Tyler Sharp
An Older Delhi is a Better Delhi
After our brief but memorable stint in Kashmir, we returned to Delhi to meet up with our friend Chad, arriving from Dallas that night, to continue our journey on from there. We had a hefty dose of Delhi traffic on our way to the hotel, which still shied in comparison to the seething mass of bad drivers in Cairo. As we drove past Indian Parliament, we were surprised to see both sides of the street lined with waving Texas flags. Small crowds and news crews had begun to gather, and we wondered what event was to take place that would warrant such a warm welcome for our native state. We determined that it was most likely for us, but we were all very weary from toil and travel, and retiring to our hotel early, did not show up for our own ceremony.
Chad, Brady and I decided to eat at a nearby Punjabi restaurant, continuing to confuse our palettes with strange spices and oils. Dinner and drinks giving us enough energy and bravery to venture out for a bit, we decided to go for an evening stroll. The streets at night were eerily calm, devoid of any other pedestrians, and the closed store fronts and shops seemed to still hum from the buzz of the droves of shoppers earlier in the day.We flagged a passing tuk-tuk down, and the three of us crammed ourselves onto the stationary bench in the back. The driver spoke no english at all, and had a very difficult time understanding the concept of “just driving us around.” Somewhere amidst our hand gestures ad attempts of explanation, we got lost in translation, and ended up in Delhi’s red light district. Supposedly being one of the seedier places in Delhi, we didn’t stay very long. One side of the narrow crowded street was lined with trash, rubble, broken vehicles, and sleeping young boys. The other side of the street was lined with brothels and “dance houses.” Our driver kept pointing upstairs to one of the whorehouses, not comprehending why we didn’t want to go into the lion’s den. What he did understand were the few hundred rupees we put in his hand and the name of our hotel, so he took us back.
The next morning we met our man on the inside, JP, and he introduced us to our driver and consigliere for the day. The first place we went was a mosque that our old friend Shah Jehan had built many centuries ago. As we admired the masterfully worked marble and sandstone, our guide asked us to look at the birds in the sky above us. There were droves of birds to the East, soaring, swooping and perching, and there were none at all to the West. This was because the local Muslims lived to the east of the mosque, and they ate meat, so the birds hung around looking for scraps and morsels. There were no birds at all lurking in the skies above the vegetarian Hindu sections to the west of the mosque. It was as if a line had been drawn across the sky, separating preference for meat, and was a strange but interesting phenomenon to witness.
Mosque divided by meat
Resident Mosque Cat
From the mosque we wandered into the winding streets of Old Delhi, which was still faintly covered with fluorescent powders, residue from the Hindu Festival of Holi. I much preferred Old Delhi to “New Delhi,” being full of artisans, craftspeople, and historic homes and structures. The streets were only 7 or 8 feet wide, which to me made it more intimate, and on both sides were new faces and smells to tempt my lens. As it does in most 3rd world countries, my photographing attracted the gaze of locals who peered curiously into the viewfinder. This always leads to chance encounters and new friends, and before too long there are impromptu street photos shoots. At one point the group of boys that I was photographing had become too large for the Old Delhi side street we were on, causing rickshaw traffic and shopkeeper estrangement.
Indian Street Youth
Holi Residue
Happy Shopkeeper
Ducking around a corner we found a particularly antique and historic row of houses that seeped charm from their cracked porticoes. I believe it was one of the oldest neighborhoods in all of Delhi, and had enough character to go around. As I was photographing a few of the houses, a man walked out onto his porch and motioned for me to come over. After I photographed him he invited me inside and began to explain that his family had lived in this house for many generations, and that it was originally built by none other than Shah Jehan (which instantly boosted its’ significance for me). After the spontaneous tour, I said goodbye and promised to email him the photos I had taken. I went back outside to find Brady and Chad, but had no luck. After a brief search I discovered that they had also been invited into a house, but for tea and chat instead. The man’s name was Sri Ganesh, and he was a very successful exporter and handicraft dealer. Their home was riddled with amazing pieces of antique furniture, including a chair of Shah Jehan’s from the 15th century. None of us sat in that chair. The tea was good, but the conversation better, as we exchanged stories of our families, our life dreams, and even anecdotes on the state of the world and its’ problems. The overall consensus in most places that I have travelled to is that America is a very good country, and most want to go there simply for the opportunity. Simple things like that remind me of what a wonderful country it really is, and how blessed I am to be a citizen of it; a reminder we all need now and again. After exchanging emails and well wishes, we took our leave back to the streets of Old Delhi.
