After six days of work, we took a day off to set our minds on other things…and to continue the slow process of getting to know the city. We spent the day in Mehrauli, at the southern edge of the city. The first half was full of wandering around Quitab Minar—an expansive plot of land that has somehow been protected enough that the ruins of mosques, madrassas, and sultan rooms from the 12th and 13th century have survived. On many of the surfaces you can still see loads of Arabic script carved into the (sandstone?). Two items stand out here: the massive tower with at least 3 fancifully decorated balconies that extends far into the heavens. You can’t go up into it anymore, and I am not sure that I would want to—as it would be an eternal claustrophobic struggle. I wish I knew how to explain just how freakin tall it is!
The second is an unassuming bronze post—maybe 6 feet high. It turns out to be much older than the other structures here. But what is astonishing about it is that it has never rusted. With the help of teams of scientists it was determined that something about the chemical makeup of this particular kind of bronze has kept it rust free. Mostly what is so pleasurable about the place is the sense of history. You can imagine the sultan and his harem gliding on the grass in the walled garden or a few of them sitting in one of the small rooms eating grapes or something. A time when India was a powerful, confident and graceful land.
We sat in the far corner at the base of what looked like a little pavilion, but was actually a lame attempt by the British in 1828 to add another section to the tower. It had been removed and set in this far corner. From there N read more about Quitab Minar to me out of our guidebook as I watched a huge group of school girls having lunch on the lawn and then forming a circle where a few would dance at the center quite a distance from us. They all were in classic school uniform. The younger ones wore white skirts and blouses with navy sweaters and grey knee socks with a couple stripes at the top and most wore black mary janes. Under their skirts they wore either white pyjamas? or grey thick stockings. The older girls wore white salwar kameez, navy sweaters and white scarves that hung down their backs. I grinned that some had pinned these at their backs so that they didn’t bother them when they ran…that’s what I’d do. Women here wear scarves so comfortably, but they always seem to slip off me and just cause trouble. I guess these girls were still adjusting ;-). As we sat there we were suddenly accosted by a group of at least 25 of these girls. They surrounded us, asking where we were from and our names…and giggling quite a lot. We looked up at their lively brown eyes and tried to engage them in a bit of conversation, but they were nervous and giggly and the bold one oddly demanded that we dance—to the applause of all the rest. We laughed and said that Americans are terrible dancers. In the end a girl with glasses who seemed to have the only camera in the group shyly gestured to take our picture. So we ended up posing in the midst of them, while a girl with a “monitor” badge reprimanded them—throwing in only one English word, “responsibility.” It seemed that she did not think it responsible of them to be running off and talking to tourists. Here's a picture of her being cross off to the side too.
And then later on the other side of the whole thing, a group of boys wanted their picture taken with Norbert. It's weird to feel like such a celebrity.
From there we went exploring in the town. First on the very busy main road full of tiny shops, people, bikes, and the occasional bold car. Why a person would think it’s actually better to move in a car down this packed street, is beyond me. I watched one get slightly cock eyed and nearly turn over half a stand of beautifully balancing soaps. We had trouble finding a place to sit down to rest and eat, as we are trying to avoid street food since our stomachs are still pretty iffy. Eventually we found Verma’s and ate some too salty standard dishes, south Indian fare for me—a masala dosa served with thin dal and the standard coconut chutney and palak paneer and naan for N. As we finished up the nicely dressed family at the table next to us started up a conversation. This is the first time that someone has taken a more social interest in us—usually we just get lots of long stares and maybe a child or two giggling or trying to practice their few words of English or the mob of shy and giggly girls. They were living in another community near Merauli and had come here on a bicycle today “on business.”
We spent the afternoon exploring side streets—every one of which had an open, but highly efficient and quickly running sewer. Some of the base structures looked fairly new—fresh concrete, squarely set with steps and landings above so that the little shops could be accessed over the running water. The smell was not atrocious because it was running quickly, but it was odd to see people regularly throwing garbage right in. You can’t help wondering where all of this went. In the niches on quiet backstreets we ran across several people who’d set up their (and likely other’s) ironing. We finally understood why all our clothes have scorch marks, as these are not electric irons. Although they have the form of the iron we are used to, they are a bit larger and you can see that hot wood (or coals) have been placed inside to heat the metal. These contraptions must be quite heavy.
We also found the Sikh temple and were given a tour by a peaceful turbaned guy who seemed to be somehow official there. He showed us the baoli, an ancient water tank that now is sadly used as a dump, and the cemetery where the last mughal is buried—both right within the confines of this functioning temple. We carried our shoes and watched the praying people in one section and the groups of eating people—in little huddles on the ground—in another. As always kids and some adults stared at us, and we wondered how often white people actually visit—though our friendly guide wasn’t that surprised.
From there we found the now defunct palace, which is attached. Upon entering through a small hinged cut-out section of a huge wooden door, we found that this place is now used for a select group of card playing and smoking young men. N’s guidebook mentioned several features to see, but we were not finding them easily, and one of the guys came over to us and in Hindi offered to show us around. I've included his picture here. Although I am sure he knew we didn’t understand a word of Hindi (as we kept asking questions in English and looking blankly at him when he spoke Hindi) he continued to explain things to us. But his knowledge of how to get around the place was very helpful, and he showed us some amazing views over the city. Near the end, and quite removed from his buddies, he looked at N and said, “money?” Clearly he wanted to be paid for his services. N gave him 50 rupees and thanked him, and he quickly pocketed the money. His friends razzed him when we walked out…joking, “pen?” “pencil?” like the little, more well mannered, beggar kids might do. We all laughed. I wonder what employment young men can expect when they finish school.
Fascinating day that ended with a good purchase—another mattress so that N too has a more comfortable sleep. For $30 we have gotten two cotton stuffed 3-inch bed sized cushion-like things called mattresses that are certainly a treat compared to the board of a bed we were sleeping on. I’d gotten mine last weekend, and then N was convinced it was worth it ;-). We stuffed it in between us on the auto rickshaw and now are as happy as clams.
No comments:
Post a Comment