I went to the Old Delhi wholesale bazaar today. (Later I read in Lonely Planet that Friday afternoon, the busiest day, is NOT the day to go because the place is jammed with folks from all over the region!! I did not know what I was getting in to! ) I don't even know how to describe the scene or where to start. There was no way in hell I could take pictures, though I would have given the world to. I was the only pinkface I saw for hours. I'm not exaggerating! How many people who aren't archeologists or CIA get that experience in this modern world?!? It wasn't untill I got back to the metro that I saw a white tourist couple. We were the only 3 who hadn't read the warning in the book.
Imagine you have lawn tickets to a concert. Now cram that many people into lanes the size of an apartment hallway, snaking off in all directions for miles. The hallway is lined with shops the size of a small walk in closet, packed floor to ceiling with saris, bolt fabric, woven baskets of whole and ground spices, long strips of little packets of stuff i have no idea what they were, woks so big they touched the sides of the stall, teetering on open wood fires, boiling over with oil and three guys around throwing things into it. At one point I thought we were headed right into a shop, rickshaw and all, but we were just turning down one of the nearly invisible alleys that also go on for blocks and blocks.
Barefoot men and children are everywhere. Oh yeah, mostly men, probably 90%, and the women were either with men or in groups of 3 or more. (and the women, sensible creatures, were shod) Rich ladies in super decorated saris, or designer western wear, street kids in tatters, muslims in long white pyjamas and women in hijab, toddlers in the street, 100 year old men wrapped in blankets and carrying, I kid you not, tridents. (sticks taller than them with a three pointed "fork" at the end. Shiva carries one). It seems if they say "Rama Rama" they get free chai. And of course, dying dogs howling their transition into the great mystery. Can't go anywhere without seeing the dying dogs and their skinny puppies. I wonder how bad you have to have been in a past life to come back as an Indian dog.
Now, through all of this mass of humanity, imagine motorcycles, junker bikes, and bicycle rickshaws bombing at comparitively high speed in both directions. You have to hang on to the sides of the rickshaw or you will bounce right out. Chaos only begins to suggest the scene.
This really really old dude rode me around on his rickshaw till he was tired (at least 30 mins. bless his heart!), then passed me off to one of his young friends, who drove me around for about an hour, snaking through an impossibly complicated maze of never ending seriously old school commercialism. At first I was utterly overwhelmed. Then a dramatic shift occured when the Xanax kicked in. (kidding mom, i do it all through meditation) After the initial fear wore off, I became first curious, then, oddly enough, peaceful. I had the weirdest sensation, that I recognized everyone and that this was all too normal. The expressions, the facial structures and body postures, it all felt very very familiar, the bustle, the closeness, the 16 foot stacks of gorgeous bespangled fabrics, and the piles of whole spices, even the sickly dogs! I realized if I never saw another Mughal palace or tomb, it would be just fine. The bazaar is what I wanted to see! No one was begging, even the touts (the guys who say "Hello!, Which country? Very Cheap!") were absent. Maybe they were yelling at me and I didn't understand. They were definitely yelling, selling, and letting folks know there were no better piles of cloth than what they had right there. Deep in the entrails of the market (yeah, innards, that is the right image for this place, it was intestinal) I was barely noticed. These folks were doing wholesale biz-ness, and I obviously wasn't buying.
I got up my nerve, after exhausting two strong drivers, and started wandering about on my own. I looked for where the crowd of women were eating, figuring they knew how to find the good food, and had the most delicious chaat, and frothy chai. "Chaat" is "snacks" in Hindi, and they were little puffs of fried bread stuffed with chickpeas and potatoes and smothered with tomatoe chili sauce, cilantro chutney, and yogurt raita. Ridiculously good. They make their chai in tiny styrofoam cups, by steaming milk and about a half cup of superfine sugar into a froth. Fill tiny cup half full and put in a Tetley tea bag. Then steam more milk and add on top. You drink it first, then you say "Tikka" (good), then you pay. Then you are on an insane sugar, cream and caffiene high that makes you feel....well, see above trans-egoic peace and lovefest. I ended up chatting with a lovely man from Kashmir named Ibrahim who didn't mind that i wasn't going to buy his GORGEOUS, expensive pashminas, (that should tell you how overwhelmed I was, I bought NOTHING!) but let me try on almost everything in his tiny store anyway.
Next, off to the rich neighborhood for a cooking class!
