Yesterday we went to Chandi Chowk. I am at a loss to find the words to describe the place really. Knowing that Jon hates crowds I warned him that he would probably not like it, but that from my years of reading about India I felt that a trip to Chandni Chowk was a sort of a rite of passage, and so we should go. I could have excused him from coming, but I am still not terribly well and I needed my partner in crime, not least at all to help me cross the road. I am strange; fearless about things that worry a lot of women travellers but actually quite hesitant about traffic, whereas Jon will step out in front of oncoming cars with (possibly misplaced) confidence. Anyway he gets some brownie points for accompanying me because right from the start when he saw the crowds I could feel that he didn’t even want to get out of the car and would have been happy to turn around and go straight back to the hotel. Chandni Chowk on new years’ day was the second most crowded place I have ever been in my life (first place going to Shenzhen metro on Golden Week day which was very nearly a dangerous stampede).
Chandni Chowk was bedlam, a total crush of people, traffic, bicycle rickshaws, motor bikes and animals. The first thing that happened when we turned the corner into the Chowk was that I realised I needed to go to the toilet. This was a major problem actually, even though I only needed what they describe in Malaysia as ‘light usage’. What do Indian women do? There are nasty little toilets for men all over the place. These constitute extraordinarily smelly, invariably blue and white tiled compartments where they can pee, and everything is open to the air excepting a waist height wall behind where they stand to preserve some modesty. Not that modesty is a huge issue because there seems to be an acceptance of men peeing in corners just about anywhere. But women, I have yet to see a woman peeing on the street. About half way down the main street I was getting to the point where I would have been fully ready to squat in a corner when I spotted a McDonalds. Yay! It required crossing the road, which would have taken me all day without Jon, but with only one argument about ‘you’re going to get me killed’, he got me across the road, only to find out that the Chandni Maccas is the only one on the planet with no toilet. I put on my ‘very desperate’ face and the lady there pointed me towards Haldiram’s Indian sweet shop about a block away. Fortunately they did have a toilet and all was well after that, I was much relieved but I doubt that Jon was any happier. And I still don’t know what Indian women do if they don’t have cast iron bladders.
We emerged from Haldirams to find a man standing on the corner selling one of the strangest things I have ever seen. Why would anybody want a photo of a Chinese baby on a stick, with paper arms and legs wearing pink booties that flap up and down? Perhaps nobody did want one, as he didn’t seem to be moving much stock. Whist thinking about this I noticed that I was standing in the direct route of an oncoming procession with loud and frantic drummers, a brass band, followed by a horse and carriage drawing a huge Lord Ganesh, followed by a group of men and a group of women bhangra dancing. All this was occurring outside a Sikh temple but it didn’t appear to be a wedding. Still not sure what it was but everybody was in high spirits and didn’t mind at all having their photos taken. Another saving grace was that the police blocked off the road for a time which allowed us to make quite a bit of distance walking down the centre of the road instead of negotiating the crush of humanity. I adored this part of the day, and then really enjoyed some street life photography down a couple of the bazaars that run off Chandni Chowk however poor Jon just looked irritated, not being one for having his private space invaded, so after an hour or so we left and by then I must say I was more than ready to go too. Chandni is something one can take in small measures I suspect.
The next place we went couldn’t have been more of a contrast: Rajghat, the place where Ghandi was cremated. The first thing one noticed about Rajghat after Chandni was the incredible, indescribable difference in noise. In stark contrast the people at Ghandhi’s memorial were hushed, quiet and clearly in a reflective mood. The simple black marble block and eternal flame that mark the place where Ghandhi’s remains were cremated is beautiful. Very tasteful, this monument could have so easily been overdone, but it is perfect in every way. On the way back to our Ambassador taxi, we saw a snake charmer. The quintessential Indian experience I suppose, we watched for a few minutes until Jon said what I thought really, ‘how boring’…. we gave the guy some money for his sleepy snake show and set off back to the hotel. 
So much has been written by so many people about the contrasts and confrontations that face the traveller in India. Jon and I exchanged a few thoughts in the car about what could ever be done to reverse the poverty of the masses but we were stopped mid-conversation by a bunch of begging urchins by the lights and a small lad doing contortions on the road involving a metal ring while his mother beat a drum in a half-hearted and exhausted manner. We have been giving small amounts to beggars randomly, when we can’t bear it any more. What bothers me more is my own capacity to ignore them. We have been told that giving encourages people not to send their kids to school and perpetuates the problem. But when you have a small, unspeakably filthy child, saying ‘chapatti chapatti’ and holding down the window so you can’t wind it up in order to shut out their whining, and while you sit there nursing a camera that is worth more than they will see in five lifetimes, how do you reconcile your feelings?
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