The India Journals, Ch. 39, Old Delhi and the Schedule that Was

No people whose word for 'yesterday' is the same as their word for 'tomorrow' can be said to have a firm grip on the time.― Salman Rushdie, Midnight's Children

Schedules dare to be broken.  The human impudence that creates a schedule in the first place births the folly that will will smash a schedule into smithereens, throwing numbers separated by colons and carefully crafted timelines to all points of the compass, all the while giving guides and restaurant owners and rickshaw drivers ulcers.

It's at times like those that Serendipity sneaks in and livens up the day.   To wit, take our morning in Old Delhi:

We play our part, we tourists who regard our guide's instructions as carved in the red sandstone from which the Jama Masjif Mosque is constructed.  When our allotted time in the mosque has expired, we turn in our "fashionable" robes and once again become the dreaded "semi-naked foreigners."   Outside the main gate, we rummage around until we find our shoes, put them on, and descend the stone steps.

Fashionable, no longer semi-naked foreigners.

Our coach is parked there, just to the side of the street, and guide Dineesh waits for us to assemble.   Lean and wiry men push their bicycle rickshaws into the crowd and Dineesh supervises the hap-hazard loading of American tourists into the  narrow seats of the carts.

And then, we're off.  The bicycles are primitive.   There are no ten speeds or twenty speeds, no fat tires for ease of ride, no soft fancy seats for the struggling Indian peddling the contraption through bumpy lanes and congested traffic.

Hanging on is a necessity.   Taking photos in focus is just plain luck.   Taking a video while trying not to drop the camera or fall out of the rickshaw is a miracle.   Hence, two short videos of the beginning of the ride follow.  I keep accidentally pressing the off button, so I opt to try still shots.

We turn off this main street into the 17th century lanes and passageways, so crowded with shoppers and vendors that progress is often halted, making it even more difficult for the pedicab peddler who has then lost momentum.

When the buildings were erected in the 1600s, there was no internal wiring for electricity, obviously, so when electricity came to Old Delhi, the wires were strung on the outsides of buildings.   Over the years, as more and more buildings and rooms were wired, a splendiferous tangle of wires accumulated over the narrow lanes, threatening to  block out the light in places.

To make a dangerous situation even more dangerous, monkeys like to crouch amongst the wires, and, as you can see, play with them.

On we go through these fascinating alleyways, bumping and bouncing and soaking in all the sights and smells.

As we pass the grape vendor above, we make a left turn onto a brighter, smoother street, but one just as busy with commerce of the day.

Lots of book stores.

Stringing marigold blossoms.

Shoeshine.

 I take a photo of my "driver," tip him, and board the coach.   So far, so good.

Eventually we are all present and accounted for on the coach.  Right then is when the folly of keeping to a schedule, birthed by the human impudence of creating one in the first place, is lost.   For us tourists, it is Serendipity calling with a Jain parade, a long, loud, interminable celebration that locks our coach in tight to the curb.   Lunch will have to wait until the parade is over.

Unlike the naked Jain saint-to-be we had seen earlier, there are no naked men in this parade, but a fantastic array of uniforms, marching bands, dancers, and on-lookers delighted with the whole scene.

Dineesh looks at his watch and pales.  There is nothing he can do.   Here are photos of only a bit of the parade, taken through the window of the coach.   It must have lasted a half hour.

This group of children had been begging at the side of the coach before the parade began.

Soon, the cheeky little guys are dancing  right in the middle of the music makers.

Finally.   The coach pulls away from the curb and heads out of Old Delhi, bound for Broadway.

Yes, Broadway.   The name of the restaurant where we are to have lunch.

Poster for Bollywood.

Propane bottles.

Botton, clockwise:  Tandoori chicken (sigh, dry and over-cooked), fish, rice, dal, and a green thing.   Also available were lamb in yoghurt, butter chicken, potato with cumin, spinach with cumin, and vegetable kabob.   Oh, and naan, of course.

This is our last outing.   Tonight we will gather in the hotel dining room for a farewell dinner.  Tomorrow evening, the coach will take us to the airport.   That means we have all of this afternoon and all of tomorrow until evening to ourselves.   Ususally, this free time is afforded to tourists to go to sites or restaurants on our own.

Further, our guide Dineesh will not be available tomorrow as he will go to the airport earlier to meet a new group of tourists.   Avril, who has been guiding the other half--the orange half-- of our total group will be available to us at the airport.

Dineesh advises us not to go out of the hotel tomorrow.   There is nothing to see in that neighborhood and it might be dangerous on our own, he explains  This is the most peculiar ending to a group tour I have ever experienced.

For myself, I am glad for the opportunity to rest my aching body and pack by bag at leisure, but I am not sure how I feel about a guide leaving us early and an entire day without an activity.

The India Journals will conclude with two more chapters.   In the next, I will tell you about an iconic place in India, a most fitting end to the journey in and of India.

