Shopping and segregation

I'm not usually a mall kind of person. This is maybe because instead of growing up in, say, Houston, Texas (where the malls are sparkly, the clothes are cheap and they sell interesting things like Dead Sea salt rubs which then leak all over your suitcase), I grew up in suburban Manchester in the 1980s. In Stretford, we didn't use the word "mall" to describe our local shopping centre; we called it "the precinct", or - more often - "the preccy". It was built of yellow public-toilet bricks and concrete, and had an increasingly pound shop-occupied interior that was scarcely less depressing. After I left Manchester, the place was indeed rebranded as "the Stretford Mall", but they weren't fooling anyone.

This wasn't a great introduction to the mall experience, though I've undoubtedly had a somewhat better experience since then. I retain, though, a healthy dislike for these places and their soulless capitalism, divorced from the civic and artistic life of the city centre. So I've pretty much avoided the various huge establishments that have sprung up in south Delhi in recent years, and done my shopping in the various family-run, stick-out-your-elbow-and-knock-over-an-entire-exhibit little stores in the various local markets.

Every now and again, though, needs must. This last weekend I needed to go shopping to buy a new outfit for the concerts my choir is giving this week. Last time the dress code was black; this time it is off-white, so I had to buy another kurta (yes, I now have two garments that I'm going to wear maybe four times in my life). I decided this time I'd go the whole hog and get the matching pyjama and juttis too (that's a whole other post) so I met up with a couple of friends at the Vasant Kunj mall to do the needful, as they say here.

Vasant Kunj mall is actually a set of three interconnected malls, that sit by the site of an enormous dusty highway somewhere amid the south Delhi sprawl. The location seems bizarre to me. As a non-driver I find the idea of putting commercial outlets miles from anywhere where people would naturally walk to be inherently weird; for those used to getting everywhere by car, I guess the perspective is different. But anyway, the view from the malls is of said dusty highway, a few sad patches of grass, and a lot of Indian style pavements (cracked stones, random gaps, even more random lumps of concrete stuck in the middle of the path). And that's it. You can't see any human habitation or other commercial activity, even though logically they can't be that far away. It's just the malls and the wasteland. It's very post-apocalyptic.

(I feel I must add at this point that I didn't take my camera with me, so the above photo is not my work. I hope I would have managed to get a reasonably horizontal shot...)

Talking of the apocalypse, like any self-respecting horror film fan (and I am one, though that seems to surprise people quite often) I can't go to a mall without my thoughts turning to zombies. And Vasant Kunj could indeed be modelled on the Dawn of the Dead mall. Once you've left behind the broken concrete, cooking under the 42 degree sun, it's definitely more Houston than Stretford: sparkling clean, completely sanitised, and shamelessly dedicated to shallow consumerism (in which, of course, I would NEVER indulge. Oh no). And like such places everywhere, it's populated by people who, in the main, are mindlessly in pursuit of exactly that.

We want Gucci saris, new iPhones, and fresh masala brains please.

Actually, though, I was more reminded me of a more recent Romero outing, Land of the Dead. You know, the one where the survivors of Z-Day are walled up in an idyllic prison while outside chaos rules? Vasant Kunj mall feels a bit like that - a slightly surreal, too-perfect world that bears no resemblance at all to the noisy, hot, churning city outside. And while this may sound like I am drawing a comparison in the mall's favour, I'm not. For a couple of hours it was nice to escape the dirt and the heat, breathe in the air-conditioned goodness, and eat caprese salad in a sports bar complete with pool tables. But it gets old pretty quickly, and anyway, it feels as phoney as those impossibly handsome shop mannequins you see these days.

I'm not sniping at India for having malls, or romanticising the "real India" as something under threat from these developments. As I said, I don't much like any malls, and I think they do have a destructive effect on the vitality of the cities where they spring up. But I understand their attraction, particularly for Delhiites between May and September, when the weather is at its most intolerable. I can't blame people for wanting some cool air, some space, and some respite from the traffic cacophony.

If, of course, you have the money to afford it. Indian malls have tight security, and routinely turn people away if they look like they can't afford to shop there (which, of course, the vast majority of Indians can't). At least in UK shopping centres anyone can come and window shop; in India, part of the appeal of these places is that they are exclusive to a small number of well-off people who are desperate to escape the seething masses for a while.

