My friend Whitney invited me to dinner. After a Google Maps inquiry I found that the market where the restaurant is located is quite near my office, though I didn’t exactly where. I was sure it wasn’t in the market directly by, as I had never seen the restaurant and either had my friend Vimal who lives nearby.
So I invite Vimal to accompany me, and after stopping for cookies at her girl’s hostel we head out to find the place. By this time, 6:30 or so, it’s getting a little dark, the traffic is absolutely mad (as always), and there are lots of potentially shady characters watching us from the sidelines. We walks slowly; I am carrying a laptop and she is walking in high heels (+socks because I guess that’s stylistically acceptable here). We ask random people on the street if they know the restaurant. No one does. How about the complex we need to go to? Not that either. Some say left - some say right. I get the feeling they’re making up their responses so they don’t have to bother with us. We keep walking but become discouraged; the long walk, heavy bags, and unfamiliar dark environment are getting to us. We decide to consult an auto rickshaw driver and consign ourselves to overpaying - short distances are never a deal and our desperation is visible to any entrepreneurial-spirited rickshawvalla.
Finally we find one. He declares it will be 30 rupees to get to Kabila. He is legally supposed to go by the meter, but auto drivers are notorious for trying to fleece their customers for more. They’re even worse with white tourists. (Side note: Something like the “Neighborhood Watch” program that gives out all those signs in the US has started here. There is an NGO that gives uniforms and other perks to auto drivers who take a pledge to honestly charge customers.) Vimal and I give in before making too much of a fuss. After all, we might not find another auto for 15 minutes. 30 rupees is $.75. We can haggle with him at the end, but if the restaurant is far than it will be worth it anyway.
Of course the driver brings us back to the exact same place where we had left 45 a half hour before. Vimal goes to pay him but I tell her not to. He has driven us for a whole one and a half minutes and there is still no restaurant in site. I tell him in Hindi he must come with us before we pay him, proving that the restaurant is there. This puts him in a tizzy - he becomes aggressive and is bitching in Hindi saying, “Give me the money. Give me the money,” repetitively. Alternatively he keeps asking bystanders if the restaurant is there - clearly he has no idea. We walk all the way through the other side of the market, which he could have easily driven to, and finally see the place.
It’s a scary moment. He seems unpredictable. I don’t want to give him a single rupee after his awful crook-like behavior. Vimal hands him a 100 as I say in English, “shame on you.” He throws a 50 at her, and walks away. I realize what he’s doing and yell at him in Hindi that he is a thief! 70% of India survives on something like 100 rupees a day. It’s not a lot of money, but I can’t believe he had the guts to verbally assault us, and then steal money from us in the middle of a market. Vimal and I look at each other. She says to let it go. We wait 15 seconds, trying to calm down. I decide not to let him get away. Suddenly I’m running through the market - He’s too far gone at first, but then I can see him walking towards his auto. I reach the edge of the market and tell the men standing around that the auto driver is a thief. I quickly memorize his license plate number as he drives away. We call the police and report the incident.
The end!
Sunday Punnu, Kavita Aunty and I went to a large gathering at his extended family’s house. Everyone, male or female, has to cover their heads in the Sikh guradwara (the Sikh equivalent to a mosque/temple/church). I wrapped a scarf round my head, and Punnu a kerchief. Most men, however, are wearing turbans. (Side note: After September 11 there was a lot of communal violence in the US aimed at people who looked like they were from the Middle East. Shops being burned etc. Sikh men, who wear turbans, were also the targets of violence as many Americans can’t distinguish one turban-wearing group from another). Each person takes a turn kneeling in front of the Sikh holy book, and then sits quietly as spirituals classical Indian singers do their bit.
It was a sunny day so after that I went to a park and read nicely for a couple hours. Laying on the ground with my head down I saw a little pair of shoes scuffled into my vision. Little kids know that I’m different, whiteness and all, so they stare in ways that adults don’t. This one came up, inches from me, and just stared. Her parents, laughing, didn’t interfere until she tried to snatch my cell phone.
Shortly after sunset we went to a concert at the Old Fort (aka Purana Qila). Such a majestic place, hundreds of years old, swaying palm trees adding to the effect. Upon entrance they greeted us, and everyone, with rose water splashes and a small bindi put on our foreheads. Sipping hot chai we watched a show of, apparently, very famous singers and musicians.
Afterward we drove to Old Delhi, where Puneet and his friend ate lots of meat, which the restaurants in the mostly Muslim section of the city are known for. Luckily I wasn’t too hungry as the vegetarian options are few, even less so after noticing a giant cockroach sitting next to me.
I am a busy girl, thankfully.
Xoxo, t
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