Even though it was nice to have my own room (and a TV!), I slept fairly fitfully thanks to the cold. I wake up swaddled in my blanket with my hood and scarf on, curled up into a ball, still shivering. I go to the rooftop “lounge” for breakfast, my first real meal in India. I’m served a mango and alphonso (??) juice box (trustworthy, I’m assuming), fried egg on toast, cuppa coffee and corn flakes with milk. I down the egg sandwich in about 5 seconds and the juice is refreshing, but I’m a little worried about the milk. It smells fine, but when I put it on my cereal it seems to wash some dust off of the flakes and get specks of black in it. Well, the flakes are clean now, I guess, so I eat the dry ones on top as best I can and leave the rest. I’m sure I’m making way too big of a deal about the food here, but I want to start slow so I can build up to full-on curries and street food without getting stomach flu.
In my room I can hear the same chaos I fell asleep to last night. Muslim men singing on the street, children laughing and yelling, the occasional animal sound, touk-touks honking, people hacking up gobs of phlegm and spitting and the occasional loud explosion (extremely large firecrackers, I tell myself). I’ve decided to give the young boy some bakshish because he’s very friendly (haha, he made sure to bring me extra toilet paper last night because “you nice lady, you get more”) and today this weird Russian guy was yelling at him because he didn’t understand the word pen. And he sings while he works, a pretty and simple song that’s nice to listen to. Yes, I like him very much.
No bones about it, out of all the places I’ve been on Earth, Delhi is the hardest place to simply be. I don’t think I would ever return after this trip if given the chance. The hardest things to cope with are how dirty and crowded it is as well as how hyper-aware I had to be of any chance to be ripped off, robbed, taken advantage of, and/or scammed. It was depressing to not be able to trust anybody. And while I’m hopeful the other cities will be cleaner and/or easier to get around in, I guess it’s going to take a lot for me to trust anybody in India. It’s too bad.
Well, I didn’t check out until 12:30 because I was updating my blog and doing other digital chores online. Smyle Inn really is a cool establishment; it’s a great deal and they’re nice enough to store my bag until it’s time for me to go to the train station. I walk down to Connaught Place to see the park, only to find that they won’t let me in with a camera, even if it’s in my bag. So I notice an underground bazaar across the street, realize I still need to buy a couple of things, go in and come out with an adapter (woo hoo! Got him to lower the price by 1/3!).
The bazaar solidifies an opinion I’ve been forming about the people here: they’re curious, to say the least. Stares, photos and videos (of me) and abrupt conversations are constant! Children want to “shake aunty’s hand”, teens want to know “What country, ma’am?”, adults fearful for me ask “You don’t travel single, good lady?” (now how I address my relationship status is a whole other post to itself) and salesman enquire “Where you going? What you buying?”. It’s absolutely impossible to tell if the person is genuinely curious and friendly or if they want to sell me something. Either way, they’ll follow me and go out of their way to keep talking; every conversation I’ve had I’ve waited for the sales pitch to come. A friend here said, “What tires you out is constantly being on your guard; not just against theft but scams and tricks.” You start to look for other travelers that can empathize with you and make you feel normal again.
I decide to take the Metro into New Delhi and it’s lovely! Clean, well-controlled (there are actual queues!) and fairly quiet. The train is a miniature version of the ones I’ll ride cross-country, but is probably a smoother ride. It lets me out at Central Secretariat, the government district, where I go on one of the most peaceful walks I’ve had yet; I’ve heard Sundays were quiet like this and I’m really grateful. Circling Parliament, the Secretariats and the President’s Estate brings a nice change of scenery: clean, classical, quiet and calm prevail on the broad streets and lawns. The pollution doesn’t let up, though, unfortunately.
Afterwards I decide to go to the farthest destination on my list for the day, Humayun’s Tomb, back in Nizamuddin. I flag a touk-touk, ask him to take me via the India Gate so I can take a photo. We set off. Five seconds later he starts selling me a package tour deal: India Gate, Humayun’s Tomb, Safdarjang’s Tomb, something else, Sikh temple and home for Rs600 (pretty ridiculous, actually). I’m not even remotely interested, so I say no, thank you. He takes that as a sign to negotiate and offers 500 because “it’s my birthday and today I’m very happy”. “No, thank you.” “Okay, for pretty lady 400 because I am happy today.” “No. I have only have a couple hundred for the whole day.” “Okay, well for 300 we go and you go in one store.” “No.” “(sigh) Okay, for 200…” “I keep saying no no no and he keeps saying “Is very good price, we go there, yes?” GAAHHH! I fight the urge to tuck and roll out of the rickshaw and demand to go only to my two places. He’s pissed and pouting like a 5 year-old and I couldn’t care less.I’m pleased to find that the most beautiful thing in Delhi could very well be Humayun’s Tomb. You don’t expect the majesty of what you’re going to see until you’re basically underneath it, and I literally gasped when I walked through the gate. A couple Indians around me smiled knowingly when they heard that. I’ll let the pictures do the talking here, because I could never do it justice. Simply gorgeous AND you can climb the buildings! Love it.
I get through as easily as you please, though, and when I stop to ask a policeman where to buy a chain and lock for my bag I meet my new friend, Mr. Singh (the 5th one I’ve met here, incidentally). He’s a cool guy: been a cop for 30 years and still likes it, has traveled India but nowhere else, has 2 daughters (“already married with children, so I am happy man”) and a son, etc. His life is good. I learn all of this after he goes and buys my items for me as well as a chai so we can “take tea together”. We chat for nearly forty minutes, and whenever he can’t understand me he both shakes and nods his head at the same time (tilt your head right then slide over to tilt to the left, repeat 3-4 times). He’s a good guy who laughs a lot and is very good to me, until we get to the inevitable question about my relationship status.
“You not single lady, are you? India not safe for single lady to travel alone.” Oh boy. I reassure him the way I’ve reassured a dozen other people today by saying that I’m married and will be meeting my husband in Amritsar. Then the inevitable second question: “And you are with child?” He means to ask if I have kids, not if I’m pregnant, and I say what all Indians seem to like to hear: “No, but I hope soon.” Oh dear god. After he helps me board the train he says he owes me many thanks for being such a nice, pretty lady and making him so happy. THEN the bombshell: “I give you my number. You take tea with me before you fly home” I WANT TO MEET YOUR HUSBAND.” Oh dear god. So we’ll see how this goes in December, won't we?
I get in my upper berth (not a bad accommodation, actually), eat my lukewarm veg meal and fall asleep to the gentle rocking of the train and the gentle snoring of the man below me. India is exhausting.
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