And this is what I find a bit unnerving about them. Generally, markets in Delhi are quite equalising places. Yes, you have more exclusive ones where stores cater to people with large budgets, but to get to them you can't avoid rubbing shoulders with shoe shine boys, cycle rickshaw wallas, and all the others, hustling for a few rupees. The streets of Delhi simply don't allow for much segregation between different kinds of people.

So the mall seems symptomatic of a wider change in India, seen also in the proliferation of gated communities in cities like Delhi and Bangalore. A degree of exclusivity - in leisure activities or education, for instance - has always been a feature of being rich; but India's increasing wealth (and its concentration in the hands of a few) seems to be leading to a place where rich people's entire lives are becoming removed from those of their poorer countrymen.

Maybe I'm exaggerating. The markets at Lajpat Nagar or Sarojini Nagar remain, after all, melting pots of Delhi society (and despite the lack of air conditioning or piped music, a more rewarding experience for the visitor). But I think the trend is there - the same trend that, for instance, South Africa has seen (though for different reasons, I think). Is the future of urban India one of stark polarisation? Will tomorrow's rich Indian kids have any idea at all of the poverty existing on their doorstep?

More to the point, is the only option for an increasingly rich India a future of increasingly bland consumer environments and the decline of the vitality of the street? And is that just a patronising Western perspective on the inevitable changes taking place in a country that rightly wants a chance to experience the kind of living standards I've been able to take for granted?

Sensory overload in Old Delhi

What with all the excitement this week I never got around to posting about last weekend's bit of exploration. It was a return trip this time, to what is commonly know as "Old Delhi", though it is in fact substantially younger than a lot of the bits of the city I have already written about.

Old Delhi grew up as Shahjahanabad in the 17th century, to the west of the Red Fort, and was the last capital of the Mughal empire. It's the birthplace of the Urdu language and in its day was apparently a graceful city full of beautiful palaces and serene canals.

That's hard to imagine these days. After my first visit in January, when I battled up and down the main thoroughfare, Chandni Chowk, and left feeling more sweaty and tense than anything else, I was far from sure that I wanted to go back. But, aware that I hadn't really given the area much of a chance to endear itself to me, I decided to give it a go.

Old Delhi is the very antithesis of it southern neighbour, New Delhi, with its wide open spaces and grand airs. It is crowded, frenetic, intimidating and overwhelming. Everywhere you look, people are engaged in commercial activity. Everything is on sale in Old Delhi, much of it concentrated in highly specific bazaars, so that if you know where to go you can be sure to find what you are looking for. The people are different here: raucous, pushy and occasionally a bit dodgy: this is the only place in Delhi where I have found myself consciously keeping an eye on my bag. The kids elsewhere in the city stare at me; here, they ran after me down the street calling me a rascal (at least, I think that's what they were calling me).

The street layout of Old Delhi is a true labyrinth. There's no point trying to navigate; you just have to wander where your feet take you and trust that eventually you will emerge somewhere near a recognisable landmark. That is if you survive without being run over by a bike, scooter, rickshaw or wagon, all of which career along the narrow alleys like they're on the M1 and only stop when absolutely forced to (usually because they are in each other's way):

The buildings are mostly twentieth century and uninspired, though every now and again Old Delhi taunts you with a hint at the beautiful architecture of its past that lingers in scraps in its present:

There must be a thousand secret routes through the streets of old Delhi. Apart from the alleys and lanes themselves, mysterious flights of stairs hint at first-floor walkways, and countless gateways lead to hidden courtyards. A favourite scam played on foreigners here is to offer to guide them to some sight and then lead them down into the bowels of Shahjahanabad to rob them, knowing that however fast they are they will never manage to negotiate the maze to catch up with a fleeing mugger. Unsurprisingly, this generally works.

In the middle of all of this sits one of the greatest treasures of Delhi: the Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque (and given that India has the second-largest Muslim population in the world, there are some big mosques here). It is enormous - it takes about twenty minutes to circumnavigate - yet the surrounding streets are so densely packed that finding it proved trickier than I had anticipated. Eventually, though, the alleys gave way to the ochre minarets and white domes of the mosque, sitting serenely amid the maelstrom:

The serenity doesn't last long though, because right outside the main entrance to the mosque is the Meena Bazaar, one of the busiest wholesale markets in the city. The view from the mosque down the wide steps and boulevard leading up to it is like looking at an Indian Where's Wally ("Where's Wali"?):

It was a slow day down the shops.

