Arriving in India, first impressions

The air was orange and thick. Leon and I stared at each other as the Ambassador taxi rumbled through the industrial area between the airport and the Paharganj. At 5.15 am Delhi smelt musky and seemed unusually quiet for a city of 14 million.

The driver lurched to a halt on the Main Bazaar somewhere near the middle of the strip of hotels, cafes and shops. He gave us the briefest moment to scramble for our luggage, grabbed our prepaid taxi chit and sped off into the rising dawn. Somewhat stunned at the insalubrious arrival, Leon and I took in the surroundings.

The street was our own, it was peaceful and somewhat disconcerting. Not even a dog disturbed the peace. No one moved. Were we even in the right place at all? Was it safe? Had the driver just dropped us wherever he wanted?

Lights began to appear in the windows around us. The sounds of domesticity leaked out of the buildings.

Finally, a scrawny cow emerged from an alleyway chewing on the remnants of a straw hat.

I turned to Leon. ‘At last, civilisation’.

Light slowly crept into the scene, we were hungry and lost. The addition of an inner-city cow, covered in face paint made the situation surreal. It set us to giggling.

The cow ambled past with bovine nonchalance, ignoring us both. It blocked our view of the world. Then suddenly the street was alive, as if someone had used the magic of theatre to introduce the cast. Chai steamed from pots, vendors exchanged their morning greetings. More and more people arrived, pushing wooden carts loaded with produce, pulling bolts of cloth onto the street from shopfronts. More taxis. Bleary eyed tourists

Cars navigated the narrow street and finally tourists appeared, bleary eyed, looking for tea and cigarettes. We sat and watched the spectacle.

After a man dressed as a monkey had knuckled past and screamed in our faces, his insane ululation escaping past impressive canines, we decided that it was time to find a place to sleep. We weren't feeling really adventurous, so we booked into a busy modern multi-storied guest house in the centre of the main street. Our mates in Israel had recommended it. Apparently, it would be really safe, and wouldn't get bombed because so many Israeli’s stayed there that the Israeli intelligence service kept undercover operatives at the place - and for some reason that made it safer? 

Even though it was modern it was also pretty sparse, the room had two single beds with thin mattresses and nothing else except for a ceiling fan and a single bare lightbulb. There was a rooftop restaurant…

On the flight into Delhi we had decided we would need to do something to record our adventure. Fuck buying a camera and rolls of film, we needed paint and canvas.

Armed with directions from the owner of our guest house we set off on foot looking for Connaught Place, a huge shopping and office district within walking distance of the Main Bazaar where we were staying.

The streets of the Main Bazaar were grid locked. Although it was early, not even 10 am, the temperature was already around 30 degrees Celsius and was set to peak at 35.

It must have been obvious to everyone on the Main Bazaaar, both locals and tourists that we were new-comers. Stall holders vied for our attention, trying to get us to buy everything from mangoes to bed linen. Children tried to take our hands and lead us off, asking if we needed a place to stay, “Take your bag Sir?”.

Other tourists would catch your eye and sometimes offered a “Namaste”. I could see that some of them were fresh to India too and others were more assimilated into the local culture, some of the women even wore traditional Indian sari and bindi on their foreheads. A few of the westerners looked as if they were beggars, scrawny, wearing dirty and tattered clothing, faces covered in grime. These people seemed to regard us in a very similar manner as did the locals.

We wove in and out of the stationary cars, fending of the advances of the moneychangers and taxi drivers. At the end of the road, opposite the entrance to the train station we found the cause of the traffic jam.

A huge Brahman bull was standing in the middle of the road, eating something that looked like a giant pink lamington. Although further up the road the drivers had been yelling at each other and standing on their horns, none of the cars or trucks honked at the animal. With great reverence they slowly navigated around the giant horned beastie, and then accelerated, swerving and cutting each other off again.

Stunned by the sight and the heat, we watched from the shade of a shop selling embroidered fabrics. A young woman walked past and laughed lightly as she saw the expressions on our faces.

‘New to India no?’ She had a thick French accent but was dressed in a Sari. ‘This is the traffic rules of India nah? Pedestrians give way to bicycles, bicycles to motorbikes, motorbikes to rickshaws, to cars to trucks. Trucks give way to elephants. Everyone gives way to cows.’

With a wink and a smile, she disappeared into the teeming city.

After buying canvas in Connaught Place we jumped in a rickshaw and gave the driver instructions to find a shop that sold paint pigments. We wanted to make our own paints and had found out about market that specialised in art materials.

The taxi began to wiggle its way through the streets. The road caught my eye, the surface glinted as though drops of fresh dew sat on the encrusted pavements. The glistening became more consistent, tinsel clung to every surface, a gleam rippled on the street.

‘Is the street always like this?’ I asked the driver. Pointing to the dirty but glittering road.

‘Certainly’ he replied, nonplussed by the sight. ‘But now they work harder preparing for Diwali, the festival of lights.’

Leon looked at the street and leant forward so the diver could hear him more clearly over the loud engine. ‘What do they make here?’

The entire neighbourhood was coated in the shiny material, a street riot of colour where each battled for superiority and eventually everyone settled for sparkly.

‘Decorations,’ the taxi driver looked over his shoulder at us. ‘You would use them for Christmas.’

As he drove we saw the people of the neighbourhood, sitting on the side of the street and twist string into twines. They thread tinsel into each twist of the string, making the garlands by hand.

As we left the tinsel streets the road widened, into a proper four lane road with a raised berm in the middle. Up ahead I could see there was a guy lying in the middle of the road, on the median strip. As we got closer he started to look strange, like there was something unnatural in the way he was laying there. We drove past and I looked into his face, his eyes were open and not moving, his face was slack. When we came back the same way three hours later the body was still there.