Off the tourist trail in Delhi

Like a magpie, I’m drawn to all that sparkles; like a seagull, to the spicy scent of fried samosas, bhaji and dumplings. India, then, is a country in which I’ve found a second home, and Delhi’s Lajpat Nagar Central Market encompasses all that is enticing about India.

This suburban market and shopping area is the place to buy sari silk, costume jewellery, sequined shoes and all other bejewelled, bejangling trinkets necessary to put on an Indian wedding. It is also home to some of the most varied, delicious and hygienic street food in the city (although my stomach is made of iron—don’t sue the messenger if yours is not!)

On an evening excursion, I foolishly got my hands hennaed first. Temporary mehandi tattoos are a bridal party ritual. Young men sitting street-side beckon with their photo albums, proof of their prowess with the cones of sludge-coloured dye. I had intended to get something discreet—a small flower on the back of my hand?—but, as is the way in this country, the persuasive young artist transformed the blank canvas of my skin into a parade ground for dancing peacocks, front and back, up the wrists, along the fingers.

Henna takes an hour to dry. It was dinnertime, so my friend gleefully fed me bites of samosa, scoops of potato curry with buttered bread, Tibetan momos, explosive balls of gol gappe—spicy pastry puffs filled with tamarind water—that dribbled down my chin. Spoilt for choice, we let the locals choose for us. They were pleased that we visitors had ventured to their local market, and proudly wanted to ensure we had a good time. Bellies full and newly-attractive hands dry, we shopped for chandelier earrings too heavy to wear and curly-toed slippers fit for a harem.

Unfortunately, the Lajpat Nagar market is not a place to which many tourists venture. Delhi has a not-unfounded (but certainly exaggerated) bad reputation for safety, hassles and scam artists. Many tourists simply endure a transit through Delhi tense and nervous. Fresh-off-the-plane tourists huddle together, hesitate to walk out into traffic and raise their voices too shrilly, too insistently at the young touts who smell their fear and descend—not for the kill, just for the sale. They stick to the over-priced, tour-group-friendly gated shopping enclaves, and daren’t venture to the markets where the locals shop. They are missing out, because in India, very little is as scary as the f.o.p. perceives it to be, and the Lajpat Nagar Central Market is the tantalising proof.