I have to admit that braving the crowds was a bit of a challenge for me (as anyone who's been on the tube with me at rush hour knows, I'm not all that great with lots of people in close proximity). But once I'd done so there were just too many extraordinary sights, sounds and smells to worry about claustrophobia. I was particularly taken with the stalls selling an extraordinary diversity of nuts, scattered in heaps on cloths spread out on the ground:

And the rather lovely kites on sale, fluttering on lines above the busy shoppers' heads, also caught my eye:

But my absolute favourite was a mystery to me. Slightly removed from the main drag, a rather portly gentleman had set himself up next to a waterlogged parking area. In front of him was a huge bubbling cauldron filled with a reddish-brown sludge, and arranged around him like a defensive wall were around 20 pots of various spices and nuts. Speaking in a gravelly, hoarse voice, he kept up a constant salesman's patter to a crowd of some forty men like some kind of Indian Frank Butcher. Every now and then one of his assistants would get up and add something else to the swampy concoction, on which the eyes of the crowd were fixed like glue:

Sadly, after four classes my Hindi is not quite up to following such rapid-fire hard sell, but I did catch a few mentions of the words for "Indian", "children" and "boy". Given that all the watching crowd were male, I'm hazarding a guess that the pots of goo he doled out when his pitch was over were intended to boost fertility, and in particular to guarantee conception of a son. I could be wrong (if anyone knows any better please enlighten me!) but whatever the purpose of the product was, it was a fascinating spectacle.

Anyway, I left Old Delhi for the second time feeling rather more positively disposed towards it. I would still go back there with a certain amount of apprehension and with a careful eye on my possessions and moving objects in the thoroughfare. But I will go back, because it can't be denied that this Delhi is the most vividly, excitingly alive of all the Delhis I've seen so far. You just have to take a deep breath, dump the map and jump on in.

The unbearable loveliness of things

I'm not normally the most materialistic of people, but today I made the mistake of wandering into an art and furniture shop in Hauz Khas village, a lovely little enclave in South Delhi built around the ruins of a 14th century Madrassa (theological college) and surrounded by a huge deer park. Oh, such a mistake. If there's one thing that India knows how to do, it's make objects of such loveliness that one's wallet practically leaps out of one's pocket of its own accord.

The thing is, I currently live in a rather large and very empty apartment. When I look at that exquisitely carved and painted wooden seat for somewhat less than the price you'd pay for one of IKEA's less nice sofas, I actually have a spot where it would work. That huge, beautifully painted panel? I have the wall spot for it. That delicately enamelled screen? Perfect to separate off my dining space. You would not believe the sheer number of lovely things and the number of arguments I had to have with myself to stop me buying them. There was even a swinging wooden double seat, complete with wooden frame carved in the form of various animals, that would fit beautifully in my living room. But, of course, it and all the other lovely, lovely things were entirely impractical.

Because the big empty apartment is a mirage. Anything I buy here would need to be shipped back to the UK, probably costing about as much as I paid for it. And of course, back in London I don't have a great big empty apartment. I have a tiny (but much-loved) flat that is already pretty much stuffed to the gills with furniture. So I am going to have to do a lot of resisting for the next couple of years.

But oh, lord, there were some lovely things. And my apartment really is very bare...

Two sides of Delhi: Humayun's tomb and Nizamuddin

True to my word, I did touristy things for the first time today. After a few days of cooler weather the thermometer had bounced back up again, so it took me a while to get going. But gosh, I'm glad I did.

So first up: Humayun's tomb. It dates from the mid-16th century and sits in a frankly gorgeous setting, surrounded by parkland in an area that appears to be one vast Mughal mausoleum, so many beautiful tombs and monuments are dotted around the landscape. It's very central in the city but the peace in the gardens is just lovely. And very welcome for those of us who occasionally feel a little worn down by Delhi's urban clamour.