Historic Home and Generational Dweller
The home of Mr. Sri Ganesh
Being that our travel companion Chad Houser is a world class chef, he had already heard rumors from afar of Delhi’s spice market, so we agreed to commandeer rickshaws there to spice it up a bit on the way to buy spices in the famous spice market. Spice. Brady and Chad entertained themselves on the ride by role playing the part of stuffy, imperialistic British aristocrats who were unhappy with the performance of their young chauffeurs, groveling the whole way about better days, finer tea, and more fit rickshaw drivers. I managed to entertain myself by taking picture of numerous encounters along the way, including a trio of Indian transvestites.
Stuffy Imperialist Aristocrats
My Rickshaw Driver
Trio of Transvestites
Arriving at the spice market and over paying our greedy bike pedaler, we were bombarded by the smells of hundreds of robust Indian spices. I was totally overwhelmed by the array of fresh and exotic ingredients, but Chef Chad was already plotting assaults on the taste buds of the Greater Dallas area. It was very interesting to watch him scrutinize, taste and smell things, the same way I would try a few different angles for a shot, and then see him squint his eyes, giving a subtle nod when he knew he found something he was looking for. I was watching a man find his ingredients, and an artist find his inspiration. I am thinking of offering myself as a culinary apprentice, but fear the wrath of his reputed knife skills.
Exotic Spices for Sale
A Sacred Street Post
There was an area where everyone was coughing, sneezing, and wearing bandanas around their faces, and upon inquiring, learned that this is where they sold all of the hot peppers. All of us being jalapeno and habanero loving Texas boys, we thought we would be fine to stroll through. At first we casually admired the large burlap sacks of eye stinging peppers, but before too long we all started to cough, sneeze, and even cry a little. The effects lasted much longer than anticipated, and terrorized our sinuses for a few hours more as we continued our marginally organized meander trough the streets of Delhi.
Very Hot Chili Peppers, Even for Texas Standards
The next stop was the controversial house and final resting place of Gandhi. Despite his status as a national hero, there is turmoil and debate surrounding what happened, and his influence on the results. Almost everyone had their own opinion on the matter, but all agreed that he was a very pious and holy man. At Gandhi’s house we saw where he ate, studied, and slept, where he wove his own cloth, and even held meetings with various diplomats, politicians, and spiritual friends, They had cast his last steps on the ground in concrete, leading to where he was shot down in his lawn by a fanatical Muslim. But Gandhi died with love on his tongue, praising God with his last waning breath, and left the stunned crowd to pick up the pieces, to try and follow in his famous footsteps. It was a moving experience to be in the spiritual presence of such an amazing man. He made sacrifices that most never could, or would even choose to. His inspirational words were on plaques throughout the gardens, and I solemnly read each one, fighting back tears, and trying to think of ways to implement them into my heart and life in any way that I could. His face smiled wisely at me from the paper rupees the rest of my time in India, immortalized for his ideology, and made sacred for his humanity. Rest in peace Mohatma, you truly were a great soul.
Gandhi’s Bed and Study
Statue in Memoriam
The meditative silence and inward reflection of seeing Gandhi’s house was immediately interrupted by the harsh Delhi traffic; horns, exhaust, shouting, the window tapping of beggars, and forward body lunges associated with stop and go, gridlock traffic. We spent one last evening at our hotel, and prepared for the next days journey to Agra, where we were to see the Taj Mahal. It is the greatest monument ever created for the love of a woman, and stands as a testament to timeless love. The legend of this structure precedes it greatly, and it had a lot to live up to. I fell asleep watching Bollywood movies, a new love of mine, brilliant in their shameless repetition of story lines, themes, and even dance moves. They give me hope about my film-making career. So yes, this is an official casting call…
Hotel Lobby