It was noisy in the morning but I remained in bed relaxing. I’d slept surprisingly well. I got out of bed and dressed quickly. I went out into the street and looked around for a place to have breakfast. I walked along the main road some ways and stopped into a place that looked relatively clean for a cup of tea. They had wifi so I attempted to get some ideas what I might do during the day. I wanted to take a night train to Bikaner, but this gave me a full day to explore Delhi.
I stopped into a hotel that was also a travel agency and booked a ticket for 11:35 that evening. The agent didn’t seem very knowledgeable, but eventually I got a ticket for the time I wanted and it cost me a total of 600–something like double what it should have cost. I was told that my train would leave from Sarai Rohilla Train Station.
I washed myself back in my room and then quickly packed up and checked out. I wasn’t sorry to leave Paharganj. I made my way across the bridge that crosses the train tracks and found the metro station. I had decided that I would explore Connaught Place–which is supposed to have interesting markets and one of India’s fanciest hotels.
I walked along and was delighted by the bizarre mix of things on the street. Carts drawn by oxen blocked the street and brought the modern buses and cars to a halt. Cycle rickshaws jostled for space on the road with motorcycles and pedestrians walking against traffic. Men lying on the side of the road tried to sell me what appeared to be softcore porn magazines. There was so much going on.
I figured that I would take the metro to save myself some walking–since it was beginning to look as if I would be lugging my bags around with me the whole day. The Shivraj Chowk metro station was only one stop from the New Delhi station and cost 8 Rs. The metro, in comparison to the often confusing system of buses, is quite straightforward and efficient.
I exited the subway and sat in the park. Walking with the large pack on my back and a duffle in my hand made me sweat quite readily. When I’d rested I decided to make toward where I thought a Tibetan market was. Since there are few street signs, I ended up walking down the wrong road. I met a young guy from Tibet however, and he walked me to a tourist information office. The thing with the area is that travel agencies will have signs declaring they are the government tourist office when in fact they aren’t at all. I could tell when I walked in that this wasn’t the tourist information office, but decided to ask about luggage storage anyway. I was told there wasn’t any close by. After politely declining several tour packages, I exited the fake tourist info. I was famished–not having had anything for breakfast. I passed a McDonald’s and walked in. I ordered a Maharaja Mac and ate the sandwich near the window. It was not bad–and amusing to have something with such an absurd name. It felt great to rest in the cool air-conditioned environment for a while.
I wrote some letters as I sat. I then packed up and found a clothing market. It reminded me of the bazaar in Istanbul where heaps of fake designer clothing are sold. There was also jewelry and a stall with books. I browsed the books, but found them to be expensive and moved on.
An elderly Muslim man accosted me and joked and talked with me until he convinced me to walk with him to his shop. He was unshaven and had a pleasant and enthusiastic way. His conversation made up for his small stature. He moved haphazardly from one topic to another to keep up a constant stream of conversation. One minuted he was talking about kebabs, the next he asked abruptly, “you know James Wright?”
I told him I’d never heard of him.
“Oh my? Never hearing about him. Very big. He is reading the books. Next minute, he is making the heroin. Much money and airplane. Important man.” I had no idea what to say to this so I simply said something like, “yeah, wow.”
He led me to a small alleyway beside a mosque. His shop was a barren room with no windows and several bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. He made all his own wares by hand. Small boxes and coasters which he made from rice paper and then painted. The boxes were pleasantly colourful, but were crooked and looked very homemade. “This my shop,” he declared. “Not very nice shop, but I am saying better than have nothing, ah?”
I browsed briefly to be polite and thanked him for showing me his place. He attempted to convince me that I had to buy something small–if only to “make day lucky.” I declined this and returned to the main road and browsed the Tibetan market. Shops sold antique reproductions of telescopes and navigation instruments, small metal figurines, pipes, jewelry, and masks. I looked around and was chased by men attempting to sell me pipes for 600 Rs. One man followed me for some 6 to 8 minutes as I looked at fabrics and tapestries a few streets down. He worked the price unhappily down to 100 Rs and complained that he had no money for food and needed the 100.
It was getting near 3 o’clock and I decided it would be a good time to head toward the Imperial and have a high tea there. I had a feeling I would be sorely out of place in a fancy Raj-era Hotel dressed as I was in shorts and a 100 Rs shirt with my backpacking bag, but I decided that it was worth trying to get in anyway.
I walked through security and was delighted to see a man in a neatly pressed uniform and turban pacing back and forth in front of the entrance. He had a bushy mustache and looked like an Indian version of John C Reilly. He suggested that he could put my bag into the cloak room for me while I had tea.
The front doors were opened as I approached by two women in matching uniforms. They bowed and said namaste as I entered. There were a number of uniformed employees in the lobby. Young men in clean blue uniforms, elderly men with white beards and impressive mustaches that looked like Sultans in a military uniform–all were eager to come forward and welcome me to the hotel.
