To Delhi--Part 5

             I had to withdraw some money, so we got off after two stations and walked the touristy area of the city where Delhilites behaved themselves and kept themselves clean in the presence of foreign tourists; some girls were seen wearing short skirts. That was rather a strange sight. Later on we were on the train again to get to the other side of the city, the train was more crowded than before. At one interchange station few sari-clad ladies with their infants and their foreheads marked with vermillion powder squeezed themselves in. May be there was no space for them in the lady’s compartments, with great struggle they stood and because of the congestion the infants began to feel uncomfortable and  began crying, and the shrill noise travelled over our heads. No man stood up to offer the ladies with the infants to sit, when some stood up, men scrambled for the seats. There they sat talking loud to each other while the sari-clad ladies struggled with one hand on the handrails while others holding the crying infants.When their station came they struggled again between the able men and somehow sneaked out the compartment.

             The northern part of the city was scattered with colleges affiliated to one university and each important place was packed with young people to whom life hadn’t left much of its marks. The eating joints of street food were busy; there were chest-high plastic tables about them people stood and placed their orders. I suggested we try some pani puri( round crispy puri with the centre of the upper side poked through and  filled up with watery ingredients). Few groups of people had just left when we had arrived there.  The name of the place and its menu were all in one wide colourful illuminated banner fastened right above the awning. First we stood about one chest-high table, noticing us the owner asked what he wanted to order, so I went up and placed my elbow on the counter desk, I jumped back surprising the people around. The area below the desk counter was where the stoves were and the stoves had been in use for several hours. There was neither warning nor anyone to tell people not to stay close. I asked why he didn’t say anything the cook smiling, as though he was pleased that someone had burned his elbow, said, “Below we have stoves.”

          The shops bearing the names and the logos of western brands were all in long lines on either side of the road. This street could be mistaken for some posh area in some developed country hadn’t it for the honking cars and the littered around the footpaths. The litters were between the cars, about the steps of the richly lit up shops, and more on the nooks in small mounds. The cleanliness was only inside the shops and those inside had the attitude that they didn’t have anything to do with the outside world. This kind of indifferent attitude towards one’s civic responsibility in the heart of the capital city of the largest democracy in the world was disturbing. Had this been in some centuries back one could have accepted but in this age of “IT India”  and “India shining” of which many people have been so gung-ho about ,one could feel that it hadn’t changed at all except the clothes in which the characters were cased.

          From one end of the street we took a tricycle rickshaw since there were no signs of auto rickshaws. The thin man paddled and in his rising and sinking motion as he rode the tricycle toward some university where my friend wanted me to attend a seminar on the “North-East region” of India. The rickshaw man didn’t haggle and he seemed to know the area pretty well and without a word he rode on by employing all his power, and watching him do that labour I thought whether I should jump down and push the tricycle, but that would be suicidal considering the psychopathic motorists who kept on honking right behind the man who couldn’t move further because of the vehicles ahead. Those motorists were good-looking and well-dressed people driving European and Japanese cars, that mean they had gone to university or they belonged to affluent families. With their noises piercing through my body I turned around and yelled at one man in a white Honda Accord with the window half rolled-down. He looked up at me hearing the words “You are mad!”He stuck out his hand twisted it and his head thrust forward to ask “What?” I said, “Can’t you see that the man is stuck because there are vehicles before him and the signal is still red.”

         He heard me  but with a smirk he pulled back the  round face on the bull’s neck and drove on rubbing the sides of his car against others, the traffic light was orange. The driver’s struggle intensified and he was made nervous when cars from all directions began barking like some crazy dogs. It seemed to me they wanted his tricycle to take off like a helicopter so that they could drive on without any hindrances.  Any man, with a bit of sense driving on a congested road getting stranded in a heavy traffic, should be able to comprehend that there is no need to honk to create unnecessary noise, besides there is something called “noise pollution” every child learns it at an early age, so if some people who have been to schools and colleges and latter on for further studies and now driving imported cars ,indicating they are enjoying the wealth of a thriving economy because of their education ,and still are not able to figure out that they are in fact behaving more like some sheep then the words which we have been using to identify them should be replaced with rather deserving.

            A Victorian building which must have been a prominent resident of some important person in the colonial time and later on given an Indian name, the building appeared to be the oldest ,the rest were modern and some were still incomplete. Beside the Victorian building was a large building with a semi-circular façade and the top of it bore the inscription of some former diplomat. We thought the seminar was inside the building then the security guard, who kept on asking for our ID cards, wagged his head and his hand holding a club pointed to some distant-looking place. Knowing that we didn’t pay heed to his demand he left us without giving us a precise direction. Luckily we chanced upon someone who was headed off to the same place. He was a bearded man, his whole face was concealed by white beard, the eyes were behind wide-rimmed eyeglasses, he was dressed in some khaki coloured outfit and across his chest ran a long handle of a satchel and the pouch flapped over his left hip each time he walked. We followed him and arrived in front of a round building, the steps were circular and inside it was opened toward the sky, the open area on the ground was a dry defunct fountain, the blue marble tiles chipped and some all broken. The inside of the building smelled of strong disinfectant. From one corner more flights of wide steps unlike my friend’s and along a corridor. We met a submissive looking man who inquired who we were. The bearded man with the satchel frowned and he produced his ID card and this silenced the man and let us through. In India you have to have an important ID to ensure that you are not insignificant. If you don’t have one you have to have a car, which speaks your status to someone who might want to know about you.

To be continued...