On the second morning, we were introduced to our tour group, a friendly mishmash of couples, friends and singletons of all ages, from former British colonies all over the world. It was somewhat a relief that, for the next six days, we would be exploring India under the supervision of a local guide and within the relative safety of the tourist herd. It was the first time I’d ever done a guided tour across a country, and I must admit I’d been sceptical despite the obvious advantages compared with travelling across India just the two of us. In the face of my cynicism, I discovered it was an amazing way to experience the country – especially as a first-time visitor – with a local guide who really knew what he was talking about and a lovely group of like-minded people.
During the drive into Old Delhi (in itself quite a mind-boggling experience) we drove past the first of many idols we were to see during the course of the trip – an enormous statue of the deity Krishna, the much-fabled incarnation of the Hindu deity Shiva. After escaping the chaos of the dual carriageway, we picked our way through a local market, beeping the horn (standard driving practice in India) to part the crowds. We looked on in amazement as the chaos unfolded in front, behind and to either side of the coach, and the crowds looked up with equal measures of wonderment at the wide-eyed, white-faced tourists pressed against the glass. It was like being at the zoo; only I’m still not too sure which side of the bars we would have been on in this analogy.
I might as well take this opportunity to add that, despite the stock I’d put in the safety in numbers theory, the ‘selfie’ phenomenon of the day before was, if anything, worse that day. From the outset, I had people (mostly slightly creepy men) coming up to me to request to have their photo taken with me, and this only got worse as the day went on – the most bizarre instances of which included being asked to be photographed with a guy’s terrified-looking little boy, and groups of people just taking my photo without even asking. By the end of it, I was getting so fed up that I decided the best solution was to release my inner diva, put on my shades and drape my shawl over my head like some kind of Mariah Carey wannabe.
After almost an hour of crawling through the Delhi traffic, we finally arrived at the imposing Red Fort. Now only a mere skeleton of its glory days serving as the city fortress and subsequently the British army barracks, this sandstone and marble fort was constructed by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan between 1638 and 1648 to protect his new capital city, the modestly and imaginatively named Shahjahanabad. Unfortunately for him, he never actually got to live there, since his son (whom some call ‘disloyal’; I call ‘rational’) imprisoned him at Agra Fort to stop him spending any more of the country’s rapidly dwindling riches.
The last Mughal emperor of Delhi, Bahadur Shah Zafar, was ousted from the Red Fort in 1857, and the fort was taken over by the British (who else?) until India regained independence in 1947. Despite no longer being in use, the fort is well worth a visit; it’s easy to see why it has been named a UNESCO World Heritage Site, with its dramatic red stone walls extending over 2km and reaching a height of 32m at some points along this length.
It just so happened that the day we were there also coincided with a classic cars show that was taking place in the outer courtyard. If I knew anything about cars, I’d probably have been very excited about this; our tour guide Satendra certainly was. At any rate, I did sneak a few snaps of the wealthy businessmen polishing their shiny metal toys:
From the Red Fort, we were shown onto a fleet of cycle rickshaws awaiting us at the gates, which would take us to the next stop on our itinerary, Jama Masjid. The largest mosque in India, and the final architectural blowout of the extravagant Shah Jahan, Jama Masjid or ‘Friday Mosque’ boasts three gateways, four towers and two minarets standing at a whopping 40m high. As usual, the Shah employed his two materials of choice, red sandstone and white marble, to create this colossal complex, which can hold up to 25,000 people.
Unfortunately, by the time we got there the heavens had unexpectedly opened, rendering the visiting experience slightly less enjoyable – particularly as visitors are obliged to remove their shoes upon entering the courtyard. On the plus side, we did also have to don some very sexy gowns and shawls, so at least the rest of our bodies were kept nice and dry, even if we did get rather soggy feet. Another benefit of having a tour guide is that we had someone to guard our shoes while we took a look around; leave them unattended and they’re sure to get swiped.
Then it was time to head to Raj Ghat, the gardens now serving as a memorial to Mahatma Gandhi, as he was assassinated here on 30th January 1948. Incidentally, what you might not know (as I certainly didn’t) is that Gandhi’s actual name was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi – the honorific appellation ‘Mahatma’, meaning ‘high-souled’ or ‘venerable’ was first given to him in South Africa in 1914.
Gandhi was assassinated by a Hindu zealot at point blank range; it was customary for Indians to pay respect to their elders by kneeling at their feet, and so, under this pretence, Gandhi’s killer was able to get so close he couldn’t possibly miss. A somewhat cowardly way of going about it, if you ask me – and Gandhi’s alleged last words, “Oh God” (which sound to me more like a blurted curse than the profound utterance of a holy man), don’t really seem to merit their fame either. Of course, it’s natural to wish to glorify the death of someone so influential and so inherently good, but I do think that, given the amount of really poignant statements Gandhi made throughout his lifetime, this was a poor choice of quotation to use as his epitaph.
The rest of the memorial was very well done – since the traditional Indian funeral proceeding is to cast the person’s ashes into the River Ganges, Gandhi is commemorated by a large black stone surrounded by lush, symmetrical gardens. Visitors can remove their shoes and walk right up to the stone, or ascend a ramp leading to an open veranda lined with colourful flowers, which surrounds the memorial.
We subsequently moved on to Humayun’s Tomb, a site in which many future architectural creations, including the great Taj Mahal, find their origin. This elaborate tomb complex was constructed in 1565 by the Mughal Emperor Humayun’s widow, Hamida Banu Begum, nine years after his death, and was the first garden style tomb to be constructed in India. The tomb stands in the centre of vast, Charbagh-style Persian gardens, split into perfectly symmetrical segments, and linked by channels. This deliberate geometrical scheme consisting of four identical parts separated by wide paths and flowing channels (representing the river of Paradise) served as a powerful metaphor for the Paradise Garden.
The first of its kind, Humayun’s Tomb went on to serve as the prototype for many other Mughal tombs, on which similar techniques were employed, such as the use of red sandstone, the central building’s octagonal shape and its high central arch. The very idea of constructing a mausoleum in honour of a loved one is the central foundation stone behind the creation of the Taj Mahal.
The last stop on the itinerary for that day was the Qutb complex, which was constructed by Qutb-ud-din Aybak, one of the founders of Muslim rule in India. It was built in the early 13th century and comprises funerary buildings, two mosques, and the Qutb Minar, a 72.5m-high minaret. The Quwwatu’l-Islam mosque is the oldest in northern India and was made from materials looted from around 20 Brahman temples. Some of the stones bearing religious icons have even been inserted upside down in a clear manifestation of the new rulers’ derision of their Hindu enemies.
Before making our way back to the hotel, we drove through New Delhi, which was built as the imperial capital of India under British rule and completed in 1931. A stark contrast to Old Delhi, this part of the city is all wide, tree-lined avenues, parks and fountains, and has a comparatively European feel. We took a drive through Connaught Place (Rajiv Chowk) and Connaught Circus (Indira Chowk), which form the business and tourist centre. In addition, we stopped to take a look at governmental buildings such as the official residence of the President of India, which stands at one end of Delhi’s famous boulevard, Rajpath. At the other end stands the impressive 42m-high India Gate, one of those ‘Arc de Triomphe’ constructions that seem to pop up everywhere, which commemorates the Indian soldiers who fell in WWI.
That evening was our Namaste dinner, which consisted of many courses of traditional Indian food – bhutta palak (creamed spinach), paneer makhani (curd cheese), mushroom matar, jeera aloo (lightly fried caraway-seasoned potatoes) and dal tadka (spiced yellow lentils), served with naan bread, of course. We were also treated to an Indian dessert, gulab jamun, a sickly sweet donut-like creation, made from khoya (a mysterious dairy product) fried until golden and finished with a touch of saffron.
After the meal, it was time to head back to the hotel – and time for a quick reminder of the fact that we were staying in what I can only presume to be one of the most chaotic cities on earth. It’s lucky I’m used to and can accept that, when you’re travelling to far-flung places, things might not necessarily meet your high standards of Western living. For example, after living in Peru and washing in cold water for a month, I now consider hot water a blessing, rather than a given. It was therefore not the end of the world when we’d arrived in Delhi in the middle of the night only to discover that the hot water was turned off between the hours of 11pm and 6am. Unlike many fussier travellers, I also accept that, in a place like Delhi, which is so pushed for space, it would be unrealistic to expect a room with a view or, indeed, a room with a window at all.
In a similar vein, I was about to discover that, Delhi being so full to the brim, and the hotels built so compactly, this also meant that the hotel conference room would be located directly above the third-floor rooms. This is all very well and good when the hotel is hosting, say, a conference, in the middle of the day. When it’s hosting a party in the middle of the night, not so much. After a long, jet-lagged day, I was just drifting into a lovely sleep when I was jarred awake by what sounded like an earthquake going on right above our heads. Had the music been pleasant, the situation might have been bearable, but the fact was, this was far from being a soothing melody to lull me to sleep. No, this was relentless bass, so loud it shook the very walls of our little windowless cell of a room. The melody line was just strong enough for me to make out, at one point, the dulcet tones of that Daddy Yankee reggaeton classic, Gasolina.
When Laura and I went down to reception, bleary-eyed, confused and dismayed, the men at the desk just looked at us with expressions of mild amusement and told us it would be over in “about half an hour”. Naturally, there was no chance of switching rooms as they were all allegedly booked up. We had no choice but to trudge dejectedly back to our room, wait for our room to stop shaking and wait for that long-awaited sleep to come.
Chronicles of a Globetrotter 