Though we'd been warned before, it wasn't until boarding the train at Jaipur that we had our first taste of the mini riots that can take place when its time to board the train. There is no discrimination based on age or gender - its each man / woman / child / senior for themselves. Even before the train is visible, tension starts to build in the air, and people start fidgeting and pacing. Smiling faces become determined scowls as people anticipate the moment of arrival. As the train rolls into the platform, men launch themselves at it, luggage in one hand, aiming to grasp at the railings with the other so they can hurl themselves in and secure a seat. Others thrust small children through open windows to secure theirs.
When the train finally comes to rest, a crowd of fifty or so people forms around each train door and people stand, jiggling with agitation, as the inbound passengers methodically disembark. Then, as if a whistle has been blown signifying the start of the world-cup final, the mob thrusts itself at the door of the train, like they're trying to squeeze themselves through a mincer.
Not fully understanding what's going on, and caught up in the energy of the moment, we join the brawl, using the impersonal mass of our packs to our advantage. We finally make it on the train amidst the suffocating trail of beaten and bruised passengers and head straight to our seats. They're already taken! But hang-on... we paid for confirmed tickets! We furrow our brows at the passengers and bark "You're in our seats!" They sheepishly evacuate.
An English couple comes in shortly after, looking for their seat. Jonathan overhears that they are supposed to be sitting opposite us, and sensing their hesitance at claiming their rightful spots, he hurriedly evacuates the cagey squatters. We find places for our packs and sit back, wondering what the hell that was all about! After a few minutes the energy settles and the crowd disperses. People now leisurely board the train, which is still docked at the platform. It turns out the mad rush is for waitlisted passengers - hundreds of passengers hoping to claim one of the few seats that's become available due to cancellation. We surmise that we could have waited a few minutes before we boarded the train, but hey, it was kind of fun, and we have heard stories of people missing trains entirely because they haven't been able to get through the crowds before it departs.
It seems most of the waitlisters don't find a seat. A few of them decide to stand in the aisles but most disembark the train and wait on the platform for the next. A few very pushy individuals cling to spots they've claimed even as the rightful passengers turn up. The result is that bench seats that are supposed to seat three people end up seating four, five or six. The conductor turns a blind eye upon the offering of a small bribe. And so we relax into the six hour journey with a couple of cling-ons cramping our space.
Fortunately the whole debacle helped to spark a friendly conversation with Bob and Jo, the English couple sitting opposite. The journey passed quickly as we shared stories of our Indian adventures so far and took comfort in the similarities of our impressions. We learn some fantastic expressions from them - most notable was "we had our arses felt", meaning we got ripped-off. We would all find many suitable opportunities to reel this one off in the coming days. Louisa spent a good deal of the ride nursing a young Indian boy who, not having his own seat, fell asleep standing and leaning against the window. His parents seemed relieved to have the assistance - their laps were providing their other son with a bed.
Earlier in the day, in preparation for our late evening arrival in Delhi, we had booked a room for the night in the Paharganj area, only 5 mins walk from the New Delhi Train Station. How wonderful, we thought, to not have to go through the rigmarole of bargaining with rickshaw drivers on our arrival. As we pulled into the train station, our confidence of an easy departure was elevated further by a young American chap who had been to Delhi before. "Yep, you just exit the train station, cross the street and you're at the Main Bazaar. Heaps of hotels there".
The train rolled up and we pushed our way off through the crowd of people eager to take over our seats. The platform was a sea of people but somehow the four of us all managed to register on our radars the movements of a pick-pocket, eagerly dancing around us. He managed to brush his hand against both Bob's and Jonathan's waist in the hope of locating a money pouch he could steal, but all valuables were well protected. He was probably actually quite stealthy at his vocation, and had we been fresh off the plane, senses retracting from overstimulation like a turtle in its shell, he might have had more luck. But it seems the longer you spend in India, the more your awareness becomes attuned to your surroundings - making him stick out like a court jester in an office of accountants.
