Day Two: Delhi Red Fort
Trip Start
Sep 21, 2006
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3
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Trip End
Jun 01, 2007
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Delhi,
India
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Taking a vague bearing north-east, I start walking. The bridge across the railway is adorned with drying bundles of cotton.It feels hotter than yesterday. It's midday and men are serving biryani from large meatl pots. Trolleys of apples, bananas and pomegranates cause traffic jams in the Old City Bazaar. A web of electrical wires criss-cross between stores. By Jama Masjid, tired workers crouch on the street to scoop curries with roti bread.
The Red Fort was built between 1638 and 1648 by Shah Jahan as a royal residence for what would be the third capital of Rajasthan, after Agra and Delhi. This ShahJahanabad would not last. Shah Jahan was imprisoned by his sons and the Mughal empire slipped into a decline. The Red Fort (named for the colour of its sandstone) became a British Army garrison then the barracks for the Indian Army following independence.
To the right of the entrance, past arcades of souvenir stalls is a museum of the history of India's struggle for independence. There are many images of British atrocities and massacres depicted in paintings and dioramas.
The marble reception rooms and baths of the Shah are mostly ringed off. Gold and mirrors have been torn from the ceilings and pillars, but fine floral inlays and carvings remain. The compound with its dry pools and fountains hints at its glory days when perfumed water trickled through.
The archaeological museum is worth a look for its portraits of Shah Jahan. (I cannot find images of his wife for whom the Taj Mahal was built.) And there is one bizarre painting of opium eaters in revelry.
It is forbidden to bring food into the fort, which benefits the restaurant near its north wall. Still, for IR60 you can get tea and a thali in a fan-cooled environment and relax on more ornamental than comfortable chairs.
The drag back up Chowdri Chowk and through Old Delhi's bazaars is choked as ever. A couple of law students accompany me for a short while. "Would you like some Indian pussy?" they ask. "I can get this in London," I joke and move on. I'm getting used to the bustle and the wearing traffic though I'm looking forward to escaping west.
Dinner tonight is more satisfactory (I will overlook the mouse that leapt across the cutlery chest). Malhotra's Dosa Café served a heap of veg pakora, soup, two paneer masala dosas with a sweet lassi for IR120. There were no intimidating heavyweights to share a table with either.