Before I got there, though, I experienced my first serious brush with Delhi's monsoon rains. I'd walked to the tomb from the metro and was feeling hot, sweaty and a bit headachy, so a ferocious downpour was in theory highly welcome. Unfortunately I also had my Kindle, mobile phone and camera in my bag, whose waterproofness I decidedly do not trust.

Happily the rains came just as I got to the ticket booth. This was not particularly effective as a shelter however, as the rains were more or less horizontal, and the ticket booth was not exactly designed to be waterproof either:

So there I was, stuck under a corrugated iron roof between two concrete walls open on three sides, with the Delhi monsoon unleashing its full rage upon me. Admittedly the views were lovely:

...or at least they were until a whole load of other visitors to the tomb showed up, and the views were replaced with a nose-to-armpit acquaintanceship with some very damp Delhiwallas:

Others, though, thought the rains were the best thing that had happened to them. Ever!

I defy you not to smile at these pictures.

Anyway, eventually the rains wore off and we squelched out to carry on into the tomb complex. I won't bore you with tons of photos of the tomb, but suffice to say that when I emerged from the West gate and saw it for the first time, I was so stunned I nearly walked straight into this:

Which would, I am sure, have been highly amusing for my fellow visitors but made relatively little difference to my already soggy state.

Anyway, back to the tomb. This is quite simply one of the most perfectly beautiful buildings I've ever seen. It's known as a precursor to the Taj Mahal, which I've yet to go to, and all I can say is if this is the rehearsal I can't wait to see the show. My photos don't to it justice, but I have to post at least one:

I spent a very happy couple of hours mooching around the building and admiring the gorgeous layout of the grounds, the wonderful use of sunlight in the interior, the patterning of the walls...and of course the peace! I have to admit that my expectations were not all that high, having been very disappointed by my visit to the Red Fort on my first visit to India back in January (it just felt a bit depressing, mainly thanks to the "improvements" imposed upon it by, yup, the British) but Humayun's tomb blew me away. My first real taste of the richness of India's architectural heritage.

A very different side to India lies across the road from the tomb. Searching vaguely for something to eat, I found myself in Nizamuddin - a district that exists because of the community of the faithful that grew up around the tomb of the Sufi saint who gave the area its name. This is Delhi at its most confusing, fascinating and intimidating, and I have to admit I was a bit overwhelmed - though not as much as the two Belgian girls hovering near the entrance from the main road who at first asked me to escort them in and then three minutes later, having decided I wasn't sufficient protection, chickened out and scurried back the way they had come.

The reason for this nervousness? There was not a single woman in sight: dozens of muslim men, a sea of white skullcaps, taqiyah skullcaps, milling through a warren of densely packed streets through fruit stands, butchers, rubbish heaps, random goats, flower stalls and incense-stick-choppers. And more flies than I have ever seen anywhere. I didn't take many photos, feeling a bit apprehensive about how it would be received, so this one doesn't really convey the atmosphere all that well. But it's the best I've got:

As far as I could see there was absolutely no hostility towards us, but I could understand the girls' nervousness (especially since they were not exactly dressed in burkas). But I ploughed on into the melee.

I am at a loss as to how to describe Nizamuddin. Suffice to say I am resolved to go back one day when I'm less hot, tired and sweaty and take my time over it a bit more. Today it was just sensory overload - so many sights, smells, sounds and sensations that my brain couldn't take it all in. India feels very foreign to me, of course, but never so much as here. Just the idea of the place - a suburb of a capital city that does not only originate in a religious movement, but that continues to revolve around it nearly 2000 years later - I find extraordinary.

I drifted through the alleyways - at one point almost managing to blunder my way into a shrine without removing my shoes, though in my defence it looked pretty much like an arcade of shops from the entrance - and let it all wash over me. I'm normally painfully shy around street traders but I managed to buy some tomatoes from this chap (though I think he probably ripped me off):

I didn't feel unsafe - just very, very foreign. When I emerged onto the main road again, it was 4.30 pm and I was feeling a little bit peaky (overdoing it in the sun, Chris - you know you shouldn't do this) so I hopped in a tuk tuk back home. And got under a long, long, cold, cold shower.

So, two places visited, two places marked down for return visits: not bad going. And there is so much more to see here in a city that has been built, lost and reincarnated around a dozen times. I can't wait.

