Sammy’s car is small and clean. As with our airport driver, he takes great pride in it, and makes a good show of keeping the windows spotless.
“Today we see Old Delhi. Perhaps tomorrow we can see New Delhi or Agra?” Agra. I have to stifle my automatic “yes!”. This is a sore point with me. Siobhan has decreed that Agra is not a good place for us to visit. Too poor. Too sad. Too tourist-y. “You should have the authentic Indian experience, as I have had.” (Although SHE has seen the Taj) My argument that one must see the Taj Mahal if one is in Northern India falls on deaf ears, and I am too timid to undertake this side-trip on my own. “I’m afraid this is our only day in Delhi, Sammy. Tomorrow we will be traveling to Jaipur by train to see our daughter,” replies Tim.
“Well. We should then make haste.” He floors the accelerator and joins the honking chorus of lorries, bicycles and scooters that cram the streets of the older part of the city. “First, we see the marketplace.”
When it seems that the narrow passage cannot hold one more vehicle, the road becomes more crowded. Our driver rolls down his window. I can only guess at what he shouts to move the press of pedestrians that now join the mix. Without acknowledging him and as if on cue, they move away from his vehicle. Once again, we can see out the windows, and those outside can also see in the windows. In less than a minute, the tapping begins. “Mrs. Mrs.? No food.” A very young woman, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, shows me her baby, who has a badly burned arm. His nose is running and flies sit in the snot above his lip. I have to close my eyes and put my head on my chest, as I fear that I might faint. This is real. This is not an infomercial for “Save the Children” on late night TV. Sammy is angry. He stops the engine and steps out of the car. It is then that I realize how massive his frame is in relation to many of his countrymen. He yells and gestures and the woman steps away.
We are all quiet,and for a short while, we do not encounter any desperate people.
“I have two daughters,” he says, breaking our silence and smiling in the rear-view mirror. “One is a baby, and my older girl is in government school. I am very proud.” He pulls down the visor on the passenger side of the front seat. On it is a picture of two tiny, soulful children. They are playing with the camera. The photographer must be teasing, as their big dark eyes spark with mischief. “No wonder you are proud,” I say. “They are beautiful, Sammy.” We ride again for a time without speaking, taking in the sights of the market. Sweets and textiles. Toys and rugs. Fruits and flowers. Thousands of flowers for a thousand home altars, for a hundred family gods and goddesses. The most amazing part of the market, to my mind, is the section of metal-work shops. Sammy explains that one can find any after-market car part, for any car, made anywhere in the world - within this maze of storefronts. It goes on for several city-blocks distance, covering two floors of many buildings, and running down long alley-ways. “We figure it out,” he states matter-of-factly. “We find a part and figure out how to make it. Then we make it, and it works just fine.”
****
Our first “official” tourist stop is the Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India. It is an imposing and beautiful building of red sandstone that boasts three gateways, four towers and two minarets that tower forty meters above the center courtyard. Sammy stops the car at one of the gates and suggests that we take 20 minutes to walk around. He points to the parking area where he will be waiting for us. I pull my scarf around my head, adjusting it so tas not to expose any skin on my neck or chest. We ascend 150 red steps, past armed guards and small children begging for a few rupees, to reach Entranceway #4. I hand one little boy a crumpled American dollar and a Jolly Rancher candy, all that I have in my pocket. He smiles shyly and runs down the steps.
There is a large sign posted in English that tells us there is no admission fee, but a donation is required if we wish to take any photographs. The charge is 200 rupees (about four dollars) for a still camera, and 500 rupees for a video camera. I decide to leave my camera in my pocket and take any photos I might want to capture from the street level. While Tim is paying his fee, I remove my shoes as requested, to walk, stocking-footed, into the open yard of the mosque. It is quiet. There are a few older men feeding pigeons, many others sitting or kneeling on prayer rugs in meditation. The silence is broken by a rapid burst of angry Hindi, and I turn to see an older man, face weathered to fine leather, running at me carrying a brightly colored cotton robe. I raise my hands in a protective gesture, pushing him away as he yells and points and tries to cover me with the garment. I don’t understand. My head and neck are concealed by a scarf; I wear long sleeves; my skirt falls less than an inch above my socks; my feet are covered by socks; my new walking shoes left, reluctantly, at the gate. “He is saying that you are not dressed well.” A man speaking English explains my pursuer’s anger. “Put on the robe. There is no charge.”
So, I put on the robe.
“What was that all about?” asks Tim.
“I am not a man.”
We walk, and Tim gets off a half-dozen pictures before we are told by another angry man to leave. “Mosque is closed. You go. Now.”
It has been about twenty minutes, so we leave.
No one else seems to know that the mosque is closed.
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