the way to the metro, my belt buckle pops loose again and I'm tempted by some leather belts for sale from a handcart. Only Rs. 500 (£6), says the man. I decline. The price drops by stages to Rs. 250, at which point I decisively walk off. A bystander who's heard the exchange whispers in my ear, "Indian price Rs. 40".
By Metro and rickshaw to the National Railway Museum. It's good in parts, like a bigger and marginally better kept version of one in Livingstone, Zambia. Mainly it's a graveyard for sad old steam (and some diesel and electric) locos, but only a couple of narrowgauge examples are still in working order. There's a monster of a Garratt 'N' Class (for the train buffs & fellow IRFC members: it's 4-8-0 + 0-8-4, and weighs 235 tons). All the engines slowly rust away in a sylvan setting, while the carriages decompose before the visitors' eyes. The undercover displays, however, are well presented, though none of the interactives works. The Museum houses an Indian Railways archive, but I am refused admission as I don't have a formal letter of introduction to the Director. The archivisits appear not to have much urgent or high-pressure work in hand, and one of them gamely offers to look up Great Uncle William Hirst and email me. (P.S. He never does).
I join the kiddies for a ride on the mini-toy train ("joy train") round the site, and chat to a party of English people "of a certain age" who are on a luxury Great Train Journeys tour. As I'm about to leave, I discover an attractive mini-guide for Rs. 10. I offer this to one of the Englishmen, but he says "I don't think any of us is actually interested in trains." Another gent is eyeing a distant object through his fieldglasses. "Is that a bulbul or or drongo?" he asks his companion. She doesn't know. I'm about to suggest that it could be another Garratt or a Gresley when I realise he's looking at a bird. I come away with 'fridge magnet and mug as souvenirs of a quiet afternoon in the sun. Image below from displays may amuse.
We breakfast on "full English" washed down with fresh water melon juice (current favourite drink) and later sip coconut water straight from the severed nut. The streetside coconut-walla says he has no wife, no children, but nine dogs, and he introduces each to us by name. We check out the papers: there are almost as many national English language newspapers here as in England. The Hindustan Times relays the latest statistics that Delhi's population has risen to 1.7 Crore (that's 17m.) but has 4.25 Crore mobile 'phone connections and explains how people separate phones for different contacts (work/family/others). The Hindu has a leader headed "Sh*t, caste and the holy dip" on the continued scandal of human scavengers (see blog on Sulabh Toilet Museum, 1 Nov. 2011). Collect Sara's jacket from the tailor, then back for a preliminary pack, deciding which items of clothing to discard to enable her to fill her case with all our new treasures. I forgot even to mention the Kashmiri silk rug!
S. stays put in Room 101 (she has a touch of the DBs) then goes out to buy yet another book about the Dalai Lama and take tea with her favourite shopkeepers. She likes being fussed over. On the way to the metro, my belt buckle pops loose again and I'm tempted by some leather belts for sale from a handcart. Only Rs. 500 (£6), says the man. I decline. The price drops by stages to Rs. 250, at which point I decisively walk off. A bystander who's heard the exchange whispers in my ear, "Indian price Rs. 40".
 |
| Did Gt. Uncle William drive me? |
 |
| Monstrous 1920s Garratt |
I join the kiddies for a ride on the mini-toy train ("joy train") round the site, and chat to a party of English people "of a certain age" who are on a luxury Great Train Journeys tour. As I'm about to leave, I discover an attractive mini-guide for Rs. 10. I offer this to one of the Englishmen, but he says "I don't think any of us is actually interested in trains." Another gent is eyeing a distant object through his fieldglasses. "Is that a bulbul or or drongo?" he asks his companion. She doesn't know. I'm about to suggest that it could be another Garratt or a Gresley when I realise he's looking at a bird. I come away with 'fridge magnet and mug as souvenirs of a quiet afternoon in the sun. Image below from displays may amuse.
 |
| No comment ! |
No comments:
Post a Comment