Day One, Part two: Old Delhi December 22, 2011

Day One, Part Two

Onto the bus, the guide, Regina, gives us the correct pronunciation for her name, the gates open and we are thrust into the sea of Delhi that moves in constant flux of waves of light and darkness, or so it seems. To judge a city like this on first glance, or even first experience is a fool’s path. After this morning’s sortie into the streets and the invasion of people and their wares for only this many rupees, I was aware that part of me was expecting more of the same. Though I was not up for that, I did feel like I had a greater sense of what to expect and how to be, in the second encounter. I had traded my shiny Canon camera bag for a big blue bag that in no way hinted of its contents or gave blatant secrets to my character.

We moved through the less than common elements of the city, heading ultimately for Old Delhi, where one experiences the “real” Delhi…for those brave enough. Of course, our air-conditioned bus high above the street with water and windows, the eleven of us, with drivers and guide, moved confidently into what soon became the gates of transformation, for me. I brought along my digital stereo recorder so I could record the sounds of the city, a cacophonous soundtrack that shocks the senses. Now, informed that in a moment we would disembark, and take rickshaw rides into Old Delhi, a sense of excitement stirred. The instant we entered this part of town, despite the narrow streets of endless vendors and shops, I noticed that something felt very different….so much different from the strong discomfort in my belly this morning. Contrary to the way it appeared, and despite this rolling oscillation of people punctuating the ambiance with the sounds of living, I actually felt safer.

Two to a rickshaw. With camera on wide angle, and audio recorder poised to record, we entered the place where buildings were up to 1000 years old. This is where people come from all over the world to get what they desire. It is packed main streets with side streets that lead to alleys that lead to dead ends. Everywhere there are shops and the people who work there, and the people there to buy.  Sections organized by product, electronics, media devices, wedding attire, cloth, food, glasses, shoes, jackets, toiletries, cosmetics, pharmacies, computers, car parts, animal parts, men’s ware, ladies wear, children’s wear, on and on and on it goes. Each turn leads to a tighter spot. Rickshaw and pedestrian and scooter moving like red blood cells through the arteries of the oldest section of this massive city. We round a corner, going so slowly that the guide walks beside us, sharing historical facts in that beautiful Indian voice just above the horns and the sounds of selling. Dogs all over the place, simply walking or lying on the sidewalks, coexisting with the locals. Section after section of specialties crawl by. In each, two things become remarkably obvious, the shopkeepers just sit in their respective six foot storefront and conduct business with patrons who sit on mattresses that cover the floors, and the people navigate like bats through the streets. There are quite simply, few, if any, mishaps. It is a dance of life where everybody is a player who knows their part and plays it out with maximum efficiency. There are manners, and there is respect, and there is conversation, and there is direction giving, and there is exchange. And we, 8, glide through it all. The rickshaw driver, a man half my size, strains to move the cart through this everchanging throughway, rubbing wheels with passersby, bouncing through potholes, turning on a dime to miss a sure accident, these masters guide their precious cargo. I am speaking into the recorder and snapping photos  a quick pace. I say what I see. It is such a beautiful experience. 

Even more remarkable is the amount of eye contact between people.  There is something here that feels honorable, a deep mutual respect for one another, a common agreement  to the rules of the game. Even when we became separated from the others, I, at no point, felt uncomfortable. I just knew we were in good hands. We rubbed elbows. People put their hands on my legs to gain balance in a tight spot. Strangers helped pull a rickshaw out of a rut and then disappeared into the colorful mass. There were smiles all over, amidst what could easily have been judged squalor and harsh conditions. Overhead the electrical lines attached to trees and storefronts snaked along the streets in a mass that was boggling…delivering the life blood light to the thousands of shops that relied upon them. It was the most beautiful of dances I have personally experienced. 

On we went, recording and pixing as we go, offering narrative, but often allowing just the sounds of the streets to find their way into the recorder. We turned left to see the oldest house in the area and then the smells hit us, the striking, pungent  fragrances of the Spice Market…the roots of the East India company that brought civilization to the west. Color rich spices and herbs in large gunny sacks being peddled and passed on to buyers. It was intoxicating. 

A side trip through several back alleys lead us to a Jain Buddhist Temple in the midst of it all. A three storied sacred space with unbelievable carvings and statues and mosaics, the buildings themselves over
a thousand years old. Stunning, humbling, inspiring.

Back in the bus, nearing  rushhour.  we inch toward the space where the bus was left. The rickshaw driver looks back and says ,”heavy.” We all smile. I have a deep respect for this young man who makes  a living wheeling people where they need to go . Fearless and competent they do what they do to make  this part of the city flow smoothly

What a lesson for me. Obvious hasty interpretation would likely result in bypassing the area. Instead I was shown the power of resourcefulness, creativity, cooperation, respect, inventiveness, mutual benefit, humans combining efforts to create a way of life that works. It was the ride of a lifetime, as impactful as when I first saw a salmon run.

It is easy to begin to look at one’s own life with different eyes. The challenges I face on a daily basis are not as organic as those that these people face. My impatience and emotional reactions would not fly well in a place like this. Thank you Old Delhi. Thank you, the rickshaw driver in the green shirt.

Tomorrow, we rise early to go to the airport to fly to Ananda, one of the most magnificent spas in the world. I have a lot of attitude and past and memory to wash off…through and through. There is a rebirth in the wind