The Small Streets of Delhi (second entry today)

So after that rant of an entry, I thought I better give the other side of the story. I have been really fortunate in Delhi, as in Mumbai, in having some local contacts here to keep an eye out for me. I hate to admit it, but it was much needed. Being independent here is really not so easy. On Sunday, the task of showing me around fell to Ajays nephew, Chandller (as he calls himself). He is 24 year old and whizzes me around the city in his souped-up car, Justin Timberlake and Snoop Dog blaring from the speakers. He teaches call centre workers in India how to relate to American customers; how to perfect the US accent and understand the cultural references of the people who call.

The day starts off, as the previous evening did, with me never being entirely sure what is happening, where we are going, who is coming with us and who will be there when I arrive. It all feels very random. It is partly the language difference, but I have noticed this before at the College of Social Work; the morning meeting runs into the drop-in session, which just melds into lunch, and then evolves into case work in the afternooon. It an almost organic process, with no clearly defined beginning, middle or end and can be very disconcerting for the likes of me! I wouldn't descibe it as spontaneity, it doesn't have that kind of energy. Perhaps it's more a matter of 'flow'.

So anyway, first we go to meet his Uncle who has just driven in from the Punjab. Chandller explains that there are different words for the brother/sister of your mother and those of your father, which I think illustrates just how central family is in Indian society. A person's place in their family entirely defines them. We convene (again quite randomly it seems to me) at the side of a busy road and he follows us into Delhi. After that we are 'free' to explore the city, and after an obligatory trip to the Red Fort, Chandller shows me the part of Delhi I really want to see.

"These are the small streets of Delhi", he tells me, "the small streets". "What do you think of our small streets, the small streets of Delhi?". I am smitten with the small streets of Delhi, what are essentially an inner city suburb and somewhere I would never have seen on my own. Two or three storey houses line narrow lanes, creating some shade and space for inhabitants to go about their daily life. And go about it they do; life in India is lived in full public view. People are cooking, sleeping, washing, shaving, working, sewing, cleaning, and anything else you can think of out on the streets. Talking to their neighbours, gossiping, nosing at the passers-by; there is no curtain twitching in Delhi, people are brazen with their curiosity.

There are little stalls where, Chandller tells me, you can get anything your heart desires, day or night. Animals, children and traffic, which still moves at alarming speeds in these back streets, all get along together somehow. I have to say I am acquiring an admiration for the dexterity, nimbleness, skill and sheer gall of these Indian drivers. The driving is hair-raising, but they can get round/through/under/over and out of the most impossible looking scenarios, and I have seen the aftermath of only one serious accident so far.

He takes me to one of the local Hindu temples - a much quieter, less ostentatious version of the one we visited in the city centre. And I can see why people go; it is cool, airy, you can wash your hands and feet in refreshing water; there are brightly coloured diverting effigies of various Gods, each associated with a fabulous tale; to top it all off you get a handful of sweets in return for your devotion! I don't mean to sound flippant; religion here is obviously a serious business. But that's the paradox; it is also totally UNserious. Whilst I am worried about being disrespectful - is it okay to take a picture, are my feet clean enough, am I intruding, is it hypocritcal, am I being disrespectful at all? - the people here are totally unfazed. 'Sure, take a picture of Vishnu, yes, you can come in here, walk round anywhere you like, let me put this sacred mark on your head, here try some of these sweets'. It is me who feels the discomfort, the reticence, the potential for disrespect and not them. For the people here it seems that religion is such an integral part of everyday life, the possiblity that it wouldn't also be for me, does not enter their heads.

The tour finishes with a refreshment stop at a road-side stall. Chandller shows me how to eat Gol Duppas(?), a kind of puffed-up thin pastry shell, filled with a sour-sweet sauce. As I realise that the sauce is not heated, the well-drummed in food poisoning alarm bell sounds in my head, but I choose to ignore it. This place comes recommended. So, much to the bemusement of the stall owners, and of course the throngs of people watching from windows, house-fronts and surrounding stalls, I gulp down three golduppas (you have to eat them all in one go); they are delicious.

So then we leave the "small streets" and head back into the craziness that is Delhi. As Chandller cranks up the bass on R Kelly, he asks me, did I like them, "the small streets, our small streets of Delhi?". I most certainly did.