Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Delhi

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Delhi is unique in its diversity; of people, religion, politics, and culture. It is a settlement comprised of eight successive cities and has thus become, since its inception as Indraprastra in 1450 BC, the product of dozens of civilizations that developed here. As Delhi grew over time, invaders repeatedly usurped control. As the cycle of new and foreign rule was repeated, the different regions of the city grew, changed, additions were made, and in some cases it was decided that a better city would be build upon or near the existing settlements. When the British Raj moved its administration to Delhi in 1911 a fervent effort to westernize the city ensued. Instead of revamping or modernizing the northern neighborhoods, which in 1857 had been the site of a devastating native uprising, the British established New Delhi just to the South. Radiating from centrally located Connaught Place the Raj constructed wide, tree-lined boulevards such as Janpath and Akbar Road, apparent emulations of strolling European thoroughfares which bore little resemblance to the crowded streets of Old Delhi. Enormous stately mansions, parliamentary buildings, grand public offices and flag-lined embassies were carved out and walled in, effectively protecting the city’s elite class from the unsavory sights, sounds, and smells that might have wafted down from Kashmiri Gate.

The differences between the northern and southern neighborhoods of Delhi are striking; it would not be difficult to mistake certain stretches of immaculately manicured Akbar Road for the affluent neighborhoods of Paris or to confuse India Gate and Rajpath with the Arc de Triumph and Champs d'Elise. Shajahanabad, now known as Old Delhi, is a world apart from CP and Lodi Colony but within what remains of its crumbling seventeenth-century bastions lays a city of diversity. Old Delhi’s main artery, Chandni Chowk, runs from the Red Fort to Fatehpuri Mosque and is a vibrant, congested tangle of parading people, cycle rickshaws, cows, and obviously overwhelmed foreigners. Halfway down Chandni Chowk, near the subway station, if you head south on Chatta Shah Ji and turn left at Chawri Bazaar, the massive white dome and minarettes of Jama Masjid appear ahead, rising above the dizzyingly tangled masses of exposed electrical lines. Designed by Shah Jahan and built by a workforce of five thousand people over twelve years, it is India’s largest mosque and can accommodate 25,000 worshipers. It was originally called Masjid-i-Jahanuma – ‘Mosque commanding a view of the world’ – and, given the expansive view of the Red Fort afforded from the mosque’s wide stone staircase entrance, the original name seems fitting. Constructed in the seventeenth century at the height of the Moghul Empire’s power, the mosque must have then been an impressive statement; a representation of the Moghuls’ immense wealth, engineering technology, and piety.

A remarkable aspect of life in Delhi, particularly life in proximity to historic monuments, is the disparity between the intended uses of such places and the uses for which the city’s thirteen million inhabitants have appropriated those places.
I arrived at Jama Masjid at dusk. Outside of the main gates, chai-wallahs and cart-food pushers had just begun to prepare dinner for the neighborhood’s Muslims who, it being Ramadan, were already salivating, eagerly awaiting the end of the day’s long fast. The half-asleep guard didn’t even look up as I passed through a metal detector barrier and continued up the front steps. The staircase was crowded with people snacking on pakora, channa chatt, or gabbing with friends or on cell phones. Not even half of the crowd appeared to be Muslim. A Punjabi, wrapped in a powder-blue turban, sat silently waiting for someone, or maybe just thinking. A Hindu woman, a young mother, slapped her child repeatedly when the toddler wouldn’t stop crying. The little boy’s dark eyeliner began to run when he cried even harder. Schoolboys in pleated navy slacks, loosened neckties, and shouldered book bags snickered at what I assumed had been a dirty joke. Shirtless street kids scampered up and down the steps, pulling lightly on kortas and touching their filthy fingers to their lips. The older and handicapped beggars sat at the base of the steps with their hands outstretched; most of them too tired or forlorn to actively beg for charity. The entrance to Jama Masjid may have been intended as a glorious ascent into a spectacular place of worship, and it is. However, residents also use it as a secular meeting place, a common ground where people of different religions and regional backgrounds come to talk, picnic, purchase, or just sit in silence.

fInside the mosque the scene was not very different. There were fewer non-Muslims but to a certain extent it seemed to also be a welcoming communal area. People of all classes and backgrounds had spread blankets in the marbled courtyard in preparation for the evening service and a steady stream of people continued to enter and wash themselves as I milled about. At sunset the call to prayer exploded from speakers in the towering minarettes and a very cordial bearded man told me to leave the mosque.

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Photo cred to Ava

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Class in Tugluquabad

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It has been more than a month now since I left Ladakh for Delhi. Things have changed dramatically as my three months of solo travel have ended. Now I am here with twenty-three other students. The others in my program are great. Everyone is adapting and slowly beginning to enjoy life in India. The gender balance of the group is pretty skewed; there are eighteen women and six men. Traveling with a large group has at times been difficult for me. I have lost a lot of my independence. The spontaneity is still there but sometimes it takes considerable effort and free time to realize it. Walking down a crowded street with twenty-three people is a world apart from walking alone. Obviously, we draw a lot of attention. I drew considerable attention by myself this summer but it was different. People looked at me. I assume that most of them were curious. It is different now. I no longer draw the same kind of stares when I am with the group. The women around me do, but it is fairly clear that innocent curiosity is not the intent of some Indian men. In most cases the unwanted attention is harmless, however, women in my group are whistled at, catcalled, and occasionally groped.

I would not want to be a woman traveling in India. Their experience is in so many ways more challenging than mine. I think that I would have difficulty not taking on a negative attitude. Apart from harassment there are numerous challenges that female travelers face.
Carol, one of our trip leaders, approached me one evening incensed. Trying to arrange a rickshaw from a government hospital she was bluntly told that the rickshaws were not for foreigners. When I approached the same man whom she had dealt with just minutes before, I was helped without reservation; he drove me around on his motorbike until we found a rickshaw and then refused to accept the ten rupees that I offered for his trouble. It’s a petty example but it does illustrate my point; that what the man meant to say when he refused to help Carol was, “my assistance is not for foreign women.”

As well, women cannot afford the independence that I enjoy. I don’t have to think twice about smoking a cigarette in public whereas women must consider the impression they are projecting and the inappropriate responses that they may be inviting.
I don’t think twice about going out alone at night, even to the seedier areas of Delhi such as Paharganj. A woman, whether at night or daytime, would be asking for trouble were she to do the same.

Traveling with women has at times been hard on my psyche. I hate the feeling of walking around with clenched fists. In certain places, when I am with women, men are viewed with suspicion – an attitude that I am not used to carrying. When it is just I, or I and another guy, men on the street are probable friends, not possible wrongdoers.

Visiting the Jama Masjid alone had been a great experience. I had felt a little out of place but very welcome. It was the positive memory of that first visit that I carried with me as I walked up the massive marbled steps, this time with twenty-three others. The women in my group are very culturally conscious with their dress. Some of them wear salwar kamez and all of them wear shawls to cover their arms and bosom, and a headscarf when we are in Muslim areas.
After walking the gauntlet of chest-level stares, we were informed by the gate attendant that we would not be allowed to enter. Following tempered arguments with a number of officials, the women who they determined were too scantily clad were permitted entry wearing borrowed pseudo-burqas.
On my first visit people had smiled and approached me with curiosity. This time however, people kept their distance; we did not at all feel welcome and I felt that we were making the people there uncomfortable. We were eyed carefully, scaled and appraised as intruders on hallowed ground.

Sometimes I resent my group for the diminished opportunities for positive, meaningful social interactions in comparison to my solo experience this summer. At other times I resent the people here for interacting with me, a man, in such a different way than with my female counterparts. Most often though, I resent myself for ill-feelings towards either of the two.
It would be unwise and presumptuous to say that Indian society, especially regarding women, should strive to adopt what we in America deceive ourselves in calling social equality. America is less than perfect in its progressiveness. For that matter, America is less than progressive in many regards. But India too has a very long way to go. I wish though that the good in people was more apparent than the bad. I wish that the man who smiled and wagged his head at my group stood out in my memory more than the man who grabbed at one of the women before ducking into the shadows. It is unfortunate that the overwhelmingly numerous positive interactions are sometimes outshadowed by the infrequent but searing negative experiences.

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It has been a struggle to find the time and energy to do much writing since school started. My course began in Delhi where I spent three weeks living and taking classes. There are too many stories to tell in such a short space and I wouldn’t be able to recount them effectively if I tried. To choose between having an elephant as a designated driver after a debaucherous night in Paharganj, or piloting cycle rickshaws around Rajiv Chawk to the delight of backseat cycle-wallahs, would be too difficult. I wouldn’t want to leave out getting pulled over by the police while driving an auto-rickshaw (apparently you have to be a licensed autorickshaw driver), but then I might have to exclude splashing around Old Delhi without umbrellas on a muggy monsoon afternoon. And what about riding Delhi’s subway during rush-hour? If I had tried to write about it all, it might have meant three additional blog-postless weeks.
Since leaving Delhi, I have spent time in Pushkar, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri, Vrindaven, Dhera Dun, Rishikesh, and Haridwar. I have now been in Varanasi for a week and will be here until the end of the month.
Much more to come soon.

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Thomas in Fatehpur Sikri

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