A brief tour of Defence Colony

I went round my neighbourhood with a camera today. Unfortunately, I feel so self conscious as a sweaty foreigner snapping away that I tend to try to take them reallyreallyreally quickly. This usually means they are completely out of focus. However I did manage a few that were half decent - will try again this weekend and try not to be so neurotic this time.

Another poor bugger dragging a ton of stuff around on a bike. Why don't these guys have thighs like tree trunks?

There are a lot of lovely parks near my flat. Note to self: buy badminton equipment. Further note to self: learn how to play badminton.

Start of the market area. At this very specific spot it smells horrible, and I'm not sure why. Three feet further on and it's gone. Weird.

By far the cheapest way to get fruit and veg in Defence Colony. I just wish I could work out how to know where exactly he'll be at any one time.

The main street in the market. The middle is quite a cute little park (see below).

Sagar restaurant, purveyor of the aforementioned masala dosa, God bless 'em. A couple of doors down is Cafe Coffee Day, which is a big chain here (and doesn't charge 240 rupees for a coffee).

Defence Bakery. Best (only?) baklava in Delhi and some truly amazing-looking cakes and chocolates, which I have so far resisted (it's bad enough that here I apparently have a size 34 waist).

This is the little park in the middle of the market area. Generally occupied by sleeping old men.

This is a little roadside stall round the corner from my flat (not far from the man with the ironing board, who I haven't snapped). Very handy indeed for the basics in life.

No, no, this one is SUPPOSED to be blurry. It's an action shot.

Right, that's it for the moment. I was going to post about the joys of Hinglish and settling into an Indian office, but I think that will wait for tomorrow - these photos took a horribly long time to upload (me and technology again) and bed is calling.

And DAMN I wish my TV was working so I could watch some of the tennis... :-(

On moving slowly and buying clothes

I tend to have two speeds: stationary and manic. It's been my general approach to life to spend half of it bumming around and half of it being the proverbial blue-arsed fly, and while it might not be conducive to controlling stress levels, it's generally got me through.

Well, I'm going to learn how to do things differently. It's increasingly clear that until the weather cools down a bit my speed setting is going to be stuck on slow. Walking down the street of necessity becomes a gentle amble, and I still get to my destination dripping. Lists of tasks that need to be done are stripped down to the most basic priorities, because the running-around-doing-30-things-in-a-day trick just isn't going to work here.

On the one hand this is a bit frustrating. Suddenly I have to plan properly, because last minute whirlwinds of activity are out of the question. On the other hand, having to move at a slow pace does a funny thing to you: it kind of makes things seem less urgent, and so less stress-inducing. Maybe I will come back in a few years doing everything on Indian time (in which case God help you if we have an appointment).

Anyway, today took me (eventually) to SouthEx to check out those clothing stores. I didn't pack very cleverly - I have tons of shirts but only a few pairs of trousers, the rest being en route and due to arrive some time in August - and I was in desperate need of a couple of new suits.

I always find buying clothes overseas interesting, because it says a lot about the local culture. In Seoul it was impossible to get the shop assistants to stop shoving items of clothing under your nose every five seconds when you were trying to have a quiet browse, which resulted in me walking out more often than not. In Holland it was sometimes hard to get them to acknowledge your existence at all.

In Delhi, a small gaggle of them appear as soon as you enter the shop and then follow you doggedly around, rarely making any sound and only occasionally showing any interest in the clothes on display. Once in a while one will offer commentary on some item you have picked up, such as "this is trousers". Eventually when you have decided to buy something they will spring into action, usually consisting of one of them taking the item from you and giving it to another of them, while another goes and gets a bag and gives it to another, and a fifth runs to the checkout to tell a sixth how much it is...you get the idea.

I exaggerate slightly. The truth is that the service is rather good, if delivered by three times more people than necessary. And in most of the higher end places a senior bod will appear, usually with perfect English, who will provide just the right mixture of helpfulness, expertise and reticence to make the whole experience quite pleasurable. And everyone is so damn nice it's quite impossible to get annoyed even when they are being useless.

Plus they don't get annoyed about ridiculously sweaty westerners trying on their nice clean suits, for which I could only be extremely grateful.