Magical mystery day of contrasts

Delhi, Day Three

I can’t believe it, but today we spent about four hours in the one shop and Jon actually wanted to be there.  The Indian government craft emporium is six floors of shopping heaven.  It has everything made in India and all at fixed prices.   We could have spent tens of thousands of dollars there, seriously.  I mean the Kashmiri rugs were just gorgeous and their prices started at about $3,000.  Trouble is, I am no rug expert and the one I fell in love with, well who knows about knot counts and ‘Indian silk', …and for that matter whether they were made with child labour.   I also fell for a pair of sapphire earrings, but left without them although they might get a return visit yet.  We actually only bought a shawl each to keep us warm, and I can’t wait to see Jon wearing his tomorrow: he couldn’t find a jacket to fit, as usual.  

In a complete contrast to shopping heaven,  when we realised we only had about 1.5 hours of daylight left, we abandoned our previous plans of going to Hamayun’s tomb that day and instead went to Birla House, the site of Ghandi’s assassination.   I have long been an admirer of Ghandi and very interested in the period of colonial transition so I know the story so very well.  It was really strange to actually be there in Birla house, I can’t describe the feeling.  I had expected to cry, but I didn’t (I was already quite snotty enough anyway). It was a solumn place, even a beautiful place,  and I left feeling grateful that the world sometimes sees an individual such as he and that this one, astounding soul actually managed to achieve so much in his lifetime. One does feel so utterly meagre in comparison with such a person, unfit to tread his footsteps in any way at all.  As Einstien said in relation to Ghandi’s death (and I paraphrase as I am too lazy to look up the proper quote…I’m on holidays..)  ‘centuries later people will not believe that one such as this walked upon this earth’.

In another contrast in this day of them, the Ambassador car we caught back to the hotel was incredible, like something out of a Beatles trippy movie.  The inside was all padded with paisley velvet, I mean really puffily padded and quilted car with trims around the edge.  The driver was a Sikh with a turban to match his car lining and on his dashboard he had Jesus, one of the Sikh Gurus, and Sai Baba.  The car had a 'no smoking' sticker on the glove box but was redolent with the smell of good incense. I felt like it was compulsory to be stoned.  But no such luck, the best I could do was book him for tomorrow. Let’s see if we make it to Hamayan’s tomb then.