I walked past the hotel Channel store along the marble corridor lined with Romantic prints of turbaned Indian individuals looking out over Eastern landscapes and portraits of British nobility. The hotel has a small Parisian bakery, an impressive bar, and several restaurants. I walked around and then entered the Atrium; a light space illuminated by a skylight five stories above the floor. A small fountain in the middle of the space flowed and soft classical music played from unseen speakers. I sat down at a table and was joined shortly by a waiter who brought me the tea list.
I drank a Kashmiri Kawa, what the waiter described as an Indian green tea. The tea wasn’t like many green teas I’ve had–very dark and with a subtle smokiness and earthiness. The waiter brought a three-tiered tray containing several savory things, as well as a selection of patisserie, and a scone with jam and cream. I spent the remainder of the afternoon sitting lazily and reading as I drank tea and ate the cakes and things. Everything was delicious. Whenever my cup was empty, my waiter would appear with a fresh pot and would refill my cup. Hours slid by quite comfortably.
The tea cost 1,100 Rs plus a tax of some 200 Rs. The tax alone was more than my average meal, but the experience alone made it worth the price. I used the restroom and was delighted with the absurdity of the lavishness. The toilet paper was folded artfully in the holder, a man stood waiting by the sink to pump soap into my hand and turn the faucet on for me, and the marble surfaces were immaculate. The Imperial had certainly been an experience.
I had been warned about men pretending to be college students who simply wanted to practice their English attempting to guide tourists into fake tourist information offices. As I walked back around Connaught Circus, a man approached me telling me he was a university student. I ignored him mainly. “Hey! I am not wanting anything from you! Only practice English, my friend!” I laughed and talked with him as we walked through the gardens. He asked me how old I was and I told him I was 23. “Wow. I am also 23!” he told me excitedly as he raised his hand for a high-five. This meeting was meant to be, I thought sarcastically, we have so much in common. Sure enough as I told him I was walking in the other direction he pleaded with me to come see a market with him or look at the tourist information.
I continued on my own and browsed book stalls. Nearly all of them had the Shantaram–which many people had told me I had to read–but almost all the vendors were asking the list price of 599 Rs for the slightly worn copies they had. Often they would knock off 100 Rs, but not more. I happened upon a stall where the books were particularly worn and I managed to haggle the book down to 300 Rs, which seemed reasonable enough.
It was near dinner time and I decide I should have some real food before making my way to the train station. I found a place called Nizam’s on a side street near the D block of Connaught Place. The interior is all mirrors and cheap tables with metal benches. The soundtrack is retro cool. Ghostbusters was playing on the sound system when I entered. There are amusing little signs posted around the place.
I ordered a Kebab Kathi roll with one egg and a single order of chicken. I waited until my number was called and then claimed the kebab, which arrived wrapped in a waxy paper. The kebab certainly isn’t for dieters. The flaky paratha that the meat is wrapped in is an oily bread that reminds me of Navajo fry bread. The chicken was quite tender and coated in a spicy and somewhat smoky rub. Onions cut through the richness and added a bit of a kick. I finished the kebab with gusto.
I’d planned to take a rickshaw to the railway station. I knew the fare should be somewhere around 50 to 100 rupees. Rickshaw drivers I asked all wanted somewhere around 200. I decided that I would refuse to pay such a high markup simply because I was a tourist. I had time to spare, I would walk. I knew roughly, from my rough pocket map, that the station was past Paharganj and then off to the north roughly. I walked along busy streets, along empty streets, and guided myself using the occasional road signs I came across. I’d been walking some time when I checked with a cop to be sure I was headed in the right direction. He said I was still some 6 kilometers away. I powered through the walk, though my traps were beginning to ache and my arms were dead tired.
I made it to Sarai Rohilla station after what seemed a long time. I was relieved to sit down on a bench and rest without the weight of my pack. I read the Shantaram, which seems like it will be a fun read. I did notice, to my worry, that the “travel agent” I’d booked my train ticket with had used an ID that was for personal ticket booking only. I was nervous that I would have to pay for another ticket. Sleeper class only costs around 300, but I didn’t want to waste any money.
I boarded the train around 10:30 and joined a group of guys from Rajasthan in the sleeper compartment. Two young guys were very friendly–attempting to share food and drink with me, attempting to speak English. One man proudly declared, “me very big English!” An older man who looked like Reini chuckled at this. “No, no, no! My English very big.” The two young guys seemed fascinated by anything I did and they lay with their chins on the edge of the bed watching me lie on my bunk.
I didn’t manage to sleep much, but it felt good to lie down after the long day. The 7-hour journey went surprisingly quickly.