The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - DAY OUT IN DELHI.
(Printable
version here)
Air India Airlines had a very bad reputation. I had flown
with them only once before and that had been years ago on
a flight from London to New York. The only other westerner
on the aircraft had been an American woman who had yelled
all the way from the boarding gate to the aircraft door that
she didn’t want to fly home on Air India. I had thought
she was potty but by the time we reached New York I knew exactly
what she meant. The aircraft was a mess internally with doors
to overhead lockers fitting badly and a gap beside my window
seat that allowed me to look into the hold. Nothing I had
heard from travellers recently gave me reason to believe things
had improved much with Air India.
We were flying from Chennai to Delhi with Jet Airways India.
They were more expensive but said to be best the country had
to offer. The aircraft, the service and the food were indeed
excellent.
Delhi airport was far superior to Bombay and more organised
to deal with foreign tourists - especially in the ablution
department.
I left Brian with the luggage as I nipped to the loo before
we set off into the unknown. There was a long queue of American
women of a certain age. All were immaculately turned out and
had the Joan Rivers look: taut facial skin beautifully made
up, and hair that looked as if it had been professionally
styled five minutes ago. They looked to be in their fifties
but I bet they were in their seventies. The woman in front
of me was wearing a small fortune in jewellery.
I edged forward to see what was causing the delay. An Indian
attendant was handing out lengths of toilet paper to each
American as she disappeared into the only western toilet.
These women were not about to take on the Indian version.
I excused myself and walked into one of the other cubicles,
caused looks of amazement.
As I squatted unceremoniously in my little booth listening
to their excited chatter, I couldn’t help thinking that
these well-heeled visitors were in for a big shock if their
tour operator let them loose in the real India.
The taxi drive into Delhi was pleasant and the road was
lined with international hotels such as The Sheraton and The
Hilton. We enjoyed the ride but we were aware of one warning
factor; it was only 9.a.m. and already extremely warm. This
did not bode well for a long day in Delhi.
We were catching a train to Jodhpur at 9.p.m. from the station
in Old Delhi but we decided to park our bags for the day at
the station in New Delhi.
I have never, ever in my life been subjected to such blatant
liars as we met in that station. We stood by one of the ticket
offices deciding which way to go when an Indian popped up
in front of us and told us the ticket office was closed. We
didn’t want to buy a ticket anyway but we could see
it was open and told him so. He insisted it was closed.
Similar men pestered us at every footstep. We would have
put it down to one lunatic, as it was there were hordes of
them, and I felt that it was Brian and I who were in danger
of going insane.
We found the left luggage department, stood in a long queue,
filled in the necessary form [including my date of birth and
preference for vegetarian food]. Bizarre.
But the normally unflappable Mr Cool was beginning to seethe
at the number of Indians walking straight to the front of
the queue. The Indians who were being displaced were clearly
not happy but did not seem inclined to do much about it.
Brian is like a firework. I could leave him in a box from
one year to the next. He may be rattled and shaken but nothing
much bothers him. However, if once anyone is stupid enough
to light the touch paper I make a point of standing back to
enjoying the show.
The Indians in the queue and the Indians who were pushing
in seemed to understand Brian’s wrath and were quick
to stand clear as he hurled rucksacks and bags over their
heads to the waiting attendant. But they became confused when
he dragged with him everyone who was in front of us in the
queue.
He wouldn’t take no for an answer as be picked up trunks
and suitcases and barged through the melee thumping them down
on the counter. That was my boy, like a rogue elephant on
the loose.
In no time at all we were out of the station being driven
mad by the rickshaw men. I am more like a firecracker in the
firework stakes; I continually go off, and so exploding every
time we were hassled we made our way through the ranks of
taxis and rickshaws across the busy main road to the area
called Paharganj.
This was the entrance to the city’s Main Bazaar. It
was a narrow street, perhaps 20ft wide, but the shops and
stalls had begun to reclaim it with all manner of merchandise
on tables and rails. In places the road was as little as 9ft
wide and this had to accommodate hundreds of pedestrians,
and two-way traffic of cycle rickshaws and motor rickshaws.
It was hot, hazardous, and fume-filled.
We hadn’t tripped and swerved more than a few hundred
yards when I had to call a halt. Brian wanted to continue
but I pointed out that by the time we had pushed through this
crowd we would be filthy and sweaty and we had another 11
hours to kill. Other westerners we saw on our short foray
into the bazaar, resembled the great unwashed. I could see
no likelihood of finding somewhere pleasant to sit and while
away a few hours in this district.
