New Delhi Dallying

Noisy, chaotic and irresistible

New Delhi is perhaps the most quintessentially ‘Indian’ of all India’s cities, yet at the same time the least ‘Indian’ of them. A contradiction which, in itself, is typically Indian.

Driving along Rajpath (“The Imperial Way”), a tree-lined avenue flanked by lawns with orderly flowerbeds and clipped hedges, I could be in Canberra or Washington. The only reminder that I’m in India is that I’m in a chunky Ambassador car (a prototype of a ‘50s Morris Oxford), being driven by an Indian taxi-driver who has a garland of marigolds framing a picture of the blue skinned god, Krishna, wedged above his rear-view mirror. Not to mention a mid-day sun blazing across a sludge-brown sky grim evidence of the city’s horrific pollution levels. The majestic Rajpath stretches unswerving from India Gate towards the final architectural bequest of Empire: the Secretariat, the Houses of Parliament, and Rashtrapathi Bhavan the last of which used to be Viceregal Palace, but is now the residence of the President of India.

But under the surface of this manicured exterior - or rather sitting side by side with it, is “Old Delhi” - a conglomeration of sites, with the ghosts of history haunting the ruins of old forts, tombs, mosques and crumbling residences. And the teeming, narrow lanes of Chandni Chowk.

Chandni Chowk is typical India: noisy, chaotic and irresistible. It is a market place which goes back to medieval times. This was where, if you were Indian royalty, you could find rich Persian carpets, exotic perfumes, gold and silver jewellery, finely spun shawls and silk brocades. Today ordinary citizens throng the sidewalks, pausing at fruit sellers stalls, looking at quilts, examining bolts of cotton cloth or sipping chai at small restaurants. The air smells of dust and spices and the street is a churning mass of cyclists, cars, buses, auto rickshaws and pedestrians. Placid cud-chewing cows sit like traffic islands in the centre of the road while everything swerves, dashes, beeps and lumbers around them. The twentieth century, impinges in the shape of booths advertising fax and international phone facilities and arrows pointing to Internet cyber-cafes huddled in side lanes.

Delhi is a city of distances, and to cover it all in the space of a couple of days would be daunting. To solve the problem, I join a couple of city tours for an over-view.

Along with the group, I shoulder my way past post-card vendors, snake charmers and sellers of roasted peanuts, and enter the sandstone archway of the Red Fort. Built by the fifth Moghul Emperor Shah Jehan, (whose grandfather, Akbar was a contemporary of Elizabeth I of England), the massive battlements of the Red Fort symbolized the might of the Moghul Empire at high noon. We stand in the vast Hall of Public Audience, in front of a marble canopied dais embellished with graceful carvings of flower garlands. Traces of delicate gold-leaf motifs still remain on the ceiling as a faint reminder that this was once the most splendid fort-palace in the Indian subcontinent. Although the ornamental fountains, once filled with rose-scented waters, are dry, the Red Fort’s marble screens honey-combed with exquisite details of flowers and birds have endured the passage of time.

Near the Qutab Minar, a 12th century Moslem tower, is an iron pillar dating from the 5th century which for reasons that defy modern day science, has never rusted. Legend has it that if you back-up against the pillar and wrap your arms backwards around it to meet finger-tip to finger-tip, (not an easy feat.) your wishes will come true.

Modern history also has its niche in Delhi. More in terms of tragedy than glory. At Raj Ghat, a simple black marble slab marks the cremation site of India’s most cherished leader, Mahatma Gandhi, assassinated in 1948. Nearby is “Shanti Vana” (Forest of Peace) which has a memorial to India’s first Prime Minister, Jawaharalal Nehru, his daughter, Indira Gandhi and his grandsons, Sanjay and Rajiv Gandhi. Mrs. Gandhi (no relation to the Mahatma) and her son Rajiv were killed by terrorists, and Sanjay died before his time in a plane crash.

Off the main tourist track is the serene Baha’i temple, shaped like an upturned lotus, with its cool, marble meditation chamber. The Railway Museum, with its collection of coal-fired “black beauties” on display, will intrigue steam-engine buffs. And for sheer delight, the International Doll Museum is well worth a couple of hours. The hand-crafted dolls in the Indian section portray the dresses, customs, dances and festivals of India.

Author: Margaret Deefholts