Speed, color, smell Old Delhi.
PHOTO DRISANA MISRAI soon realized why our tour guide suggested that it might be dangerous to walk through the narrow alleyways of Old Delhi—the rickshaw drivers. Yelling out with little notice for others, perpetually clicking their bicycle bells, they run over everything: from sari-and-grocery encumbered women to bartering vegetable sellers, from putrid pools of water aching for a splash to hungry street dogs. They would have no qualms over running over a bumbling, slow-witted tourist. In any case, from the second I hopped on, it was all I could do to keep from catapulting out, perhaps making a strategic landing for the many folded silks and saris stuffing each shopkeeper’s respective hole-in-the-wall.
It didn’t make matters any better that right next to me swerved a bolting rickshaw crammed with little uniformed schoolgirls. There were eight—no ten—no, wait, TWELVE! They were sitting on top of each other, on the roof, on the wheels, on the driver, all topsy-turvy, laughing, giggling, gossiping, and shyly waving at me. I edged closer to them, fighting against the centrifugal force pinning me against the other side, eager to catch one of them, lest she fall.
PHOTO DRISANA MISRAThey were fine. Our rickshaw driver stopped and asked us to step out to take a picture, so we lost them. Above us ran the metal knots, balls of wire, the twisted, clogged arteries of Delhi’s electricity system. It was such a mess that it was a wonder that any electricity ever passed through.
PHOTO DRISANA MISRAThen we were herded back into the rickshaw and commenced galloping under a system of giant metal tangles that seemed liable to fall at any minute. Red, gold, and silver wedding shops whizzed past us, boasting blonde plastic mannequins laden with jewels. There were piles and piles of spices, mountainous enough to dive into in case of a rickshaw collision. Hindi sprawled over everything, collaging mysterious filigree on flat surfaces. The air was infused with the comforting smells of fennel, saffron, cardamom, turmeric, mustard, anise, as well as incense smoke. But it was polluted with the merciless onslaught of honking horns, shrilling bike bells, coughing motorcycles, and squawking merchants.
When we rounded back to where we started, I had to catch my breath. I felt like I had just skydived through the snatches and smells of Old Delhi life, still stressed from the attempts of avoiding collisions with old ladies. Exhilarated, I remembered the pack of schoolgirls, tucked in maroon sweaters and wool skirts to protect from the cold, chatting on their way to school. How much slower the bustle of everyday life must have seemed to them.
PHOTO DRISANA MISRA