Dawn in New Delhi: A (Mostly) Visual Diary
*I originally wrote this piece for the National Geographic writing competition. I’m sharing it here — alongside some of my favourite photos from this trip.*
A snap – and suddenly I’m a tangled mess of limbs and metal.
Despite the shock, I reassemble myself and the bike and quickly scan the vicinity for a possible culprit.
But amidst all the flurry I can’t quite work out who – or what? – knocked me off my wobbly perch. Was it the balloon salesman, his vision blurred as his colourful loot got caught the wind? Was it that spotted cow, pushing past to reaffirm his position at the top of the food chain? Or that lanky-legged boy, whose cheers are following his football down the alley? No — wait. I think it was that sooty wooden cart, the one seducing us all with the sour-sweet scent of freshly baked paratha.
I rub my eyes in an attempt to brush off both the confusion and sleep. I guess it doesn’t really matter. The soft morning light makes it easier to forgive and forget.
It’s just before 5am in Delhi. But already the dial of one of the world’s most populated cities has been adjusted from a simmer to a boil.
My day started in the dark, at the Spinmonkey offices, where our sleepy-eyed tour group kicked off a four-hour cycling tour of Delhi at dawn. Over the course of the morning, we dash in and around Chandni Chowk (Moonlight Square) – the city’s oldest market. And just as the moon starts to fade, life explodes. We cut through jasmine-infused streets at the Flower Market, where blocks of billowy flowers lace the pavement, and I can’t resist picking up yet another fiery orange garland. Marigolds to be worn as a living necklace. We strip off our shoes at the Bangla Sahib’s temple steps, and head into the Gurudwara Langar — the community kitchen run by local Sikhs that feeds the city’s poor. Inside, we pound sticky dough into naan and my arms get a much-needed workout in the process. At the Spice Market, we pick up chai so hot the milk curdles in the corners of our cups. Then, we climb the steps just in time to watch the local workmen rise to the rooftops, one by one, for their morning showers.
There can be a lot of grandstanding among seasoned travellers. “I’m a real traveller, not a tourist.” As if there is some clear demarcation or go-to guide that helps you work out which one is which. But in a place like India, you don’t get to choose. Even when exploring a so-called tourist trap like Delhi’s old quarter, it’s not long before a visitor finds herself in the eye of the storm. Before the observer becomes the observed. Make way – or expect to be pushed out of it.
Yes, it’s the anticipated India-invasion of the senses. Of your (Westernised) sense of space. All so quick. All a bit disorientating. Perhaps even a little uncomfortable.
Or – as this self-proclaimed touristy traveller likes to think of it – travel exactly as it should be.
Other posts you might love:
