February 18, 2012 Delhi-Agra Weekend Episode 3
Santoshji drives us to the other side of the Rashtrapati Bhavan. En route, Amma excitedly points out the Reserve Bank of India building with the big Yaksha and Yakshi statues at the entrance. Achan and I remember the statues from old RBI calendars. Amma tells us that this was one of the original multi-storey buildings in that part of the city for which special permission was given by Nehru.
Since cars cannot be parked at the gate of the Rashtrapati Bhavan, Santoshji suggests dropping us off while we take pictures and coming back in a minute to pick us up. Amma prefers to stay in the car. She has been there before and taken photos. Before she starts a story about a bigger, better Presidential Palace in some other place that she has been to, Achan and I get out of the car. Achan wants the obligatory "was here" photo. I snap.
We look down the majestic road. Faintly, in the distance we can see the India gate monument. The grand road has the deserted weekend look.The nerve center of the country's administration.The powerhouses of external affairs and home ministries in the North and South blocks on the side. The unassuming looking Prime Minister's office. Who will sit there next?
We head to the India gate. The park on either side of the road remind me of the Mall in Washington DC. The temporary stands provided for spectators of the republic day parade have been piled up on the side. The brick structure erected for dignitaries on the occasion is being dismantled. It resembles an Indus Valley ruin.
A serene structure in sandstone designed by Lutyens, the India gate was originally the memorial of the Indian soldiers who died for the British in the first world war. After independence, it has become a national monument for "the unknown soldier". Continuously burning torches mark the "amar jawan", the immortal soldier. Guards in ceremonial attire and in camouflage stand at the monument. The three flags of the armed forces flutter in the evening breeze. The guard stays in attention. What does he think while on such a duty for hours? Do they allow women soldiers to stand guard? I find no answers in the hustle and bustle of the vendors and hawkers. Achan buys tea. I see a young man gulp down one glass of water and ask for another from an old man who is selling water out of a sizeable aluminium pot. Plenty of picnickers on the ground surrounding the monument. Despite seeing my camera, couple of men approach me with sample photographs the likes of which they promise to provide in 15 minutes. The empty canopy that originally had King George's statue stands at a distance surrounded by more picnickers. Will a Gandhi statue ever relieve its emptiness?
Santoshji drives us next to the Lotus temple. A rather old security guard runs a mirror at the base of a pole to check the base of our car at the gate. A security ritual at the temple, indeed. With the evening sun behind it, the lotus structure is striking. Lawns with chinese orange trees full of fruits on either side of the walkway that leads to the temple. Plastic sacks are provided to remove shoes. The crisscross pattern created by the marble slabs becomes visible as I get closer. Plenty of pigeons around. Long queue to get inside the temple. We skip it and walk around. What are intended as petals of the lotus look like sword blades from some angles. Sometimes they resemble some eerie space ship.
Plenty of other Malayalee tourists in the area. Disproportionate number considering the small size of the state. Or may be I am assigning an unjustified prominence simply because I identify the language readily.
On the way back, a strikingly beautiful woman in a simple ghagra choli. Her eyes are straight out of a Rajput painting: slender, shapely, dreamy. Hers was the skin that is apt to be called: rain cloud color. It was a bluish black. I have never seen that quality in real before. With stunning features and that complexion, she looked like a painting that had come to life. She was sweeping the dirt left behind by the shoes dumped at the locker.
"Where to next, Santoshji?" we ask as the sun was beginning to set. "You want to see some handcrafts?" he asks. "We can go to Haat shop." he says. I get excited thinking we are about to visit the huge permanent crafts carnival known as Delhi Haat. Major disappointment when he takes us to a small shop named Haat. Exorbitantly priced trinkets with very aggressive salesmen. Amma contemplates buying some bangles for Tara. The salesgirl there has a tshirt that says "Let me be myself". She could easily find a Hooters job. I walk around looking at price tags. Couple of salesmen have a quick quarrel. We leave the shop in 15 minutes. Sweet smell of masala tea from a tea stall beside the shop.
Santoshji takes us to the Birla temple next. We feel hungry.
"Can you take us to some reasonable place to eat?" we ask.
"KFC?" he asks.
"No, thanks".
"Aapko soudh Indian chahiye?" (Do you want South Indian food?)
"Nahi" (No)
"Hotel ke paas hi kuch mil jayega" (You will find some restaurant near the hotel itself)
He drops us right in front of the Laxmi Narayan or Birla temple. I have no intention of going inside. After Mughal gardens, walking around devotional architecture seemed like a let down. We decide to go back to the hotel. But Achan wants to visit Indira Gandhi's house that has been converted to a museum after her assassination. Santoshji says it might be closed by now but we decide to try.
Driving through wide, tree lined roads that house the bigwigs of Indian politics and administration, I try to read as many name plates outside the homes as possible. Markandeya Katju and Gen. V.K. Singh's names, I manage to spot. Santoshji was right. The Indira museum at Safdarjung road closes by 4:45 pm.
We head back to the hotel. At the end of Mother Teresa Crescent, the famous Dandi March statue that appears on the Indian currency notes. At the other end of the road, the 'M' has fallen off to make it "other Teresa Crescent". We travel by the Presidential estates and Parade grounds. Some folks on the walls of the grounds collecting dry firewood. I had not expected to see such an abundance of trees in Delhi. These tree lined roads instantly affirm the city's capital quality.
Back at the chaotic Karol Bagh, we inch through the traffic. Totally oblivious of all the frenzied human activity around him, a stay dog takes a long relaxed dump on the road divider. Perhaps this is the fertilizer that maintains the green in the plants on those dividers. There are two other man-made forms of irrigation in the city: Spit irrigation and Piss irrigation. Considering the size of the population, both are largely productive operations.
We had asked Santoshji to take us some place where could find fruits. He stops by the two carts parked at the end of Saraswati marg. As soon as the fellow hears Amma's English, the price of oranges go up to Rs. 100 per kg. We drop the fruit idea and relieve Santoshji for the day. He would be back to pick us up tomorrow morning at 9:00am. Saraswati marg has several eateries. There are some boards in Tamil, Kannada and Telugu as well. We skip the Udupi restaurants and pick Saravana Bhavan. Ghee roasts, paper roasts and onion uthappams. The price same as that of Thiruvananthapuram.
While walking back to the hotel, a young man approaches, "Saar, aapko pen drive chahiye?" (Sir, would you like to buy a pen drive?). I am glad he wasn't pimping or selling drugs. USB drive soliciting after sunset on a congested narrow street next to the city's big, old market is a mark of the times, a sign of the new India.
We sleep as soon as our heads hit the pillows. But not before we bitch about Santoshji. We brand him a slacker. Obviously, he is not going to find us good restaurants. He is too lazy to even take us to a fruit market. We fondly recollect Murugan, the guide and driver at Munnar. We determine to stump Santoshji next day by making clear our demands about places we want to go in the sequence we want to go.
Sound of footsteps in the upper floor wake me up around midnight. Some unidentifiable unbearbly loud machine roars from 12:15 to 12:45. The life of those who barely make ends meet in this city is tough indeed.
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