You Really Think We’re a Civilized Society?
Learning about Ourselves in Old Delhi
Come with me and I’ll introduce you to Old Delhi
If you’re in Delhi and you have the courage to stray from your safe air-conditioned, carpeted hotel to visit the markets in Old Delhi, come along with me. We’ll taste the authentic, the genuine, the original India. We’ll see, sense and feel the pungent smells and fragrances, the brilliant colors, and the din of surging humanity that few other places can offer.
Thanks for Coming Along
Our taxi has taken us to the entrance of the market and we’ve agreed to meet the driver back where he dropped us after we go exploring for two hours.
“Remember the corner with the samosa vendor,” I say to you. “This is where we need to find our way back to.”
In front of us, samosas are sizzling in hot oil over an open fire. I love samosas. “I have to try one,” I say, barely containing my excitement. The samosa has a delicate crispy and flaky outer layer and a rich filling of potatoes, peas and spices.
We eat the samosas while standing a bit off to the side near a jumbled pile of embroidered bags stacked on the ground.
About the Old Delhi Markets
These densely populated markets have been around for more than three centuries and were once a shopping destination for merchants from Turkey, China and even Holland. I have done my homework before coming. I know that Dariba Kalanis known for its pearl, gold and silver jewelry. The cloth bazaar of Katra Neeloffers a wide range of fabrics like silks, satin, crepe, cotton and muslin. And I’m especially looking forward to visiting Khari Baoli, which I’m told is a must for spice-lovers.
And We’re Off
First, we enter a narrow lane crowded with shoppers, shopkeepers, motorcycles, rickshaws and animals. Throngs of people push their way past us, ogling us suspiciously, much like the dead fish lying in frozen ice in one of the shops, their eyes wide open staring at us outsiders. Above us there are twisted and tangled electrical wires, like spaghetti, hanging from buildings and poles. On each side of us are seemingly endless rows of shops with dirt floors and corrugated tin roofsheld down with bricks or logs. Tire outlets that also sell live chickens. Butchers. Food shops. Spice shops. Clothing.
We turn into an even narrower lane and are slammed with a stench that seems to seep into our skin and embed itself into our cells. An open drain runs alongside the alleyway, taking with it rotten food, feces, plastic containers, and other unidentifiable stuff. A mangy black dog rummages through the filthy trough.
You begin walking more quickly, your hand over your nose. I know what you’re thinking: I don’t know how long I can take this.
“We can turn back soon. Let’s just try this alley,” I say, turning into yet another dirty, congested, narrow lane. A cow ambles passed us. Numerous bicycle-pulled rickshaws, splashing foul sludge onto our legs, race by. On our right, sitting on his legless trunk is a beggar, holding out a small tin cup. The throngs passing by don’t even notice him.
Now we both walk as quickly as we can, dodging rickshaws, carts, dogs and people. The alleyway ends and the crowds sweep us along into yet another one. And then another. My stomach pitches when I see a man crouch by the side of the road, relieving himself in front of everyone.
I have this condition. It’s called urgency incontinence or spastic bladder. What it really is, quite simply, is the urge to urinate even when the bladder isn’t full, and to suddenly pee at totally inappropriate times. My mother had it. Her mother before her had it. Research indicates that one in three women have some form of incontinence.
Anyway, here I am, lost among this mass of people. Animals. Beggars. Filth. Crowds. Noise. Traffic. Stench. And I needto pee. Bad. But not like that guy, right here in the street, right?
“We need to find our way back,” I say, trying to hide the panic I feel beginning to rise.
We are running now, ignoring the muck we’resplashing through. Suddenly, I look up and grab your arm. “There’s the turret of the Red Fort. Now I know where we are,” I shout, turning around and pulling you along behind me.
But then…
A small woman who looks dwarfed in a soiled salwar-kameez (Punjabi suit) several sizes too large for her thin body reaches out her arm, stopping us. A tattered black scarf drapes across the front of her body.
“Where are you from, manji?” she asks us, her large dark eyes penetrating mine.
“We’re from the United States,” I answer, attempting to push past her. Something about her mournful eyes is terribly unsettling. But also riveting.
We stop.
“I have heard that is where people are so rude they wear their street shoes inside the house. Is it true?”
Before I can respond, she continues, “And is that where you use the same water for your toilets and your cooking? And is it really true that you wipe your feces with paper and smear it around instead of cleaning yourself properly with water?”
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