Dephoned again

It's gone 11 before we wake, stagger down to the Khosla for omelettes and chai, then off to do battle with the metro. S is on a high, having received an email from the Guardian saying they're going to use a piece she wrote in Saturday's Family section. She says she wants to shop in the markets for fabrics, so we head to Chandni Chowk and its surrounding maze of teeming alleys. As  we enter the first narrow passage, I am jostled a little too intimately, and a deft hand slips into my pocket and out again. Without me feeling a thing, my UK mobile is gone. Dim tourist loses "smart" 'phone.  I seem to be making a habit of this.  I vowed never to carry around, but did so in case the Grauniad called Sara. Off to find the nearest internet cafe to get contact info to put a bar on the SIM. (Later, there's a sequel to this story, but it's too embarrassing to relate*). Then back to the stalls for fabrics, round one.

It's hard to imagine that Chandni Chowk was once one of the world's great thoroughfares, tree-lined and with an ornamental canal running down the centre until the British filled it in, scene of glittering parades of elephants, imperial durbars and executions. Today it is a dual carriageway, permanently gridlocked with honking vehicles and rickshaws. We watch en elderly gent in a bright pink turban having his ears cleaned with a long metal spatula, decide against the street food until our guts have more immunity, and take a cycle rickshaw towards Jama Masjid mosque. Walking would have been quicker by far, though our rickshaw walla gets a nice turn of speed once we turn past the Red Fort (grey in smog) and head against the traffic, the wrong way up the dual carriageway. But soon we grind to another halt, and decide the walk the last stretch through another the nuts and bolts and blanket markets. 

One of the family

Jama Masjid is India's biggest mosque, built in the 1640s by Shah Jahan (ref. Taj Mahal) and able to accommodate 25,000 prostrate worshippers. As foreigners, we pay Rs. 300 entry (probably what Anglican cathedrals would call a "voluntary donation"), Sara covers her shoulders and I don a Muslim cap (unnecessarily, and I don't get a rebate). We wander across the vast concourse to the pigeon-feeding area, but are approached by a white-robed official who says "Sorry, iss clossed. You must go". "But, we've only just entered," I protest, showing our tickets. "Sorry iss clossed," he repeats, trying to usher us out and waving his stick. Patently, it is not "clossed", and more people, including tourists continue to come in, so we decide to ignore him. But he track our route, bearing down on us at regular intervals repeating his mantra.   

Is this me?

In the great central prayer hall he approaches again and conspiratorially whispers in my ear the word "dollar", which I also ignore. I think they should pay us to come here, as we soon become part of the tourist attraction, approached several times by Indian families and groups of young men to have their photos taken with us. Eventually, we are politely but firmly asked to leave. It is dusk and the faithful are arriving for prayers; indeed, the muezzin's loud call serenades our departure.

A walk through the streets of Chawri Bazaar to the nearest metro station. S is intrigued by the paper-sellers' shops - whole blocks of small shops selling nothing but ornamental paper, invitations, greetings, wrappers, fancy envelopes and so forth. Metro, 6.30 pm. This is rush hour with a vengeance. S says she's never experienced anything like it as we squeeze, or are pushed, into the already full metro carriage. She breaks into hysterical laughter, and soon it seems everyone else is laughing too. "I've never been in such close contact with so many dishy young men," she exclaims, and the laughter erupts again. Friendly people, Indians, apart from pickpockets.

Spice shop, Paharganj

We eat locally and late, but are told off for feeding the street dogs. Then for a wander, finding, among many, a seamstress (for Sara's dress) and a spice shop. Bigger baggage may be required.

* OK, I'll come clean. In my anxiety, I accidentally cause Oli's mobile to be barred rather than mine. This causes him major connectivity issues back in Blighty. Big dose of parental humble pie to swallow.