The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - DAY OUT IN DELHI.

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.