We made our way past the countless destitute beggars claiming the floor of the train station as their bed. Naked children lying next to barely-teenage mothers in the empathetic heat of the night. When we make it to the street we decline all the touts and walk confidently across the busy road, dodging trucks and rickshaws, to the main bizarre. But things don't quite seem right. We stop and ask a policeman if this is the way to the Main Bazaar, and instead of answering directly he enters into a discussion with a couple of locals. Together they offer advice to walk up the road a bit further, but they don't come across very convincing. We follow their directions, walking past a bank of rickshaws who all vie for our custom. We find another police stand and the policeman there proves equally unhelpful. It isn't till a rickshaw driver approaches us and tells us that we're at Old Delhi station and that New Delhi station is about 6 km away that we begin to register what's happened. However, we take what he says with a grain of salt - if there's one thing we've learnt so far in India it's that you should never trust a rickshaw driver! We try and corroborate his word with the policeman and manage to make ourselves about 55% certain that he is telling the truth. This, combined with his very reasonable offer to take us to where we want to go, and the fact our feet hurt, is enough for us to take the risk.
Now this must have been a sight - Bob, Jo, Louisa, Jonathan, four packs, three day bags and a guitar pile into one rickshaw along with the driver and his companion. We take off in the surprisingly torquey machine at full throttle but abruptly come to a complete halt as we hit the main street which is completely congested with large heavily laden trucks. We edge towards a side street and begin snaking through dark alley ways, past sleeping cows and barking dogs. We merge onto another main road and travel at top speed on the wrong side of the road, narrowly missing a truck turning in front of us. Through a red light and we're on the home stretch. A little bit further and the rickshaw drops us of half way down the main bizarre. We look around for our hotel but can't see it anywhere. The rickshaw driver tries to offer us alternative accommodation but we decline. It's now almost midnight and we're hoping the Namaskar hotel has kept our booking. A quick study of the Lonely Planet and we locate a dark, narrow alley with the glowing name of our Hotel at the far end of it. We sidle past a couple of feral dogs and hurry past an open air urinal reeking of stale, fermented piss. We open the door to the Hotel lobby and are greeted by a big welcoming smile. We've come to the right place.
We climb the four flights of stairs and drop our bags in our alarmingly pink room, noting that the bathroom appears to have been plumed into the closet. Then we return to the front desk to complete the check-in process. A young Korean man has approached the front desk, carrying a scuffed, unlabeled bottle of amber liquid he's recently purchased and is questioning the hotel manager in sheepish bewilderment... "Is this... Real... Beer??" He says in a thick accent which only loosely disguised the depth of his concern. His tongue apparently still numb from the mouthful he's just swallowed and which he is pondering vomiting up. "Sorry, I don't understand" the hotel manager says and the man retreats back to his room. We couldn't help but burst into fits of laughter, often we hear phrases like "Is this real silver? Pashmina? And so forth. So questioning the authenticity of beer was quite comical and on some level understandable. We never did find out how that story ended.
We head out with Bob and Jo for a quick pint and a bite to eat at a local pub, to celebrate our successful arrival in the big city. Then we return to our rooms absolutely exhausted and ready to crash.
Highest on the list of priorities in Delhi was to locate a chiropractor for Jonathan. In the four month hiatus since his last workover, his vertebrae had been crushed beneath heavy packs, jerked in rickhaw rides, racked on budget mattresses and fused by disagreeable diets. It was time to get the kind of relief that massage just couldn't affect. Curiously, despite an earlier internet search giving us the impression that there was an abundance of chiropractors in Delhi, it now appeared that there were only a handful of chiropractors across the whole of India. We manage to locate only one in Delhi and made an appointment for the next day.
