February 18, 2012 The Delhi-Agra Weekend Episode 1
The Flight
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It is difficult to be up and running at 3:15 am especially when you are woken up in the middle of a dream. That too a dream about people you hadn't thought of in a while. But our taxi to the airport was scheduled for 4:15. So...Shower. Shave. Laptop shut down. Modem unplugged. Double check the adequacy of underwear. Zip the bag after topping it with a bunch of paper for scribbling and a couple of books for the flight.
By 4:30, we were on our way to the new domestic terminal of the Thiruvananthapuram airport. This used to be the international terminal a decade ago. The city was waking up. Gods and goddesses had half an hour more of rest available. Their ring masters were only washing the premises before business hours. Tea stalls warming up to the first customers of the day. Uber-dedicated joggers on their way to holistic living. Dogs aplenty, both living and the recent victims of mid-road collisions.
The 6am flight to Delhi via Kochi is popular among the members of the parliament, politicians and administrators from the state. The flight returns from Delhi to land at Thiruvananthapuram by 9:30pm. So if you are good enough to get things done at the capital in half a day, Air India is your best bet. By train, Delhi still takes nearly 3 days. Before trains, by bullock carts, it used to take a few months and excellent survival skills.
We notice three different times on the clocks at the terminal. The red LCD one above the check in counter hurries by a good ten minutes. The one on the display screens above the security check is 5 minutes ahead of my watch. Once you are done with security, the wall clock that greets you grants two additional minutes for the day. In the lounge, the statues on display remind Achan of the movie, 'the night at the museum'. At the pat down section of the security, equal number of stations for men and women. The airport authorities are rather optmistic about the rising equality for women in India. Achan and I stand in the long masculine queue. Amma quickly goes through the dedicated, sparse feminine line.
Since everyone including a couple of top administrators have managed to reported well before time, we take off 15 minutes ahead of schedule. The sleepy darkness of the city below is punctured only by a few city lights. On the eastern horizon, the rejuvenating rosiness.
It takes 21 minutes to Kochi. From the time the safety announcement lady is done on the small screen and seat-belt sign is turned off, we get a little over ten minutes before the landing announcement. It is in between these two airports that a new one is being planned by the great political minds of Kerala! Yet another one of those exercises done to secure more land for the select few richest in the country in the name of development.
The English lady (from her accent) sitting on the seat in front of me across the aisle, with a nice morning blonde cowlick changes to socks and relaxes with a thick book on rock music. A few more VIPs board from Kochi. An uncle in an elegant black kurta sporting a "jhaadu" mustache with a rolly polly aunty. My attention for the rest of the flight alternate between the inflight movie, 'Sherlock Holmes' whose soundtrack I begin to appreciate at this third viewing, the English lady who frequently adjusts herself into tantalizing wardrobe malfunction possibilities that never materialize and a short story by U.A. Khader. The breakfast served was surprisingly tasty.
Airport
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No fog issues in Delhi meant that we landed by 10am as scheduled. The physical features map on the screen showing the real time flight position is a great illustration of the size of the Himalayas. A bit of forceful braking of the aircraft after touching down to ensure a rather quick turn onto the tarmac. The speed with which Indians release the seat belt buckle as soon as the flight touches down makes me realize how difficult it must have been living under the British. It looks like even a few minutes of buckling down is unbearable. To hell with safety. We want freedom! The hatred for discipline runs in our blood except when we insist on imposing it on others all around us. We wait on the tarmac near a Kathakali figure embossed on the wall before deplaning.
To call the Indira Gandhi International Airport terminal 3 as impressive would be an understatement. The neat carpeted walkways, the all glass paneling on either side and the full length walkalators are rather welcoming. As one climbs down the escalator, huge metallic looking hands in various "mudras", the gestures in Indian classic dance and Buddhism, jut out from the wall that is covered with big copper plates. The nine hands represent the Abhaya, Varada, Prana, Pranayama,Tripataka,Trishul, Chatur, Mayur and Akash mudras. I learnt later that they are the work of designer Akash Jasliwal and are resin based with a metal finish. The terminal is truly world class with a classic Indian touch. The stress is on the "classic" here since "Indian touch" has nowadays means, unfortunately dirty, crowded, corrupt and shoddy work.
