Old Delhi

Old Delhi used to be the capital of the Mughal Empire. It was one of the most decadent and beautiful cities in the world. On equal par with anything Paris, London, Rome, or Constantinople could throw at it. A clear canal used to run through the middle of Chandni Chowk and reflect the moonlight. The whole of the old city was made up of beautiful mansions and fountains punctuated every intersection. Old Delhi was the original reason India was considered the jewel in Victoria's crown. Times have changed. The rickshaw driver dropped us off at the gate of the Red Fort, where the Emperor reigned and Nehru made his famous midnight "tryst with destiny" speech on Independence Day. The main gate is even more impressive than the other (back) side, which borders Ring Road, which I take nearly every day. The main gate is massive, just imposingly huge. It's assembled with thousands of several-ton blocks of red sandstone and topped with curvy, off-white balustrades. The whole thing gorgeously says, "I'm superior. Don't mess with me." Indeed, any invading army would have been awed and cowered before it. That's probably why the British were so happy that Mughal India, capable of building such wonders, was brought down from inside. They walked through the gates of the Red Fort. We didn't go inside and look at the inner gate (known as Lahore Gate), because Chandni Chowk was our stated destination. We turned right at the fort and walked east down the Chowk. The glittering canal, oft-spoken of in Urdu Mughal court writings, has been filled in with concrete, metal bars dividing the now pulsing, disorganized traffic. The brand of aggressive capitalism and beggarism practice on Chandni Chowk is jarring, even for someone like me, who is rapidly developing a strong pair of urban blinders. "Shirt, sir? Finest silk, very low prices." "You want gold? Silver? Right this way." "Paisa, khana, sahib," a .5 legged beggar whispers out, "Money, food, sir." Everyone, from the 3-year olds with scales promising an accurate reading for 5 rupees (10 if you're white and they see you coming) to the ancient, living-dead-looking men selling slices of fruit on aluminum trays, wants your money. The tenacity level varies. One guy selling "The Finest Silk in India" followed Rob and I for three blocks, even after we had already passed his store without looking: "Wait! You missed it, sir. The finest silk in India is this way." Rob and I made our way up the street like this, dodging vendors, beggars and delivery en with unnaturally huge parcels balanced on their heads, when a funny thing happened: I began to like Delhi. Amid all the craziness, two vendors speaking rapidly to me in Hinglish, I stood back and just smiled. I stopped worrying so actively about someone ganking my wallet, stopped worrying about getting randomly assaulted or blown up. Those things were still there, but it's like someone just poked those balloons with a needle. They faded and shriveled and I smiled. I started to embrace and really admire the chaos. I spent the rest of the day acting less like a badass and more like something I know how to be: a politician working a room. I smiled at people and they smiled back. Instead of saying "Nahi, jaiyai" ("No, get lost.) to aggressive vendors, I said "Nahi, shukriya," ("No, thanks.") I talked to people in passing, made more active conversation with Rob, and started investigating how much a proper suit's going to cost me here in Delhi (answer: not much). It was fun. I guess Old Delhi, despite being the rotted corpse of its former glorious self, is still capable of making foreign visitors smile and admire. A long way down Chandni Chowk, Rob and I took a left (south) with the intention of eventually arriving at the Jamma Masjid, the largest mosque in India. The alleys off Chandni Chowk are dark and tiny and quiet. The former aristocratic mansions, now gutted and converted to stores and warehouses, arch towards each other above the alleys, leaving the vague impression of being in a cathedral. A structurally unstable cathedral, to be sure, but no one seemed bothered by the tenuous-looking balancing act the buildings were doing, so neither were we, really. You had to wonder whether that creak you just heard, or one of the many inexplicable loud noises you occasionally hear in Delhi was the sign of a collapse, but it hasn't happened yet, apparently. The alleys are totally nonsensical to navigate, and we lost our sense of direction very quickly. We checked out all kinds of little stores, selling everything from scrap metal to silk to bound notebooks to masala chai. These old Sikh men run these nice fabric stores, and every one we passed had the same arrangement: 3-5 old Sikh men with large beards, sitting in a circle on the floor or against the walls (which were only maybe 6 feet high), talking, playing cards. Store after store fit this pattern. And people say there's no civil society in India. There were some really talented-looking tailors in some of those alleys, it seemed. There were all the requisite Indian-style tailors, but many had tall, western-looking dummies outside of their