Keen to see some of the sights in Delhi, we decide to book a car and driver for the day, splitting costs with Bob and Jo. First stop was Jama Masjid, a huge mosque capable of accommodating up to 25,000 Muslims for prayer. The structure was impressive, but the antagonistic young man at the entrance and the repeated attempts of various other employees to rip us off soured the experience somewhat. After a quick look around, including a hike to the top of the southern minaret to enjoy the sweeping city views, we left and made the short walk to the nearby Red Fort.
It seems Emperor Shah Jahan (Taj Mahal) got around. He built this fort planning to move his capital from Agra to his new city Shahjahanabad. Of course this never eventuated as Shah lived out his days imprisoned in the red fort of Agra which, incidentally, makes the red fort in Delhi look like a sandcastle after the tide has crept in. After a quick wander around and for Bob a quick dash through the garden sprinkler, we were out of there.
It was nice to drive around in the relative comfort of an airconditioned car. Even having doors was a novelty for us - usually opting for the (theoretically) cheaper alternative of a rickshaw. We rolled up to one set of traffic lights where six lanes of various modes of transport were awaiting the signal to move. A group of young girls approached the car to beg for money, beginning with the usual hand-to-mouth motion. After trying the doors they stood persistently at Jonathan's window, smiling shyly while knocking lightly and repeating the gesture. Jonathan decided that instead of giving them money (we still don't feel comfortable doing this), he would offer some light entertainment instead. He held up his hands and proceeded to perform the 'magic' trick whereby you appear to pull the end of your thumb off by joining the start of one thumb with the end of the other. The girls gasped with astonishment and looked at Jonathan with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Two of the girls moved on in a hurry, but one stayed and stared questioningly. For the next five minutes, Jonathan educated her with the secrets of the trick until her initial shock had faded and she was able to perform it effectively herself. The traffic lights turned green and she waved us goodbye with a beaming smile then excitedly ran to her friends to show them. She seemed genuinely grateful for the atypical transaction - it was nice to make such a simple human connection across so many superficial boundaries.
The highlight of the day was the Bahai house of worship. The temple form was tastefully derived from that of a giant, unfurling lotus flower and it was spectacular to experience from both inside and out. It is in many ways reminiscent of the Sydney Opera House, but its design is much more regular. The house of worship is open to people of all religions and many come to sit in its bright, peaceful hall in silent meditation. Overall, our brief visit to this temple would have to be one of the highlights of our trip so far. It was great to experience how both the philosophical and architectural aspects of the vision behind it have come together to create such a coherent beacon for the elusive Truth.
After a spot of lunch, our driver drops us off at Connaught Place, the shopping hub of Delhi, where we spend an hour or so perusing the numerous shops before making the short walk home and retiring for the day, exhausted.
Before visiting the lotus temple, we managed to squeeze in Jonathan's Chiropractic appointment, which we had organised the day before. Eagerly anticipating a good crunching, and that liberating feeling of being able to twist and turn freely and without pain, we bounce up the stairs to the home clinic. Dr Garg sits Jonathan down and asks a few questions about his history and travel plans before accepting him for treatment, noting that it is likely the treatment will release some blockages and symptoms may be temporarily aggravated while these clear.
He guides Jonathan into the treatment room and Louisa is asked to stay in the waiting room with the bags, reasoning that she may adversely affect the energy of the treatment room. Jonathan is told to lay face down on the treatment table and begin breathing deeply. Dr Garg takes a moment of silence then his hands lightly survey Jonathan's spine and he begins balancing his energies. After 10 minutes of very subtle work, Jonathan is asked to roll onto his back and the treatment resumes. Barely making contact, Dr Garg places his palms on Jonathan's cranium and fingertips at various vertebrae and points on the skull. Healing energy flows tangibly from the Dr's fingertips and Jonathan begins to feel the gradual dissolution of tension along the length of the spine. His neck begins releasing and correcting its alignment from the inside out, guided by the subtle energy flow. His stomach begins gurgling and popping, evidence of blockages dissolving.
