Cast of characters

Delhi



Yobin, Andrew and Swags

 

I suppose I should first introduce the characters to this story. First there is Ben, a lovable character who has finally left New Zealand for the first time, and who holds the dubious honour of being the sweatiest guy ever to eat food; one chilli and he starts dripping with sweat. He’s come to the right place - India, of all places, straight from the mean streets of, er… Tawa. Ben also goes by Yobin, (Yo, Ben!), Kuntzy, and he looks like Dane Rumble, so it’s easy to find names for him.

From Tawa to the Taj Mahal!

Next there is John, my good time travel buddy, never in a hurry to go anywhere, everybody’s best friend, and all round nice guy. Last year we decided to travel the Philippines; this year we have set our sights on India. Philippines and India, hardly the easiest places to travel! John more commonly goes by Swags, or Mr Swagger, Swaggled*ck, JT, Taylor (as he calls himself), or any other ridiculous name you can think of.

 

Mr Swagger and the Taj Mahal

Then there is me, obviously, who is lucky enough to be the chronicler of events, and can therefore paint myself in the best possible light. Most of what I say is blatantly false, a complete lie, or else bears some slight resemblance to the truth. Not to worry, what matters is the reader’s enjoyment, not what actually happens. I also go by Crackson, King, CK, [enter abusive term], or something of that nature. I’m far too idealistic, temperamental, and grumpy in the mornings, but occasionally I feel okay and get something decent down on paper.

 

Contemplating something...as always

The three of us, fresh from our night-time freak-out and stroll through the drunken-trash-infested streets of the ghetto of downtown Delhi, finally found my brother, of all people, casually waiting outside the hotel, three hours after the time we were actually scheduled to meet him. Not to worry; all is well that ends well, and we meet my wise older brother, who guides us with his sure hand into our hotel and straight into a gay bar. Well, it wasn’t actually a gay bar; there just weren’t any ladies around. His name is Andrew, and he’s been here three weeks. He possesses organisational skills far superior to any of ours, and has organised a driver for the first seven days of our trip.
 

Papa Rishi, our driver... and friend

We meet our driver out in the chilly streets the next morning. His name is Rishi, and he commands a seven-seater white vehicle, which he will use to transport us all around the ‘Golden Triangle’ – Delhi, to Agra, to Jaipur.

 

Rishi – or Papa Rishi as he is to become – is a leisurely late-40’s gentleman with two children and a wife in Delhi; he is fluent in English, speaks slowly, calmly, with a reassuring tone – and always in exactly the same manner.

 

“Are we touring Delhi,” Swags says.

 

“Yes. We are touring Delhi,” Rishi will reply in his gentle tones without so much of a hint at condescension. He has this endearing habit of replying "Yes. [Insert Question]" to anything we ask. At various times he will pipe up about the history of the place we are about to visit. The whole city is covered in a light haze, and in a soft heat we begin our tour of the city.

  

We spend the morning touring the dense, crowded and chaotic old Delhi. The streets teem with people, animals, vehicles of all sorts, stalls, beggars, merchants, police, hustlers, and just about everything else you can think of. There isn’t an inch of the streets of old Delhi that isn’t put to use; it’s not uncommon to see one merchant sweeping the dirt from his square foot of space to the guy next to him only to have it swept right back in the next round of sweeping.

 

As we are fortunate enough to have a vehicle, I wind down the window to enjoy the sights, smells, and sounds of old Delhi. Before I know it, my face is inches from a tuk-tuk driver, merchant, or other member of the public, and we go face-to-face for a few seconds as the car glides past, a bit like an endless slide-show of bewildered faces and bizarre looks. I stare at them; they stare at me. Who knows who is more baffled.

 

First we visit Jama Masjid, a muslim Mosque providing epic views over old Delhi. From there we head to Humayun’s Tomb, a grand, serene place fit for the resting place of an emperor, and a world away from the chaotic density of old Delhi. From here we visit Indira Gandhi’s (former Indian Prime Minister) house and memorial museum, and the house where Mahatma Gandhi spent his final forty-four days. Both places show the exact spot where the two national leaders were assassinated.

 

Whist we’re out visiting the sights, we also get an introduction to Delhi traffic. Rishi, ever the reliable tour guide says, in his flat, easy monotone:

 

“In India car need three things. Good horn, good break and good luck.”

 

“What about steering,” asks Yobin.

 

“No. In India steering not important,” says Rishi. This gets him going. He’s really a skilled driver, and navigates the utter chaos with ease. One needs patience to manage. Lucky for us, Rishi has been doing this for 29 years, and is the most patient driver I have ever seen.

 

“In India, half the people on the road don’t know where they are going,” he says, spelling it out. This makes sense to us. Though the road has three ‘lanes’, the road is six cars wide, and they’re not all straight, they’re in all sorts of wonky and crooked directions; the motorcycles up on the footpath or in the curb. Every inch of space is used. No one seems to go anywhere, and you wonder with all the cars, bikes, and people, how anyone goes anywhere. Somehow, it all seems to work, and with a loud horn and good luck, one can go just about anywhere in Delhi.

 

For our final stop for the day, as the sky darkens, the lights rise, and the chill descends, we visit the Sikh temple, whose shrine pierces the night sky in a fierce white and golden glow. Only problem, its New Year’s Day, and every Sikh in Delhi has come to visit. It takes us half-an-hour to magically break through the gridlocked traffic, and we effortlessly squeeze into the tightest, most cramped car park you can imagine, save for a few possessive looks from other drivers.

 

Though there are at least 20,000 people at the temple, we are in the privileged position of being ‘foreigners’ and thus don’t have to line up for anything. We take off our shoes and don orange caps. We make our way to the kitchen, where various people are preparing to feed one room full of the many thousands of people they feed each day. Huge pots with furiously burning fires beneath prepare lentil curries and coconut stew, roti’s burn and char off to the side, and large silver buckets full of curry prepare to feed the masses. I sweat lightly, for the heat, the steam, and the smells of charcoal and mild curry floating across the air; it’s one mass of activity, messy feet, and miracles of everyday life. We end it by sitting cross legged on a cold concrete floor in a small back kitchen, in slience, with a dozen or so Sikh’s, eating curries and coconut stew, and sipping on chai tea. Feeling full, and satisfied, we eventually make our exit, and into the mass of teeming traffic and symphony or horns.
 



Feeding of the 20,000 at the Sikh temple in Delhi

 

That’s right, in Delhi, no one seems to know where they are going. But that doesn’t matter. As long as they are going, and as long as they have a horn, everything seems to work out okay in the end.

   

The boys!