Crazy, Crazy: my visit to New Delhi at 18 years old.
Adrenaline begins to pump through my veins as the headlights of speedy, sturdy cars approach, head-on, the old, rickety rickshaw which I have confined myself inside of. They honk at us. I brace for impact. But the outlandish owner of this fine vehicle, whose name I either can’t remember or never requested, always manages to swerve into the road’s shoulder at the very last second, saving us from what I thought was fate.
When here, I feel safe, the reality of me being driven into oncoming traffic seemingly dissipated with the vehicles now just slightly to my left. But before I can pull out the scented candles, I see the parked truck that we are rapidly approaching. Once again, as if to mock me, the rickshaw’s driver pulls back onto the roadway in an erratic fashion, and once more I find myself facing off the factory-made cars in his scrap-metal rickshaw.
However, this not-so-risk-averse version of Mario Kart soon comes to an end, as the driver chucks a U-turn (not before cutting off three lanes of traffic), and we find ourselves, for my first time in India, driving with the traffic, rather than against it (although I would come to learn that this is often a distinction without a difference.)
Driving through the city was an experience in in of itself. I looked around, and through the rickshaws cutting us off, the cows getting disturbingly close to his vehicle, the yelling at the market stalls, the arguing amongst the rickshaw drivers, and the (somehow unharmed) stray dogs sleeping amongst the traffic, I could only muster one word.
“Crazy,” I said in astonishment.
“Yes…” the man driving chuckled, “Crazy, crazy.”
I arrive at my destination in one piece, before venturing out to explore Old Delhi. When visiting Jaisalmer, another city, I found that street art lined the city walls, with brightly coloured depictions of Shiva accompanied by a particular date in the corner, which I later learnt commemorated weddings. Old Delhi, however, seemingly lacked any walls for this street art to be inscribed upon, with what I remember as one storefront directly next to another, which was next to another, and so on, a precession of workplaces each providing a different service to the community. Some stores fixed shoes, others electronics, and others fixed nothing at all, instead selling various goods to those passing by.
The area is impoverished, yet full of life. Motorcycles speed past you through the narrow streets. Pits are being dug, and pipes are being laid on the side of the road, with two men standing guard whilst a dozen more do the gruelling work down below. The harsh stares of the older men are juxtaposed with the smiling youth, from toddlers to teenagers, who beam at me with curiosity, before firing questions about my country of origin, and what has brought me to their city.
Alas, just as the blaring horns and the confined nature of the street begin to make me feel uneasy, I see the road begin to widen, and I am confronted with a much larger street, once again filled with life, which sits at the behest of one of the most beautiful sites I have ever laid my eyes upon, the Jama Masjid, which is the largest mosque in all of India.
As I embark upon my journey up the steep stairwell which contains this marvel, the hustle and bustle of Old Delhi begins to dissipate. As you stride towards the spiritual home of India’s Muslim population, you are no longer met with hustlers, but rather volunteers who will take good care of your shoes while you are inside the Masjid. The yelling and honking of the street below, although still faintly audible, are contrasted with peace and quiet, as those inside the walls partake in ritual cleansing before they enter the Masjid.
It was prayer time when I arrived, so I, understandably, was not allowed to enter the Masjid. I could, however, gaze at it in awe, which I did for a good while before I was snapped out of it by a young Pakistani man, around my age, who was requesting to take a picture with me. I happily obliged, and as I said goodbye, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. There was a small hole in the wall which encapsulates the masjid. Inside the hole, a man seemed to be selling something to those who were interested. As a member of that party, I approached him and learnt he was selling a ticket to climb up one of the four towers which surround the Masjid. 100 rupees, or around $2 AUD, was his asking price, and a fair price at that. I bought a ticket and ventured up the staircase to the top of the wall, where the entrance to this tower was located.
After receiving some curious stares and picture requests, I began my journey up this tower. The view from its base was impressive enough, with what I evaluated to be at least 1000 people packed into the reasonably-short street which sits below the Masjid, however, the view from the top made that one seem futile. My venture up the tower was a mission and a half, with the narrow staircase proving incapable of accommodating two flows of foot traffic. Some of our larger-bellied residents here in Australia would likely have not been able to fit their bodies into the space, let alone pass a group of local youth venturing down the tower, who seemed not to care about my space, instead forcing me into a window-sill to let them pass, which provided some temporary relief from climbing the staircase, some two-hundred odd steps.
The light from the top of the tower fills my vision, and I am filled with joy, knowing that I have fulfilled my goal. I step up and find a small concrete space, packed with people. There are so many people that the entry to the stairwell is blocked, leaving me to pull myself up the side of the stairwell. From up there, the view is incredible. A thin strip of chicken wire is all that separates you from certain death, and although rudimentary, it seems to do the trick. A sprawling metropolis of 30 million people, yet not a single high-rise in site.
What I see as chaos ensues on the street below, rickshaws nudging through the crowd, vendors on the street doing their best to attract clientele. But I came to a realisation, that although this seems chaotic for me, it is rather normal for those who reside here. In fact, due to it only being around 11 AM, there is probably even more ‘chaos’ to come, a degree of chaos which would cause my head to explode if I had been caught in the midst of it. So much noise, so much movement, to a degree that my feeble Western brain had trouble handling it, however, those below were acting as if it was just any other day, because, to them, it was.
This way of living, viewed as some crazed marvel from my perspective, was the natural state of being for the bustling metropolis of Old Delhi. I began to reflect on my reactions throughout the morning. Those men laying the pipes, working in conditions which shocked me, may’ve viewed that as a ‘good day,’ one in which they get to work in less gruelling conditions than the day prior. The man driving the rickshaw, weaving in and out of oncoming traffic, although seen as erratic by me, may’ve been regarded by those in the oncoming vehicles as undergoing a necessary course of action, one which gets him to his destination much faster than following the loose rules of New Delhi’s motorways.
A way of life so vastly different from our conformative, comfortable, orderly, law-following, silence-preferring existence here in Australia. A place with a lot more deaths from preventable diseases, questionable hygiene, poor infrastructure, and a lack of road safety, however seemingly so much more life is present in this city than in my own. It’s uncommon to find someone appearing ‘lonely’ in Old Delhi. You won’t see any suited-up men walking to their office job, earphones in, more engaged in the podcast they’re listening to, or the phone call they’re undertaking, than what is happening around them.
Instead, you will find groups of men, women, school children and rickshaw drivers, storeowners and street peddlers, all together, engaging in conversation, drinking chai, smoking cigarettes, chewing beetle nuts, and most importantly, being immersed in what’s happening around them. The fast-paced nature of their city encourages them to stay alert and to value those around them, whilst our Western lifestyle disincentivises these things, encouraging us to focus on ourselves and ignore what is going on around us, assuming it doesn’t affect us personally, of course. Although I’m so incredibly grateful to have been born in Australia, I know which lifestyle I view more highly, and it certainly isn’t my own.