At the end of the hour long treatment, Jonathan's body feels very light, coherent and liberated. He questions Dr Garg as to the techniques he is using, noting it wasn't what he was expecting, but it seemed very effective. Dr Garg alluded to it being a combination of techniques including ayurvedic and craniosacral work. It wasn't till a follow up appointment, where Louisa also decided to give the treatment a go, that we found out the full story. Dr Garg is a devotee of a fully-realised guru based in an ashram in Bangalore (The Art of Living). The techniques he uses were taught to him and a handful of others by his Guru. Before each treatment, Dr Garg invokes his Guru, who works through the good doctor, guiding his hands and sustaining the flow of healing energy. During this process, Dr Garg remains in a meditative state and becomes witness to the subconscious realm of the patient, where emotional and karmic causes for the patient's complaints are revealed to him. The treatment works on all levels - physical, mental, emotional and spiritual and direct benefits were yielded on each of these levels, after a period of release. Not exactly what we had expected, but the subtle nature of the treatment is much kinder on the body than regular chiropractic manipulation, and the effects seem to penetrate far deeper.
After two treatments, Jonathan's stomach problems, which had lingered for several weeks, cleared up completely. Not without one last purge though! The day after the first treatment, the symptoms intensified and Jonathan rapidly overtook Louisa's former record of eleven toilet visits in one day. From deep within his gut, litres of rotten-egg gas started rising into long, sustained burps, sparking fears of giardia. But these fears were put to rest when the burps evolved into a vomiting spree that didn't stop until there was absolutely nothing left in his system. Feeling exhausted, but at the same time all nice and clean on the inside, Jonathan downed a bottle of electrolytes and put himself to bed. A couple of days of eating mashed potatoes and veg soup and he was back to full strength and proud to be functioning properly again.
It was also at this time that we finally broke our resolve to put budget ahead of comfort, and moved into a room with air conditioning. The daytime temperature had begun to exceed body boiling point on frequent occasions. The 40 degree heat was dry and this made it surprisingly bearable in short bursts, but without the ability to retire to the sanctity of an airconditioned room, it was beginning to take its toll on our energy levels. Particularly when neither of us were in full health to begin with. The health issues would also become justification for some additional minor indulgences. Jonathan's waif like figure and the reliability of processed packaged food was good enough excuse for us to ensure regular intake of bounty bars and digestive biscuits. Of course it didn't take much convincing that it was for the vitamins found in the coconut, the fibre in the chunky oaty biscuits and energy from the chocolate. Not to mention all those saturated fats!
While Jonathan takes it easy for another day, Louisa ventures out on to get some culture and spends the afternoon at the national museum. Encouraged by the cold grey corridors and exhibit halls with its muted lights and forceful AC, a direct contrast from the soaring temperatures and blinding light outside, she takes her time to wander through the halls, lapping up the richness of India's epic history. The various civilisations, invasions and religions were clearly evident in the subtle differences in pottery, reliefs, tapestries, textiles, coinage, instruments and works of art. Trying to get your head around India's history would take more than an afternoon visit though it was heartening to feel a few twangs of familiarity when reading about myths, gods, influential leaders, historical events and civilisations. Reassured that we had absorbed a lot of India's history from the four states we had visited in the past six weeks, Louisa spends the rest of evening in retail therapy.
After a couple of days spent taking it easy and avoiding the heat, making the most of the airconditioning, relaxing, writing, reading, we decided to take care of the last of the Must See Sights in Delhi. Top of our list was Ghandi Smitri, the spot where Mahatma Ghandi was assassinated. Another communication breakdown meant we were taken to the Ghandi Museum instead. As it turned out the museum was an excellent introduction to Ghandi's life. We spent a good hour learning more about the saintly man's vision and broad reaching influence on India. We then headed to Ghandi Smitri, where we saw his simple office and walked alongside his final footsteps.