stores wearing gorgeous, professional looking suits. Some were damned impressive. Next time I go I'm going to bring my notebook and I'm getting price quotes from all of them. After nearly an hour of twisting and turning, Rob and I found ourselves at some kind of rather large intersection. We weren't sure at all which way we had gone, but from the sun we sort of figured out which way was south and moved on. At the next intersection, Rob looked up and just said "Oh, that's where we are." I followed his gaze and far down to our left, towering over everything and perfectly bisected by our street, was the pinkish dome of the Jamma Masjid. We made our way down the street the way everyone goes down the street in India: the wrong way and righteously so. The traffic was at pretty much a standstill, so we weaved in and out of stationary cycles, taxis, auto rickshaws, bicycles, and cows. We only nearly got killed when traffic moved, which was relatively rare. The Jamma is so big that it felt like we were moving towards it but it was never getting closer. We broke right at the end of the street, south, to check out the Jamma and its southern gate, passing a myriad of small auto-parts dealers on the way. Rob suggested we go in to the Jamma. I was a little nervous. It was nearing sunset, which meant prayers were going to start soon. The area around the mosque was starting to fill. I remembered reading the Embassy/State Dept. alert about Anti-American clerics in Old Delhi, advisories about going there and particularly to mosques. But looking up at that gorgeous, holy construction, I just decided "the hell with it." We went in. Holy Ground We walked up the stairs to the open main court of the Jamma. Rob, who's a Middle East/South Asian studies major at Columbia and had already been here twice, told me we had to take off our shoes. An extremely nice and eloquent man named Anil informed us of the same thing as I was untying my hiking boots, and made small talk with us for a bit. Unusually for men like him, we told us up front that he was a guide and said his price was Rs100 per person. We were thankful, but declined. He persisted a little, but I told him I was coming back and would take his tour then. I truly plan to. Knowing the little that I know of Islamic law, the house of Allah was the last place I was ever going to get my wallet or my shoes stolen, but we decided not to pay to have our stuff stored while we explored. The interior of the Jamma Masjid is gorgeously laid out. The main square is, well, square with a square fountain precisely in the middle, and a giant minaret (100+ feet, maybe more) in each corner. To the east is huge face and dome of the Jamma, aligned perfectly to Mecca, of course. I can't wait to get to the top of one of the minarets. There wasn't enough time before prayers to go up and down, but Rob assures me that the view from the top is easily the best in Delhi, and I believe him. Underneath the dome is a wide-open space, prayer mats laid out in neat lines on the floor. The faces of all the walls are beautifully carved and painted with passages from the Qu'ran. The effect is more beautiful than anything formal Roman characters can really attempt. Truly a magnificent layout, yet very simple in premise and execution, like the mosque as a whole. We walked around for a while underneath the dome behind the faithful making their prayers early. We sat on the rim of the pool for a while, in line with Mecca, and just soaked in the gorgeous architecture and holy calm of the place. What I really liked about the Jamma Masjid and the small alleys of Old Delhi was the quiet. Under the dome, the sounds of the city faded and only the mutterings of holy men could be heard. My thoughts inevitably turned to God and His majesty. Few religious buildings do this to me. Mt. St. Michel is the only one I can think of off the top of my head. Not St. Paul's. Not Notre Dame. Not the Sacre Coeur. I haven't been to Rome, but something tells me nothing there will fit my standards for inspiration. St. Pius, I guess, qualifies, but that has nothing to do with design. We can certainly rule out the Providence Cathedral, can't we, Brother Michael? After a while, Rob and I decided to go home and catch dinner. Old Delhi is engrossing and the most interesting place I've been yet in a city that was already endlessly fascinating. I look forward to going back there and wandering, alone or with my friends. Cat and I, who now speak to each other almost exclusively in French or Hindi, are making plans to go back to the Jamma Masjid this week right when in opens at 7AM and climb the minaret. I can't even imagine what a sunrise from there must look like. It's a good thing Allah can. Endnote: Ok, the reason there were so many typos in this post when I published it was that I had transcribed it from a notebook, rather than writing it ex tempore. Transcription, because speed is of the essence, is a lower quality endeavor. My apologies. You can stop emailing me about it now. Also, thanks to Rob for these pictures. He took them. I intended to be a tourist, but I forgot my camera. I'm smart like that.