Our main task was to find somewhere to stop for the night
when we returned to Delhi from our trip to the north, just
prior to our flying home.
An area called Connaught Place was supposed to be where we
would find up-market hotels and shops. We looked at the map
and it didn’t seem too far to walk.
Every foot of the way we were shouted at and followed by rickshaws.
The drivers constantly called out “ You go India Gate?
You go shop? You go government emporium it shut, I take you
good shopping! You go Tibetan market it shut, I know good
place!’’ We walked for half an hour and it never
stopped.
I had bought some “perfumed” antiseptic wipes
but they left my hands smelling of fish. I told Brian that
the next beggar that started tapping my sleeve could have
them.
Before long I was given the opportunity to dispose of them.
The female recipient wasn’t amused because she was interested
only in money.
We were then approached by a well-dressed man who said he
was a journalist. He began to give us a hard time over giving
the beggars money and encouraging them. We explained politely
that we hadn’t and wouldn’t give cash. The man
became very rude. He spoke with such a condescending air that
this fellow was seriously in danger of relighting Brian’s
fuse.
Twice in one year was unheard of twice in one day was inconceivable,
but it was a good indication of where our patience level was
on a scale of 1-10, and I think perhaps we were in minus figures
at that stage.
We passed some really terrible-looking hotels. After a long
hot walk along a wide tree-lined road and without too much
hassle we came upon some modern high-rise hotels. I checked
out the rooms in two, but they were very grim and cost £45
per night. If we made our way back towards the airport I had
no doubt we would be in the £100 bracket.
Farther on we came to the Hotel Kanishka. It was very big,
had a swimming pool, and boasted a coffee shop. The reception
area was vast, with marble floors, mahogany registration desks
and occasional furniture. Brian flopped down into one of the
sofas while I asked for the tariff. The best deal I could
get was £70 per night. I was not thrilled.
We decided to have something to eat in the restaurant and
discuss it, while taking advantage of the air conditioning.
The menu was abysmal and once the tatty waiters realised we
were not going to order drinks and three courses they became
quite surly. When it came to a change of shift for the staff,
one waiter asked us for a tip. We asked: “What for?”
After lunch I reluctantly made a reservation for our return.
I didn’t check the rooms; I didn’t think it would
be necessary.
We sat around in the lounge for a while longer, and our immediate
problem was: what could we do for the rest of the hot Sunday
afternoon?
The guidebook mentioned a famous ice cream parlour so with
nothing better to do we headed in it’s direction.
Nirulas was an ice-cream shop and a restaurant which sold
pizzas. A crowd of well-dressed Indian families stood outside
licking large multi layered cones. This was clearly a haunt
of the wealthy as the prices were far more expensive than
in the U.K. The type that the most were tucking into cost
about £2.50, we were quite astonished. We weren’t
hungry or particularly thirsty but we went inside to see what
was the least we could buy and keep a seat. We settled for
ice cream sundae.
I should have been swooning with delight at the chocolatey,
fudgy, nutty concoction placed before me, but I was overwhelmed
with calorific guilt at every mouthful. As usual Brian felt
only pleasure, greed and gluttony. He decided that my sundae
was better than his and ordered a second one. When he had
finished licking the chocolate sauce from his moustache I
asked him if he would like a third. He said yes.
I told him to sod off.
When we were just too bored to sit there any longer we took
a walk into a park. As with everything, the park wasn’t
a park as we know it.
The grass was scrubby and dry and every tree or bench had
one or more Indians sleeping on it or lying under it. There
were a handful of dirty westerners scattered about and a Japanese
boy in full hippy regalia twirling about flinging his arms
all over, completely out of his head on something. Two hose
pipes lying across a path were turned on full blast but as
there were no gardeners about they just pumped water on to
the grass creating a small marshy area.
We could find nowhere to sit in the shade, and made do with
standing under a sad-looking tree. Immediately we had three
Indian ‘ business ’ men around us.
The filthiest of the three wore clothes that were thick with
age-old grease and grime. His nails were caked in dirt, and
he was particularly keen to clean out Brian’s ears.
The second was an old man who wanted to give either of us
a back massage. The third was a young lad offering a foot
massage.
At this point I was harassed, had a throbbing headache and
the mild rumblings of stomach cramps. I had two options: cry
or kill. I went for the latter and Brian and I stood back
to back and gave our best performance at beggar baiting.
