February 19, 2012 Delhi Agra Weekend Episode 4
My two hundredth day in India, I wake up inside the windowless room 305 of Hotel Clark Surya at Saraswati Marg, just outside Gaffar Market in Karol Bagh, Delhi. Achan reads aloud from Vayalar's "Purushantharangal", the slim volume about his trip to Delhi in the 1960s. It is now a textbook in some schools. Achan reads about the railway stations Vayalar passed through, all named after the military chiefs of the Mughals, on his way to Delhi. Since we had flown in instead of rail, we were mostly struck by the skyscrapers of Gurgaon. Vayalar writes about Jahannara and Aurangazeb. I had read first hand accounts about them from Tavernier's trips in the 1600s. As Achan proceeds to read about the monuments we are about to visit, I ask him to go mute. I don't want Vayalar telling me last minute what to look for.
Amma asks me to buy a bottle of water from the hotel's restaurant. It costs Rs. 44. I wonder why they have cut the one rupee off from what would have been three times the retail price. Breakfast buffet is ready from 6:30am. Poha, Veg noodles (hakka style), bread, butter, jam, boiled eggs, omelet on demand. Achan and Amma order omelets. The paper hatted chef goes to work at the balcony stove. Since we plan to survive on oranges and snacks till dinner, we load up on the breakfast.
Santoshji answers his mobile and agrees to pick us up in half an hour. He stays in Basant Vihar. We head to the lobby. The Sunday newspapers have arrived. I read a couple of interesting articles in the Hindu. Dr. Vijaya Nagaswami, in his fortnightly column, has discussed the gruesome school teacher murder in Chennai. I am happy to see him use the word "knee-jerk" to describe the reactions that have sprung up in the media about the incident. I had used the same description in my email to him last week. Kalpana Mohan writes about her husband's facebook addiction. I notice that the Keshav's editorial cartoon appears in color. I wonder if it is a Delhi edition thing or if it was so during Sundays even in Kerala. I am not sure.
A mom and two daughters join us on the lobby sofas. The mom must be in her early 60s. She looks Caribbean...a mix of Africa and India with the African part more pronounced in her stubbornly curly hair and wide nose. She resembles one of my grandmas. One daughter looks like her and goes off in search of the restroom. The other one is younger but bigger. She has light blue eyelid color on, it stands out from the rest of her make up. She is busy texting. They speak what sounds like Hindi but in an accent I have never heard before. The second daughter follows the first one. "Where are you from?" I ask the mother. She doesn't understand but smiles. Daughter returns.
"What language are you speaking?" I ask her.
"Hindi" she says.
"Where are you from?"
"Originally Suriname, but we live in Holland."
I try to wrap my head around the English and Dutch colonial reach that takes Indians and Africans to South America and then to Holland. The Hindi that has come back to India now on vacation with them has transmogrified.
"Where are you from, Sir?" She asks.
"Kerala. Would you be visiting Kerala?"
"Not this year. Next year, I am coming to Goa, Kerala and Benares".
Santoshji arrives.
"Have a nice day, ladies!"
"You too!"
Before 9am on a Sunday, Gaffar market is barely waking up. We can drive faster but need to be more careful about the sleepy cycle rickshaws that appear out of nowhere. Both the traffic lights in the market have been cleverly hidden behind lamp post. I wonder if the light poles came first or those hiding lamp posts. I try to check if the towering red Hanuman has managed to open his chest any further. Brisk morning activity in the temple under his legs. The anatomical detailing of his knees are well done.
The long row of Delhi metro rail pillars follow us along the road. Massive 'unshrugging' Atlases rising from the ground balancing the metro on their hand-less mighty concrete arms. Remarkable engineering feat, the metro, that was pulled off with minimum disturbance to the existing road infrastructure.
Santoshji readily agrees that Red Fort must be our first destination. He is in a reconciliation mood. We participate too. He says he had no idea about the "ishtrikknayss" at the Mughal Garden. Earlier, cars were allowed well into the garden area. Now all the "strikk" security measures have been put in place.