Walking out of the terminal, from among the crowd of chauffeurs, guides and hosts with name boards of their unseen guests, we find the gentleman, in his early 40s, carrying a print out with Amma's name on it. We notice his prominent limp as he rolls Amma's bag to the parking garage. We follow. "Aap Santoshji hai na?" I ask based on the text message we received yesterday from the tour company. "Ji"
Speeding down the 10 lane road leading out of the airport, it is impossible not to notice the military presence that is nearly nonexistent in Thiruvananthapuram. Several posts with guards carrying INSAS assault rifles and what look like MP5K submachine guns. The road sharply turns at one point near the wall of the airport till which point it almost looks like we are driving directly towards aircraft that are taxiing on the runway.
Before stopping at the first traffic light, we pass by a coed school. Some boys in white uniform with blue ties and girls in white salwars with blue dupattas are playing and talking outside the school gate. We stop for nearly two minutes at the signal. Shacks made of corrugated thin steel sheets on the side of the road. A mini-slum. A beggar woman walks from car to car with a baby tied in a cloth bag that goes over her shoulder leaving both arms free for alms. The temperature is close to twenty degrees and the sun is bright. Everyone still has some type of sweater on.
Santoshji tells me that we are driving through Daula Kuan. Since traffic demands all his attention, I avoid asking him if there are still the eponymous washing wells in the area. No mention of the famous Daula Kuan rape case from two years ago either.
Massive building of the Department of Defense Accounts. Tall, faded, old apartment complexes rise on both sides of the road. "Sab military ke hai" Santoshji informs. I realize that an inland capital like Delhi is fundamentally a military barrack. The palaces, the offices, the trade are all add-ons. The capital is where the military control lies. You capture the capital, you capture the empire. As long as you don't have the capital, the resistance will continue. The fortifications today may not be as obvious as at the time of the epics, the sultanates or the Mughals, but Delhi stands on a strong military foundation.
Santoshji points with visible pride at the metro rail that runs on the pillars dividing the road as a train rumbles over us. The rumble of the metro rail and the rattling of Santoshji's rear view mirror hanging solar disc with tiny bells and an embossed Ganesh would form the periodic soundtrack of our city tour.
I was prejudiced that Delhi was a dry, dusty land like most of Uttar Pradesh, but very soon I began appreciating the nearly perpetual presence of road side trees. Though the dry Acacia that has become an icon of African safaris, dominated this particular area, there were Gulmohars, Neem and even a few teak making frequent appearances. At the traffic signal for Simon Bolivar road, the driver of a green carrier auto assumes that he would have enough time to check on the locks. Mistake. The blaring horns assault that followed as soon as the green arrows on the light appeared must have reduced his life span by a year, at least those of his ears.
Chaos Bagh
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We turn under the metro towards Karol Bagh. The towering red Hanuman statue that watches over metro travelers night and day rises to our left. The muscular monkey god is in the process of parting his chest with his bare hands. We zigzag through the regulatory metallic fences on rollers on the road into the incredibly busy Karol Bagh.
The slowing down gives Amma enough time to comment about the huge board of the Federal Bank at the turn. "Repeatedly we have told them to put the "Ltd" (limited) along with their name. Without it, they pretend to be a nationalised bank." "They are not the only private bank which does that," said Achan and as if to prove his point, we pass in front of a branch of the "Dhanlaxmi bank".
To imagine the Gaffar market area of Karol Bagh, think about Dadar railway station in Mumbai at peak hour. If you don't know what that feels like, think about the busiest, most chaotic railway station you have ever been to in South east Asia. Now blow open the roof of that railway station, keep the same amount of people jostling about but allow cars, motorbikes, cycle rickshaws, horse carts and stray dogs into the mix. Add a couple of intersecting paths with no traffic signals or cops and you have Gaffar market. It is the always crowded, always busy, go to place for all your "imported" needs. For those from Thiruvananthapuram, this is Delhi's 'Beema palli' area but a thousand times busier in the same amount of space.
Buildings bordering the road are packed with shops of all kinds. Mobile phones, electronics, consumer goods, banks, fabric, interior decorations, pawn shops, coaching centers, lawyer offices, eateries, sweets, spare parts, helmets. On the footpath, sales of clothing and leather. An eye-catching board of a shop specializing in bridegroom costumes. "Dulha hum saja denge" is their guarantee subtitle.
I felt that this place has retained it character over several centuries. It must have been where traders from all over the world came to exchange their goods, showcase their wares and hope to fetch a good bargain. I had read that this market had iPhone, iPad,PS3 etc all available well before their official launch in India. The only policemen you will see are stationed at the entry road. Gaffar market operates under its own market laws. They are draconianly Darwinian especially when it comes to moving through the market. The cacophony of car horns and bicycle bells are nonstop. The average speed if you are not stuck is a jerking 5kmph. Santoshji deeply impressed all of us by his vehicle handling skills here. It was no case of luck that his Maruti taxi was dent free when every single vehicle I saw around us resembled the surface of the moon up close.