Despite our attempts to remain open minded, Delhi succeeded in further degrading our impression of rickshaw drivers. The most notable experience occurred one afternoon when we asked to be taken to State Emporium shopping complex. We showed the man a map pinpointing exactly where we wanted to be taken so as to avoid any chance of confusion. Following his own agenda, he decided instead to try and trick us by taking us to dodgy substitute, where he can receive commission from any purchases we make. All the slimy shop assistants attempt to corroborate his assertion that he has taken us to the State Emporium as we requested. It didn't take us long to see through their blatant lies - particularly as the building was only about a tenth the size of what it should have been. We make our exit, disregarding any niceties, and walk straight past our rickshaw driver who tries again to convince us that it is the right place. He soon sees we're not that gullible. In fact, he seems a bit apologetic. He then offers to take us to where we actually wanted to go for no additional charge. It's 40 degrees, we're out of water and we don't really know where we are, so we take him up on the offer. He drops us outside "Cottage Industries", another place we did want to go, but not the one we had told him. We get out, bid him adieu, head into the building and soon register that he's done it again - another fake emporium! We leave and ask the man at the door which way to go to the State Emporium and he points the way. Fortunately the rickshaw driver is no longer there waiting for us. If he was he would have got an earful. We console ourselves, humouring that we "got our arses felt" so bad by the guy that we'll likely shit out his wedding ring the next morning.
We walk and are promptly joined by another man who asks where we want to go. He flatly denies all direct questions as to whether he's a commission tout. He doesn't look the part either but we take everything he says with a grain of salt. He says he's on his lunch break and is walking this way anyway so doesn't mind showing us where to go. He leads us to another 'Cottage Industries', but from another landmark and a quick glance at Lonely Planet we know we're nowhere near the real 'Cottage Industries' we turn and walk away, refusing even to acknowledge him any further - another commission tout! And then another tout approaches us, this time greasy, young and dodgy written all over him. He says 'I like your hat'. Jonathan (who's now getting close to losing it!) says 'I don't like your hair' and we walk off. Then 50m down the road Jonathan decides to relieve the accumulated frustration and celebrate the ridiculousness of everything by letting out a mighty roar, much to the amusement (and sympathetic acknowledgement) from a couple of passersby. Lo and behold, a few more paces and the actual place we were after enters our view - an hour after we got in the first rickshaw! We head there with a bounce in our stride, but not without an attempted interception and redirection from one more even greasier, dodgier looking young lad!
We spend a few hours at the State Emporium, buy a few nice things at reasonable prices and with very little hassle - except for one lame attempt from a sole tout to lead us away, saying that we're not at the State Emporium. Idiot!
Later that afternoon, after having a light meal and a bit of time-out, we make it to the Janpath markets where we are continuously assaulted by a barrage of touts and marketeers. At one point we decide it's time to pause for a bit and we help ourselves to an ice cream. Our pause is interpreted as an invitation to pounce, and all of a sudden the onslaught gains magnitudes of intensity. We are practically mobbed, ice cream in one arm, beggar children tugging at the other, both ears and eyes being assaulted by a row of craftswoman yelling at the top of their lungs, fighting to get us to notice their wares, and offering us ridiculously cheap prices. It escalated to a moment of complete sensory overload, and with that we both withdrew all involvement from the scene and, with detached and peaceful minds, just stood there and observed. The assault carried on until we'd finished our ice creams, without further affect, other than to produce a smile on each of our faces. The amount of energy that was being released by all involved was phenomenal and as it continued, everyone seemed to be slowly transforming, relieving themselves of tensions and frustrations from a hard, hot day on the sidewalk. Smiles even started to shine forth from a few of the craftswoman - apart from one, who almost had a nervous breakdown trying to get us to buy her cushion covers at a quarter of the price of some of the other stalls... (The price of one ice cream). Never a dull day in Delhi.
