August 16
The first stop on Markus's and my tour of Delhi was the Crafts Museum where our main objective was to clandestinely take contraband photographs without getting kicked out. In the Gift Shop we were enchanted by the wind chimes, but our wallets stayed sealed.We then went to the National Gallery of Modern Art where all bags and cameras were checked except for Markus's 8.1 megapixel cell phone camera. It was a dizzying maze of diplays arranged seemingly without methodology. In the "Seeds of Time" collection my imagination is captured by the unsung Tilly Kettle, by whose name and subject matter - well-executed dancing Indian women - I presume was a British female. She was only 46 when she died in 1786. I wondered what brought her to India? Was she the daughter of a General? The wife of a liberal businessman who indulged her talents for the arts? Did she have children? Was she happy? How did she die?
I enjoyed a work showing the sunken temple in Varanasi believed to have been cursed by the builder's mother 150 years ago, the time at which the painting was created as the featured temple was proudly erect and firmly stationed.
We wandered through the extensive modern Indian art exhibitions, accessed through a labyrinth of glass ramps seemingly leading the visitor back on her own path repeatedly. I was arrested by a large black and white photograph of a doll buried in gravel, only its face and part of its stomach visible through the detritus. The paint on its wooden eyes had rubbed off, leaving two creepily vacant, unseeing orbs. Then I read the card.
"Victim of Bhopal chemical disaster."
Horror forced me to look at the photo again. I am haunted.
We couldn't find our way out of the Museum. I was tempted to leap over ramps, but wisely the fear of plummeting to certain agony kept my movements rational. Markus suggested he could pee on one of the paintings, indubitably ensuring a most expeditious escort to the exit but also perhaps time in an Indian jail which would not be optimal. After 15 minutes of circling and doubling back we finally passed dear Tilly Kettle and escaped to the sorry excuse for a gift shop. The pickings were slim. When I tried to get a closer look at one of the shelves the woman barked at me: No! You can't go there!" Markus said, "You're right. Indians are bossy!"
We exited into Delhi's mugginess and gently but forcefully persuaded our driver to take us to Moti Mahal for lunch even though he complained there was no parking for him. "This is not about you!" I felt like squawking. We negotiated that we would meet him in 3 hours from dropping us off at the Red Fort. We gave him sufficient funds to cover the parking fees.
Moti Mahal was worth the battle with the driver. Influenced by many beers later that day, Markus confessed that he almost cried after tasting the butter chicken. The chicken tikka garlic-cardamon, jalfreezi (mixed vegetables) with coriander, raita with cucumber and tomatoes washed down with lemon soda were worthy companions.
On our walk to the Jami Masjid I wasn't paying attention and got run into by a bicycle rickshaw, ouch. We ascended the formidable steps and, as I didn't want to pay 200 rupees to take photos, I waited outside while a picnic tablecloth-wrapped Markus went inside and secretly videotaped the interior on his phone.
Map in hand I took Markus on a walk though the bazaar. It was very dark, narrow, and completely tourist-free. Markus was nervous. Following my instincts and the slivers of bright sky shining through the architectural labyrinth, I navigated us to a main road.
We were followed by a bike rickshaw who offered to take us on an hour tour for 200 rupees. We settled on 150. Our driver, Sunny, was 60 years old. He took us to the spice market, but given that it was Sunday there was nothing to see. While Sunny grabbed his lunch it started to rain. Markus and I took shelter and everyone was fascinated by us. Sunny took us through alleyways and suggested we visit a Jain temple at the end of a cul-de-sac, so to speak.
The sign at the temple warned that menstruating women were not welcome. Lovely. We walked upstairs and were immediately greeted by an earnest Jain priest (?) with short brown hair, big brown eyes and dressed all in white. I'm sure he was convinced he was speaking clear English, but it actually sounded like
"Ditcha jayn moooka hul puja, gold thousand Mughal ninna temple. Come"!"
Markus looked at me like I was supposed to understand. I looked back at him and subtly shook my head. Our guide went through a lengthy explanation about a particular figure in front of which was a silver box. He lifted the box to reveal an outline of feet.
"Shmage"," the priest commented reverently. Markus looked flummoxed.