The boy with the back massage was so cocky I wanted to slap
him. When he realised we were Brits he went into a sales pitch
in a Cockney accent. In other circumstances I might have laughed,
but when he ended his spiel with ‘’good, arn I,
cocker?’’ I sensed a way to make myself feel much
better.
First I pretended I couldn’t understand him. When he
said: “ I’ve got a really good London accent,
I’ve been told,’’ I replied that it was
very cruel of someone to tell him that. They were making a
terrible joke of him and his accent was very bad.
That wiped the smile off his face and he cleared off.
I turned my attention to Mr Back massage as Brian was still
amusing himself with Mr Ear cleaner.
I didn’t see the point of beating around the bush with
this chap and his English was quite good, so I told him that
he couldn’t seriously believe I would let his filthy
hands anywhere near either of us. He produced an old notebook
with references from people who thought his work was magnificent.
I told him they were all probably on drugs and kept pointing
at his hands and nails saying: ‘’Look at them!
They are filthy, disgusting, go away.’’
No sooner were we rid of the motley pests than I felt something
drop on my head and shoulder from the tree above. I had just
been anointed with the smelliest bird pooh. By the size of
the dollops it must have been an eagle, but we didn’t
see the culprit as I was too busy jumping up and down squealing:
‘’Get it off, get it off!’’ As luck
would have it Brian had some tissues in his pocket and was
able to wipe most of it off.
We decided to collect our bags from the left luggage store
and then make our way to Old Delhi and have a look around
there.
When we reached the scene of Brian’s previous little
outburst I stood back and let him sort out the baggage removal.
He was a long time and I began to wonder if they were making
life difficult for him. I looked through some bars into the
storeroom and could see him standing with three guards and
a young western woman, and he was laughing his head off. When
he looked up and saw me he beckoned me to come in. The girl
was French and had lost the receipt for her luggage. For some
reason Brian had been commandeered to vouch for her and to
sign a declaration to the effect that the luggage she was
claiming was hers. The fact that he didn’t know this
girl from Adam did not hinder proceedings. The authorities
needed another signature for their paperwork and that is why
I had been hailed. I signed where requested and was amazed
to see that I needed to give my father’s name, occupation,
and date of birth.
We were now at the mercy of the thousand and one cabbies.
I fought my way through to the prepaid taxi rank. As I leaned
forward to speak to the man in the booth I was pushed and
crushed against the boards by at least ten drivers fighting
for the fare. I turned around and with my eyes bulging in
temper and effort I shouted as loudly as I could: ‘’Get
away from me!’’
The drivers were so surprised that they nearly tripped over
themselves as they jumped backwards. I calmly paid our fare
to Old Delhi station and we climbed aboard a battered old
rickshaw.
The drive to old Delhi was like turning back pages in a
history book. Bouncing along in our cramped cab we went back
in time to the late 18th Century. The buildings were ancient
and dusty with ornate carvings and shutters. The streets were
narrow and full of people and cows. Old men and women sat
in the junctions of busy lanes with baskets of fruit and spices.
It almost had a medieval feel.
Old Delhi station was enormous and once again we dumped our
gear in the left luggage store. It was dark now and we were
too tired and dirty to go on walkabout, but there was nothing
else to do. I suggested we find some water and maybe some
biscuits to eat on the train.
Crossing the road was perilous as there was every form of
transport fighting for space. Within ten minutes we were being
bitten by mozzies and I didn’t have any repellent with
me.
We found a small shop selling mozzy cream and we stood outside
being jostled by the crowds as we tried to rub cream over
the dirt on all exposed areas. I felt divine.
We bought water and biscuits and made our way back to the
station. Luckily our train was in, and we could board. Brian
went to retrieve our bags and I waited on the main thoroughfare.
I was too knackered to move.
As I stood there I was approached by a white hippy begging
for money. I don’t know that I would have been any more
compassionate if he had told me he was desperate to get home,
but as it was he wanted money for cigarettes, I was disgusted
and just said: ‘’Oh for Christ’s sake!’’
He got the message and wandered off.
We had been allocated two top bunks which was lousy for Brian
as there wasn’t room for him to sit up, but as we were
first aboard we made up our beds and settled ourselves.
We had an elderly Indian couple for company and their two
grandchildren; one look at Brian and the children were too
terrified to be noisy. If the old couple spoke any English
they weren’t letting on, which suited us just fine.
Sweaty and dirty we fell asleep quite quickly and rattled
our way towards Rajasthan as we dreamed.
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