At both the intersections, the indescribable chaos of Indian traffic that has baffled travelers from abroad, is on full display. For anyone who has been familiar in life only with the rule-obeying, orderly traffic of other countries, it would appear a miracle that thousands don't perish every hour at every intersection of such roads here. New rules of time and space that would stump Einstein reveal themselves. Between any car and lamp post, there is always enough space for a cycle rickshaw. Given any such rickshaw, there is new space created just enough for a scooter as well next to the car. Any vehicle can turn anywhere anytime it pleases, spontaneously, when it figures out which direction it should take towards its destination amidst the ocean of metal, rubber, petrol and muscle that continuously churns around it. I would call it a 'U-he' turn.
The road does have dividers on which there are some plants. They look like old aspiring trees that have been stunted for life by the atmosphere around them. I wonder if snowfall works as a source of water for these plants. Based on the trees on the roadside till Karol Bagh, Delhi should have a robust ground water presence.
Right at the end of Gaffar market comes Saraswati marg, the street in which we were to find Clark Surya, our hotel for Delhi. Saraswati marg is also narrow, crowded and slow moving. The vertical neon and colorful signboards that compete for attention from the facades of the buildings give it an appearance of the busy Hongkong streets that I have seen in Jackie Chan movies.
Check in
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At 12 noon, we check in at Clark Surya after telling Santoshji that we will freshen up, have lunch and be ready by 1:30. The receptionist is courteous and pleasing. His ears resemble those of the Ganesha figure embossed on the wall panel behind his desk. That paneling covers the wall and appears like red putty applied using fingers. There is a manager's cubicle and a foreign exchange facility in the small lobby. I spot a feminine life behind that cubicle only much later. She had been absolutely motionless, focused on facebook at her terminal. Facebook was also open on the manager's as well as the receptionist's computers.Tea, more specifically, 'masala chai' and cookies arrive. Onward to room 305 on the second floor.
Amma, as usual, is not pleased with the cleanliness of the room. She thinks it is clearly not the "super deluxe" room that our itinary had promised. We check out a couple of other rooms. All are equally small 10 ft by 12 ft. The exhaust fan in the bathroom has its switch, for some strange reason, hidden behind the sofa in the main room. There are two dangerous looking boxes, one brown and one black with a needle dial display, that control thick the wire going into the air conditioning unit. The television's cable has been unplugged.
"This is the minibar. You can use it. We will replace and charge." informs the bellboy. I am intrigued by the bar part of the minibar. Turns out there are only two bottles of water, two Fruti mango juice cartons, two tiny bars of chocolate, two packets of peanuts. Our room has no window. Even if it had, the view would have been the congested street below and the drab buildings across it. The bathtub contractor obviously hadn't consulted the building engineer. The bathroom door had been shaved off to make sure that it can close without jamming on the bathtub frame.
From the key, the napkins and the china, it is clear that "Clark Surya" is only the current name of the hotel which was once Surya International and Surya Sheraton. There is nothing 'starry' about this place except for the fabulous framed paintings on the walls.
We decide to have lunch at the hotel itself after consulting the menu in the room. The hotel's restaurant, labeled roof top, is on the fourth floor. The 'roof top' is a 6ft by 10ft balcony from which only a sea of terraces in different states of decay are visible as far as the eye can see. It has an unwelcoming dirty table cloth on a long table set with 8 chairs. By the side, all the paraphernalia for creating omelet. The wash room is a toilet.
We skip the roof and opt for the covered portion of the restaurant. One chappati costs Rs. 30. I presume that's 'starry'. We have some with a mutton curry and an egg curry. The TV in the restuarant is tuned to some show about boy Hanuman. But the story is about Ravanana. Amidst the atrocious acting and garrish sets and costumes, a 1990s type special effect has a chubby boy dressed as Hanuman floating in front of a cut-paste from the rejected reels of George Lucas from his high school days.
The waiter doubles as the manager. There is a chef. Well, there is a guy in an unwashed apron wearing a tall rippled Dodin Buffant made out of paper that has been ripped off from the inside of some packing material that came rippled readymade. I didn't bother to count if it had 101 ripples as tradition demands. The food was good but not good enough for the price.
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