There is no possible description of Delhi that does not use or imply the word “hole”. Whether prefixed by “hell-” or some other fragment, no other term could truthfully describe Delhi except as a pit, indentation, or aperture filled with some noxious substance.

Within minutes of leaving the dumpy Indira Gandhi airport in a taxi cab, clouds of smog and dust enveloped me. My eyes burned and I could feel something bad happening inside my nose. It was after midnight and my hotel manager was nice enough to pick me up from the airport, for what seemed like the modest price of 500 rupees (12 bucks or so - a ripoff, actually). Our car cut through the plumes of dust, weaving between motorbikes, bicycles, rickshaws (motorized and pedal-driven), horse-drawn carriages, and of course, cows. We passed slums, crowds huddling around enormous bonfires in the middle of the street, one-legged men begging at our window while we stopped at the red light. Parts of Delhi at night seem not so different from what I imagine Hell to be like.

I arrived at my hotel room and threw my bag on the bed. The room was freezing, the staff having left the air conditioner on all day in anticipation of my arrival. The ceiling fan whirled as if possessed by a demon. The toilet did not flush and the shower was a bucket. Outside, a lady screamed at her neighbours while a man slapped a carpet against his balcony. Was this my next three months?

Having hardly slept a wink, I moved to another hotel at Paharganj, also known as the infamous Main Bazaar of New Delhi, a teeming beehive of India’s finest merchant mayhem, with aggressive touts, beggars, and hustlers trying to grab your attention (or your wallet) as you scurry past. It is also the unfortunate site of most of Delhi’s budget hotels, meaning that us cheapskates have to run this gauntlet several times a day in order to get anywhere. At the end of the street is an mind-boggling pile-up of rickshaws hoping to take you somewhere for twice the normal price. Everywhere, there is filth: gravel, garbage, cow shit, dead animals, broken glass. I even saw a jawbone.

The Main Bazaar is the only place for which I’ve had to prepare myself mentally before stepping out the door. “Okay. Going outside now. Inhale and… ahhh.”

Within a few days, though, the havoc turns to background noise. A properly assumed Paharganj mien, your eyes pointed to the horizon, your ears turned off, your resolve steely and single-pointed toward your destination, is essential. With a bit of aimless wandering, before you know it, the hole known as Delhi actually starts to reveal itself as a sort of charming hole. The Indians are a nutty people, and high tragicomedy lurks around every corner.

For example, there’s a well-known scam in Connaught Place, the enormous circular plaza of New Delhi, where a shoe-shine man will point to your shoe, revealing shit smeared thereupon. But you don’t remember stepping in any. And the shit is on the side or the top of your shoe, not on the sole… so how the heck did it get there? Turns out… he threw it himself! Yes, there are actually people who sit around throwing shit on shoes in order to clean them off for you. Which pretty much sums up India: sad, funny, infuriating, beautiful, baffling, and ultimately nonsensical. Welcome.

This entry was posted on Friday, November 16th, 2007 at 5:38 am and is filed under India.