Traffic is less since it is a Sunday morning. But it is quite busy at the Gole market circle. Santoshji races to 60-80 kmph as soon as he finds a chance. He shows us Connaught place. Everything is "kostalee" here, he says. So we have been told too. We pass by the Statesman building, the Press Trust India building and Reliance India. The shiny towers of Pragati power corporation and the famous Pragati maidan. The world book fair commences there next week.
We stop at the traffic light of Daryaganj, the street whose name is familiar from novels set in this city. Daryaganj separates Old Delhi from New Delhi. A young disabled beggar woman in a yellow sweater and sari's pallu covering her head sits on the road by the pedestrian crossing. I don't remember seeing traffic lights with a bicycle red and green signal before.
The road narrows into Old Delhi. Some dilapidated monument right at the entrance of the road. The famous sunday book market of the footpath is getting ready. It is almost a kilometer long. Footpath covered in books. If I ever lived in Delhi, this is where I would be on sundays, without question. After the book market, a series of musical instrument shops with interesting names like Rama Krishna Hare Hare. One called Surbhi has a rather curvy tanpura painted on its sign board. Across the street, a doctor's office announces charitable ultrasound for Rs. 300 only. The shoe market on the footpath comes next and it runs on either side of the Jama Masjid gate. Shoes, tshirts, belts, wallets. Incredibly crowded market.
The Red Fort appears on the right. The crowd grows as we enter Chandni Chowk. The Digambar Jain temple with its deep maroon and white towers on the left. We take a U-turn. Santoshji drops us off. He can't park anywhere near by. We will call him when we are done. Though Santoshji has rapidly transformed this morning into a good guide, Achan and Amma buy a Delhi and an Agra photo guides that are peddled at the entrance of the fort.
In the vast paved ground that leads to the entrance of the fort, people from all over the world posing for the obligatory "was here" photograph. An enormous tricolor Indian flag flutters on top of the fort. I wonder what flags the Mughals flew? Or if Nadir Shah and the British later flew flags there?
The ticket rates for entrance are different for Indians and foreigners. Indians get in for a cheap Rs. 10 with another Rs. 5 for the archeological museums inside. Foreigners pay Rs. 250 and more. Some Chinese tourists at the ticket window for foreigners. I stand between some Kannadiga men in the desi queue. A man tries to cut in line. They are always there. Did the Mughals cut off those hastily and slyly inserted hands into the ticket counter in front of others in the queue?!
The 'rghese' part of what must be 'Varghese' surname of the guard on duty is visible just out side the shoulder belt of his mini-Uzi. Another gun totting guard tells Amma in Malayalam to get into the ladies queue for security check. Since he produces a smile along with the instruction, we talk to him in Malayalam. The pat down checking is quick.
Into the circular fortified enclosure at the gate. Grand entrance. Surely many a head have rolled off their necks in this area. There is a projected balcony just enough to seat the emperor himself perhaps. The tall, heavy metal gates that seal the arch entrance way haven't lost their sheen.
The "Chaatha Bazaar" or covered market comes first. It used to be two storeyed from 1648 when Shah Jahan finished the construction that took ten years. Today, there are shops only in the ground level. The painted floral and lotus patterns on the roof have nearly faded to extinction. The shopkeepers are not aggressive. "One price. No bargain" boards in front of a few of them.
Through the arched tunnel of shade and coolness of the market into the bright, warm open area that leads to the Naubat or Naqqara Ghana, the drum house. Ceremonial drums announcing the emperor's and other dignitaries entrance were played from here. The Naqqaras Ghana also played music for the five Muslim prayer times of the day. The market side facade of the building is white while the other side towards the garden and Diwan-i-Am is sandstone red. Some restoration work is in progress on the faded painted panels.
In the second floor of the Naqqara Ghana, the archeological society runs the war museum. The indoor stairway leading up to it is steep and narrow. Weapons from the 16th and 17th century are on display. It is interesting that by the time Babur marched into Delhi and send Humayun to secure Agra after the first battle of Panipat on 21 April, 1526, Vasco da Gama had already established Portuguese presence in Kerala for 28 years! The rising Mughal influence in North India coincides with the European one in South India for the next three centuries before everything goes under the East India company.