After almost two weeks in the Paharganj area we grow quite fond of our frequent walks along the Main Bazaar to get a feed at one of the many restaurants. The roughly paved lane is lined both sides by hundreds of shops selling clothes, shoes, textiles, groceries, metal crafts and souvenirs. The shop keepers continually invent new ways to attract your attention. "Remember me!?" they shout hoping you'll look back at which point they'll beckon you inside. "Where you from?" is a common shout, usually followed by a confident guess at France, Brazil, Canada, South Africa, Switzerland Australia or any country other than New Zealand. Mild mannered cycle rickshaw drivers offer their services as insistent beeps emanate from cars and autorickshaws trying to negotiate the narrow lanes and the bustling crowds.
Another common sight is young men holding hands, or walking with arms around each other's waists. They're unlikely to be gay - from all accounts, public displays of homosexuality aren't tolerated in India - it seems that the act is merely a celebration of good old platonic friendship.
The resident beggars rise early and work a long day, rattling their tins and demanding your spare change, with hardy smirks adorning their faces. One seasoned veteran stands barely four feet tall, well past the age where shrinkage sets in. She stands uncomfortably stooped, firmly clutching a bamboo staff with frayed ends. Her hair wild, matted and grey. Her sari is tatty, slightly faded and dusty, but it still offers up its attractive colours to passersby. Her face is weathered and wrinkled from several scores under the Delhi sun. Her thick, shrivelled skin masks all indication of the bone structure that would have defined her younger face. But her keen eyes - they still twinkle, and when her wisdom alerts her to potentially charitable passersby, she moves with a surprisingly determined swiftness.
Another resident beggar relies on a different approach. Doing all he can to draw attention to his lame leg, he drags himself along the centre of the road, wailing and gasping like an infant expressing the compound suffering of hunger, tiredness and bloating. As you approach, the wailing gets louder and desperate but unrecognisable pleas roll off his tongue. The same painful routine is played out every night.
On a daily walk, one young boy grabs Louisa's arm and with surprisingly cheerful eyes, signals us to examine his left arm. Hand conspicuously absent, his arm terminates at a bloodied raw, infected stump. We were unsure whether this was the result of accident, design or a disease such as leprosy. A woman emerges every night after sundown, places a cotton sheet down on the side of the road and kneels down upon it. She places her begging tin to one side then lays her young son beside her, resting his bandaged head on her lap. For the rest of the evening, he will lie limp and lifeless and she will hang her head in sorrow and gently sway, without saying a word.
Most evenings (and a number of times during the day) we are offered hashish and opium in a slightly strained whisper. A number of men, African in appearance, roam the lanes after dark every night, stoned out of their trees, advertising the effectiveness of their products. Only a few blocks from the main bazaar is a street corner harbouring a collection of heroin addicts, wrapping their arms in torniquades and squeezing the contents of their needles into their arms in the heat of the midday sun.
Delhi's confronting reputation has been known to put fear into the hearts of India's first timers and many approach this famed city with trepidation, making their visits sweeping. We too braced ourselves for the pandemonium but hoped our past experience might soften the impact a little. As it turned out, Delhi's brusque appearance is only skin deep. At her heart, she is a convivial, welcoming city.
For two weeks we stationed ourselves at the boundary of Delhi's two contrasting but complementary worlds and marvelled at how they came together. The old Islamic capital of Old Delhi, with its frenzied lanes, crushing bazaars, historic sights and remarkably cheerful destitution, brims with charm and authenticity. New Delhi, the British Imperial capital, boasts wide boulevards, peaceful parks, glamorous window displays and lounging cafes - offering a cushy but ultimately unfulfilling reminder of the long relinquished comforts of home. The mingling of these two worlds is what makes Delhi come as close as any other city to offering a comprehensive experience of the truth of the human condition. A collection of 13 million souls witnessing life through 13 million different pairs of eyes. No two perspectives the same. Many poles apart. But each perspective equally real to the one witnessing. The accumulation of so many vastly disparate lives in one place certainly makes you question the validity of your own precious perspectives and closely held beliefs.
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