Day Four (Dec 22, 2011)
With luggage all packed and stored in Old Delhi Train Station, we jumped into an auto rickshaw to head to Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque. Auto rickshaw is a convenient means of transport in India, just like Tuk-tuk in Thailand, though it requires a hell lot of patience to bargain. Rarely would a driver use the meter installed in their vehicle. They ask for prices 5 to 6 times than what it is supposed be. Some travelers take their way of doing business very personally and feel them surrounded by scummers. Yet if you loosen up a bit, try to bargain a bit, don’t mind to be slightly rip-off (for Indians, foreigners can afford more), touring in India will be way more pleasant.
We agreed upon 80 rupees to the mosque. The meter showed nothing more than 25 rupees. 55 rupees more than it should be. But it comes down to one US dollar. Not terribly bad.
Before going to the mosque, we had brunch at Karim’s, hidden behind some narrow alleys opposite number one gate of Jama Masjid. The place is legendary and serves great Mughalai dishes. We had rich and creamy Mughalai chicken (a peanut based curry sauce), mutton burrah (grilled marinated mutton), rotis (baked round bread), plain rice, and a spinach and cheese dish. Comparing to many previous travels we have done, this time both we are more generous to ourselves when it comes to food.
The Muslim staff all wore a little round white hat, and their faces resemble Muslim minority of Northwest China. I have a fondness of spices and herbs and therefore Indian food are pleasant to my pallets.
Great food at Karim
Across the street from the restaurant sits solidly the sandstone mosque. It’s the first time I have ever entered a mosque and the experience was — far from satisfying. Jama Masjid is officially free to enter, although on the door it states there’s a 200-rupee fee for taking photos. Planning neither to take photos nor to pay, we put our cinemas inside our backpacks. The guys at the entrance insisted that we had to pay, whether or not we would use our cinemas. I refused to pay more as there’s no official booth or anything to execute the arrangement. The money might just go into someone’s pocket privately – someone who just want to take advantage of tourists.
Later we decided to go separately into the mosque, taking turns to guard each other’s stuff so that we could go inside empty-handed. J went in without a problem. When it came to my turn, I was stopped at the entrance.
“You have to pay 200 rupees,” the guard said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Camera fee,” he answered.
“Where do you see my camera?”
I was wearing a T-shirt, stretchy sports pants, no shoes, and a head-scarf.
“You really have no camera?”
“Do I have to take my clothes off for you to examine?”
I was getting impatient. Apparently the 200-rupee is very important to his personal consumption.
As I was about to pull my shirt up to piss him off, he waved me in.
The mosque was big, but uninterestingly dull. I had no experience visiting other mosques and could not compare this one to any others. But I think the unfriendly arrangement to rip tourists off makes me not so at ease. So I left in a minute or two.
Outside the Mosque
Next to the mosque was a bustling bazaar. Visiting a mosque is not just a religious ordeal only; rather, it’s a huge social gathering for Muslims. Kebabs were being grilled everywhere; clothes and household items carpeted the whole bazaar. It was quite a scene.
Bazaar outside the mosque
After visiting the largest yet boring mosque of India, we darted to the metro. It’s 4 pm but the train was fully packed with people. It was nothing less crowded than the MTR in Admiralty during peak hours. I was sandwiched between the dark sea of Indian men again. Shortly after the door of the train was closed and started to budge, the whole train jolted to a standstill. Then a long couple minutes passed; nothing happened. I started to feel uneasy and slightly claustrophobic. What happened if we were trapped in this unventiliated, non-airconditioned, overly crowded train.
As we were wondering what had happened, some women started to holler.
I understood no Hindi. But apparently the voice indicated anger.
It turned out that some women were complaining in their compartment (special compartment reserved for women) there were men standing. The women pressed an emergency key to stop the whole train so as to ask the men to get out of the train.
The hullabaloo went on for another five minutes. I felt tight in my breathing as the compartment was loaded with people chest to chest and there was no ventilation of air. The doors would not open. The men stood motionlessly and quietly. The women hollered continously with hospitality.
Finally, some conductors came and ordered the men to leave. Some passengers got dragged out and pushed out physically. Thank God, the conductors were kind to us tourists. So we joined the crowd to the men’s compartments, leaving the women rest in peace in their own spacious area.
It seems to me in India, women and men, like in many more traditional society, have a very segregated life. Public affection between men is widely acceptable; whereas between women and men is a horrid scene. Women and men are connected in a family structure — marriage. Friendship between different genders seems not encouraged.
Like in most traditional society, I guess.
“Do you think you can live happily as an Indian?” J asked.
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the separation or hostility I see between men and women.”
In train stations, women are officially allowed to push through the men lining up to buy tickets and jump the queue. It’s a custom to “respect” women in the society, but I never manage to do execute that privilege. The practice of women compartments or letting ladies to cut in lines is similar to “Affirmative action” in US, or some nations, where the not-so-priviledged are given certain rights to enter to universities with lower grades. But I often wonder if it eases crimination or promotes it.
After a couple stops, we made it down to the southern suburb of Delhi. The air was clearer, the traffic less chaotic, the buildings and cars more posh.
“The “new” New Delhi,” J said.
Like many major cities in developing countries, there are nouveau riches. The southern suburb apparently hosts a better social class of Indians.
We visited Humayun’s tomb, a beautiful early Mughal architectural site that carries a story similar to that of Taj Mahal.
Humayun's tomb
Shortly after, we plunged into Hazrat Nizam-ud-din Dargah, a shrine of the Muslim Sufi saint, Nizam-ud-din Chishti around sunsetting time when some Sufis sing as many worshippers pay their tributes to the saint. It was at first quite interesting to see how people partake in their rituals. But when some agonizing scream started to pierce through my ears from the back of the compound, I found it disturbed and unsettling. I leaned closer to the back to see what’s going on only to find that some youngsters, mainly women, dressed in loosen white dresses, with their hair in a total mess, screaming and dancing in great agony.
Sufis singing in the shrine
They could have been insane, in a trance, or in pain.
It was painful to watch.
They looked like lunatics in a mental institute. Some Indians told us that they were crazy and came for healing. I personally felt it was different–something induced by the religious practices. The whole phenomenon gives me a lot of questions on my own faith: Christianity. When seeing people opting for agony and pain to have a religious experience, I felt it dumbfounded.
Because of that, I urged J to go.
“It’s painful to watch,” I said to J.
“Because they make you feel uncomfortable?” J asked.
“I think it’s because they look like they are suffering so much. No one seems to care for them or do something.”
“But Dora, it’s no different than a man and kid coming to beg you for money and we just walk by.”
It’s true. There is a non-stop flow of people, old and young, man and woman, Muslim or Hindu or unknown, coming to beg for money and food. We often walk past them with a straight face, or else a rupee or two may call upon a mob of beggars landsliding all over you.
“Dora, as you see people suffer in the shrine, you cannot help feeling disturbed. It’s the same as you encounter people on the street and have to walk past time.”
India has its flamboyant, picturesque and colorful side; but it has a deep agonizing facade that blows your mind off as well.
After the rather unpleasant (to me) experience in the Sufi shrine, we rounded up our day at Lodi Garden. It’s refreshing to walk inside it at night as some Mughal tombs are lit up softly and the park is surrounded by green and palm trees. A good way to calm down the previous disturbing encounter. We had some food at the pricy Lodi Garden restaurant.
Lodi Garden at night time
To keep one travel with good spirit and a sane mind, occasionally pampering is the necessary.
As the clock stroke nine, we headed back north, picked up our luggage, got into a train to move to the next stop, Jaipur in Rajasthan.