A Preview of Coming Events

I have decided I MUST finish the India Journals before I begin the Fur and Feathers Journals, an account of the four and a half days I spent in Lake Clark National Park.   The only things the Muse wants to write about are bears and puffins.

So, I'm working on both at the same time.   Should be interesting.

In the meantime, here's a teaser of things to come:

Two of a kind.   These are horned puffins.

When the brown bear's too close to fit in the view finder....

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jog

Kicked back and relaxing after five days at Silver Salmon creek with professional photographer Ron Niebrugge from Seward, five photographers, and one snapshot taker.

The India Journals, Ch. 38, Terrorists and Semi-Naked Foreigners

Ch. 38, Terrorists and Semi-Naked Foreigners

We are on our way to visit the largest mosque in India. a fine example of Mughal architecture.   Had I known it has twice been the site of terrorist attacks, I might have reconsidered.    Had I known I would have to participate in a fashion show, I definitely would have reconsidered.

I didn’t know either of those things so I board the coach blissfully unaware of what waited for me

The coach squeezed through the narrow streets of Old Delhi, all teeming with people, rickshaws, taxis, vehicles of every sort and size, and parked in an impossibly small spot.  It seems every other tourist coach in India has the same destination in mind today.

This is where, in 2010, two gunmen on a motorcycle sprayed a parked tourist bus with gunfire, injuring two Taiwanese.   A few hours later, a nearby vehicle was rigged to explode but the timers malfunctioned ad the explosives merely caught fire.

Our group makes its way through the large crowd of people at Gate 3 of the Jama Masjid, and climbs the 39 steps to the massive red sandstone gate.   We were previously told we would have to remove our shoes, as is the custom in mosques.   Also, we were to dress modestly, and not wear short skirts or shorts, or sleeveless blouses.

Two men were arrested and interrogated about the ambush and bombing.   One claimed he was instructed by an India Mujahedin imam based in Karachi, Pakistan, to target the mosque because the group was upset with the mosque’s imam for allowing “semi-naked” foreigners inside. 

Hence, the fashion show--the covering of the semi-naked foreigners.  

 All women are required to don a robe supplied by attendants in the portal, after leaving their shoes outside.  The robes are voluminous and shapeless, and only Sandy looks sharp in her robe, but then, Sandy looks sharp in anything she was wearing.   The rest of us?   Voluminous and shapeless.

The colorful covered-up "semi-naked foreigners."   Sandy is third from right.   Notice the artistic tying of the bottom of the robe.   I had help getting "dressed," and neither of us could figure out what went where.

From an Indian travel site:

Travellers can hire robes at the northern gate. This may be the only time you get to dress like a local without feeling like an outsider so make the most of it.

I did NOT see any locals dressed in robes like this and looking this voluminous and shapeless.   Some of the ladies wore their robes like hospital gowns, others like bathrobes.   I did the best I could, trying not to strangle myself in the yards of cotton.

The name of the mosque, Masjid-i-Jahan Numa, more commonly known as Jama Masjid, means “the mosque commanding a view of the world.   It is built on a natural rise, thus requiring 30 or more steps to enter it.   It is also referred to as the Friday congregational mosque as many Muslims attend the Friday calls to prayer, where the courtyard can hold 25,000 worshipers!

Matt Brandon's photo shows the courtyard filled with worshipers, with the prayer hall  beyond.   We entered by the gate at center-right.

Five thousand laborers worked for six years and completed the buildings in 1656.    The prayer hall is 261 feet long, flanked by two 130 feet high minarets.   Three gold-plated domes cap the hall.   All mosques are required to face Mecca, and this one face to the west.

There's a key to the numbers, but it's in Hindi.   Five is the prayer hall.  Wikimedia photo.

 

I entered the hall by climbing the steps to the platform five feet above the courtyard and walked through the main arch.   Inside, a barefoot man was kneeling in prayer.   He looked up, apparently more curious about the visitors than having his prayers interrupted.

The black and white marble design in the floor marks a 3'x18" spot for the prayer rugs.   There are 899 such spaces.   We probably should not have been walking on the prayer rugs, but we didn't know what they were.

A short distance down the hall was a bookcase with a number of very old volumes on its shelved.   Dinesh had asked up not to touch the books as they were Korans.   I didn’t touch them; I took a photo of them.

As I walked through the courtyard, I came across a sunken water pool, and not knowing its significance, walked on by without taking a photo of the simple, unadorned pool.   

But in 2006, with a number of worshipers in the courtyard, someone carrying a plastic bag paused beside the pool long enough to leave the bag and depart.   The Wazoo Khana is where Muslims wash their hands and feet before praying.

Shortly after, an explosion rocked the courtyard, injuring 13.  Seven minutes later, another explosion went off a short distance away.  The mosque itself was undamaged.

We left the mosque through Gate 3, doffing our stylish robes and locating our shoes.

And then we walked down the steps and went to our parked tourist bus.   You know, right where two men on motorcycles had sprayed a bus with bullets.   They would have had  a number of buses from which to choose as their target this day.

Wikimedia.