Old Delhi ….

On Dec 4th, we went to Daryaganj to see if Krishnan’s name can be rectified on the PAN card. We need to register ShikshaDaan on Darpan and for that Krishnan’s name isn’t getting added as Chief Functionary because his name is spelt differently on Aadhar and PAN. We were going on the Asaf Ali Marg after many many years …

We were quite regular at the old book stalls that were put up on the pavement…

Just outside the Jain Temple we boarded our cycle rickshaws- Nick and Marty shared a honeymoon ride on one while Zak and I were together, following Vivek who had one to himself. We went through narrow, winding roads - absolutely remarkable in that juxtaposed with a mundane, modern concrete structure would be the remains of an old, old building with exquisite metal worked lattices and calligraphy on its walls. 

Zak was just spellbound - he has had a long and intense relationship with India - in that he has read and studied aspects of Hinduism, our history, had many Indian friends and so this was “definitely a bucket list trip”.

Our destination was Chandni Chowk - Moonlight Square, one of the oldest parts of the city. There are possibly over a hundred lanes and alleyways that are off shoots of this square and each is a “speciality street” as per Malhar ( our rickshaw driver). We passed Metal Street, Pearl street, Gem Street, Saree street...and finally got to our destination: Spice Street.

Marty and I started smiling wider the moment we got down. This was Dinner Club Heaven. Street Vendors sold every conceivable kind of traditional cooking vessel, contraption, gadget, tool..sharp knives sitting nonchalantly next to smooth marble cutting boards, ladles, fryers, tenderizers, sieves..but as Marty noted, nowhere did we see measuring devices. That made us smile even more because this was how we both liked to cook - mostly by intuition and rarely with accurate measurement.

The timid moon slides quietly past clouds that lightning failed to break,

and shines upon asphalted streets like coppery rain under lamplight,

and the long wheels of cycle rickshaws that creak mildly in near darkness.

T. E. Pyrus

खाली पेट पिंजरा होता है ग़रीबी का, जिससे हर कोई आज़ाद होने के लिए संघर्ष करता है

“struggles in poverty – रिक्शे से लेकर ऑटो रिक्शे तक का हैंडिल ग़रीब के हाथ होता है जिसका घूमना भी अमीर के हाथों में है “

शरीर में थोड़ी सी जगह यानी पेट और सोचने-समझने की ताकत को आपस में मिला दिया जाए तो बन जाता है इंसान| लेकिन जब पेट की आग हमारी समझ बूझ को जलाकर लालच की राख बनाने लगे तो पेट के लिए सब कुछ करना पड़ता है| चाहे उस आग के लिए कोई आतंकवादी बने या रिक्शा चलाएं|

(सांकेतिक फोटो)

पेट की आग…

Every morning at 6:30 am the gates open to the Keoladeo Ghana National Park, formerly known as the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary, and India’s premier destination for spotting over 230 species of birds. The tourists, bird lovers, photographers have normally already queued up at least half an hour in advance, with entry passes in hand. Also waiting at the gates are the 100 odd men who will during the day turn into expert ornithologists and guides helping these visitors see a Greater Egret nest, a painted stork or find the perfect place to capture photo of a camouflaged nightjar.

These men are the cyclyrickshaw drivers of Bharatpur. They will rattle out Hindi, English and Scientific names of birds like a field researcher, fill you with the history of the park like historians who have lived and breathed that past era and effortlessly carry your camera equipment and set it up for you too like a pro. Like a friend, philosopher and guide, these men seamlessly switch over from one role to another while also pulling your weight on the dirt tracks of Bharatpur in their three wheeled rickshaws. Turn a visit to the bird sanctuary to an experience that is seldom found anywhere else, here are some photos of these extraordinary men taken by visitors to the park,

  Waiting for a tourist at the gates of the park. Image via Karanguesthouse

    Let’s start the ride!. Image courtesy frangallo

A name tag for each Rickshaw and its owner. Image courtesy BetterIndia

Showing birds, forest and sometimes cattle too! Image courtesy ifonlypolyglotwasajob

The rickshaw parade. Image courtesy betterIndia

Proud of my job! Image courtesy Mediocre2010, Creative Commons on Flickr

Bird watchers at dawn. Image courtesy natureindiatours

  A white breasted waterhen examines a parked rickshaw. Image courtesy Anil P

  Featured image courtesy Saurabh Misra cc/FLickr

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Last weekend’s trip to Amritsar was my first exploration of the Punjab, and what a fascinating and beautiful region it is! (Although I am yet to dislike any place in India!)

We arrived at Amritsar Junction early in the morning and shoved our way elbows first towards the exit (as only a woman can in India) to be greeted by a new breed of Cycle Rickshaw, one which involves a precarious balancing act when carrying two passengers as the seat is a solid dome atop the cart. After brief, ungainly struggles on both of our parts we were seated, but I have to confess that the journey was uncomfortable for another reason. In the first few weeks in India I rarely took Cycle Rickshaws, opting for the motorised alternative, owing to the simple fact that the sun is slamming its severe heat on the pointed shoulders of these frantically pedalling men who appear to suffer excruciating exhaustion. So when I noticed that we had a very aged, hearing-aid clad Rickshaw wallah who confessed to us that he was in his eighty second year, (and proceeded to transport us at a painfully slow pace) the awkward embarassment returned with a vengeance. By the time we had to disembark to help him up a hill the sour taste had well and truly returned to my mouth. However, equally, and obviously, this man has to earn a living too, and this experience has made me notice that Indians approaching Rickshaw stands will make a shameless beeline for the youngest, and thus presumably fastest, cyclists. Maybe the awkward consciousness is felt by even the most seasoned of Rickshaw travelers.

The tourism in Amritsar is very different to that which I had experienced elsewhere in India - the sole appeal of the city is the holy Sikh Golden Temple, so the influx is of religious pilgrims, chiefly Indian and usually only in the city for a mere twenty four hours. As a result, hotels have televisions and air conditioning (regarded as a must by Indian tourists) but little atmosphere, and at the budget end of the scale are hideously modern expanses! But woven into the ugly, a mirage amidst a desert of tattered havelis, stands the truly sublime, sparkling white marble structure of the Golden Temple complex. After covering my head and shoulders, (something I tend now to do at every ‘sight’ as it seems to go some way to preventing us white tourists from becoming the tourist attraction itself), removing my shoes and bathing my feet, I was swept in a wave of saris and shalwars, from the incessant clamour of the streets in to the totally tranquil surroundings of the Amrit Sarovar. This is the lake within the walls of the temple and the translation of the name is ‘Pool of Immortality-giving Nectar’. Everywhere naked babies are being immodestly dunked into the holy waters and semi-naked Sikh men submerge themselves at the pool edge. The richly gilded golden Harmandir rises from the middle of the lake and it is from here that the Gurus sing the age old songs of Guru Nanak, from sunrise to sunset, and these hypnotic melodies are piped live for all to hear. The movement of the vibrantly coloured masses clockwise around the pool is surprisingly rapid, but somehow serenity is maintained here there is no shoving. It is rich in tragic modern political history as well, and the scars of disputes, even as recently as the 80s can be seen, and the bullet marks of Indira Gandhi’s Operation BlueStar have been preserved in the memory of those soldiers and civilians who died. Without wishing to sound lazy, it is difficult to verbalise the sirenic beauty of this exquisite place, the Sikh’s most holy Gurdwara, but Kaja’s stunning photographs go some way to explaining the place.