The museum showcases arrays of swords and knives. The deadly jaw like Zulfikar reminds me of Jurassic age monsters. Some of the 'khanjar' knives resemble those used by Kalaripayattu martial artists in Kerala. There was even a two-in-one Zulfikar. Chainmail armour, various guards, helmets and other gears were on display. Some samples of better evolved versions of the famous "Matchlock muskets" that powered Babur's way into India from Uzbekistan via Samarkhand. The art work that went into some of the swords is fascinating. There was an embossing of a tiger hunting a deer on one, beautiful golden damascend hilts on others, elephant head handle on yet another.
Amma shows me the back-scratcher that is attached to an arm guard. In some parts of India, it is called "the second wife" apparently relieving the real wife of her back scratching duty towards her husband. A bunch of school kids thunder through the museum in a hurry. Namesake field trips that don't offer any academic benefit even for the teachers. Travel agents profit.
The world war one section of the museum showcases arrays of guns, pistols, fuzes. Couple of well decorated marble powder kegs. Infantry uniforms, measuring instruments, portable telephones and more.
The Diwan-i-Am (Hall of public audience) where the emperor presented himself before the commoners is a dazzling example of archways. Shah Jahan used to give audience thrice a week which Aurangazeb stopped because he thought it was akin to the Hindu devotional concept of "darshan". Right in the center of the huge pillared hall, the emperor's canopy in the white marble inlaid with semiprecious stones. Similar art work on the marble wall panel behind him which also has the door leading to inner chambers. Below the canopy, a marble platform for the minister who took petitions.
The famous peacock throne with 108 rubies and 110 emeralds along with the largest diamonds in the world, that according to Tavernier was valued at Rs. 100 million in 1665, was once housed here. Nadir Shah of Persia carried it away in 1739 along with over 200 kg of precious stones , 1100 kg of pure gold. The throne was lost, dismantled or destroyed after Nadir Shah's assassination in 1757. I will always be suspicious of wealthy Iranians! A wire net now covers the canopy and the mable pedestal. If only Nadir Shah had fallen into something similar.
Behind the Diwan-i-Am comes the Diwan-i-Khas for the special folks and the emperor himself. Hundreds of pigeons flutter about the building landing and taking off from its shiny white roof. The curtains that separated the massive chambers of the building including the king's bedroom have gone long ago. Today it is an open structure, a catacomb of arches. Stone art work continue to dazzle. The bathing house, Hamam, is near by.
Three tourists who look like they have stepped out of history catch my eye. A grand old man with an Afghan turban on his bald head and a long flowing muslim beard inspects the garden while leaning on his long walking stick. He tries to to lift the cordoning rope and go inside while the two others, a younger one with shorter beard and flat Muslim cap and a darker, African looking one with still shorter beard and colorful cap, stop him.
The richly carved door alone retains the only copper that is left in Aurangazeb's mosque. The copper that covered the domes and minarets have been plundered long ago. Some restoration work is in progress. The mosque has a dull appearance without the copper cover. May be the frugal emperor Aurangazeb would have preferred it this way.
White has becoming the predominantly surviving color of the queen's palace called Rang Mahal, the palace of colors. The artificial channel that flowed through it with a marble lotus fountain in the middle are now dry. Next door, a museum of priceless Mughal artifacts. Manuscripts, books and sketches from the 17th century. Proclamations, astrolabes, china, curtains, canopies. A copy of the Delhi Gazette from 1857 reporting the first war of Indian independence. Artifacts from the last Mughal rulers, Bahadur Shah and Zinat Mahal.
The gardens inside the fort are very well maintained. The same cannot be said about the pay & use toilet that operates on a relative charge. The price depends on the looks of the visitors. If they are not locals, it quickly climbs. If they are not Indians, it quickly jumps into dollars and pounds.
Outside the toilet stands a double tree.
A Peepal or Indian tulip is growing out a Neem.
A symbiosis.
A mix of cultures with each retaining its distinction while having the same root.
Delhi life of all colors and shades and speeds continues to flow in cars, on rickshaws, on buses, on scooters and on foot, between the Red Fort and the Jain temple, day after day.
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