Pointing to a bench, Markus asked, "Can I sit here?"
"No." was the non-negotiable answer. *That* we understood clearly.
Our charming guide walked us to the third stopping point. Markus suddenly raised his eyebrows and asked me, "Oh! We're on the tour?" I burst out laughing. But the priest barely noticed, plowing ahead with his myriad sentences beginning with "Ditcha jayn."
The temple was beautiful. The painted walls were exquisitely detailed with gold plating, Belgian glass, mirrors and thousands of painted figurines. Our guide plugged in a Chinese bell machine. I was deaf.
At the end of the involuntary tour our guide demanded 100 rupees. Markus was having none of that. 20 rupees, thank you very much and good day.
Outside we sat with Sunny under an overhang while it poured, watching the Jains bathe in rain. Sunny told us he had been a rickshaw driver for 25 years. He could neither read nor write, but spoke English perfectly. He lived with his family under a plastic tarp down by the river. He used to be a hand rickshaw driver in Calcutta and worked with Mother Teresa for six years. We tipped him 250 rupees.
Reunited with our driver we headed to Castle 9 Bar at Connaught Place. Shortly after we sat down Markus pointed out that a couple who had been smooching nearby had been told to stop kissing.
"Are you serious?" I was shocked.
"I'll go ask," says Markus who duly confirms that the couple at the back of the bar was requested by the management to stop making out.
We headed to The Host restaurant for dinner where we ordered daal makhani, lahshuni chicken kebab, onion kulcha and lime soda. Markus had been to chef school at age 17 and loved to eat, but I was having trouble keeping up. I heard more about his "Mr. Drink and Fly" experiences, that he would party in Sweden on a Friday and wake up in Spain on a Sunday, not knowing how he got there. He had done this 7 or 8 times, and recognized that it was scary. Especially because the tickets were always one way.
Not to let a Sunday night end quietly, we proceeded to Addictive Dragon's Maharani bar. Chris Brown's "Forever" came on and I was moved to dance. A trio of young Indian men entered the bar and one began dancing with me. Staff told him to stop dancing, that it wasn't cool for the bar even though there was only the five of us. They turned down the music lest we miss the point. No kissing in bars, no dancing in bars - WTF?
Sahil, Samir and Mayank were our new Indian friends. Markus showed off photos of his girlfriend in a bathing suit and it was like watching three cats on catnip. Samir tried to advise me that everyone in Ladakh (Himalayan India) was a thief, but I couldn't be sure because his English was nearly incoherent. At one point Markus went to the bathroom and Sahil put his sweaty palm on my leg for just a beat too long. I jerked my knee and reflexively said "get off." He didn't try it again. I was happy when Markus returned.
The three musketeers left before us, with unintelligible Samir saying he was going to call me when I was back in Delhi, as if. I told Markus about the leg incident. He felt bad, but it was also clear that he was quite drunk by this point.
On the tuktuk ride home he was ruminating about how cheap everything was in India, and how his partners in China are appalled by how he tries to bargain constantly.
"Cheap like a Jew," he slurs.
"What?" I start.
"We have an expression in Sweden, when someone is cheap we say they're like a Jew."
"What the hell does Sweden know about Jews?" I barked.
"Nothing," he sheepishly admitted.
I told him I was personally offended as I was Jewish. Then, as is so often the case when faced with this type of scenario, the perpetrator says something like, "I have many friends who are Jews." Here we go.
But he surprised me. "I have a Jewish tattoo on my body."
I couldn't help myself. "Where?"
He lifted his shirt back. There, surrounded by flames, was the Hebrew word for God. It was sizeable.
"Can you read it?" he asks.
"Yes." I tell him it says I want a falafel with extra hot sauce. I don't really.
"Why do you have that?" I ask, very curious. He answers that it's personal, but that he's been to Israel many times and that he is a Christian who tries to be a good Christian. I can't really decipher the story through the alcohol, but it was something about an Israeli girlfriend. He said that the tattoo had landed him in some hot water, like when he was in a sauna in Iraq. Unfortunately, I never got the story because just then we arrived at the Hotel Ananda. A big hug, a big goodbye, a wish of safe travels, and I scurried up the Hotel's steps.
Source: pualib.blogspot.com
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