Bat out of Delh-i

Sam Ferguson
Mar 5, 2015
5 min read

I awoke to the heavenly sound of percolating coffee, mingling nicely with the horns and howls of mid-morning Delhi. Slowly, I realised where I was, and listened for a while to the city around me. Obviously, I had overslept.

One cup of coffee, two slices of toast and a smear each of butter and veggie-mite later; a plan had taken shape. I wanted to see the Red Fort above all else, and needed to withdraw some more cash in order to book an overnight train to Gorakphur.

Showered and shaved, I boldly stepped out into the mild Delhi sun. Auto-rickshaw drivers certainly find you easily enough and, a negotiated fare later, I was on my way to New Dehli train station. I’ve discovered that the easiest way to deal with the rickshaw drivers is to ask how much up front, then deduct half and start negotiating from there, usually meeting somewhere in the middle. It’s clear that they see tourists as an easy target, and the first price they quote is always astronomically high (in relative terms – transport is very cheap by Western standards). I’m torn between the knowledge that I’m arguing over around 50 pence, and the fact that I hate being taken for a ride (no pun intended).

Travelling by auto-rickshaw, the city bumps and shudders by. Through the open sides, the daily grind of the locals passes with a never ending motorised hum. Crowds of people loitering for busses, or simply loitering. Roadside stalls everywhere, hunting packs of dogs, and sleeping animals curled up next to sleeping people.

Tibetan markets, shoe shiners and money changers nestle in the shadows of hotels and barracks resplendent in their imperial grandeur. I’ve never seen anywhere like it on earth.

Another busy road to negotiate as I jumped out opposite the train station. Luckily, a kind hearted stall owner gestured me towards him, and strode out to stop traffic, before shaking my hand and waving me on my way as I tried to tip him.

Through the touts, claiming impending doom and ire on those who don’t ignore the clearly marked tourist directions and follow them instead to their friends “ticketing office” over the road. I reached the first floor and opened the door gingerly, and a sea of worried Europeans glanced back briefly, clutching numbered tickets and returning their attention to the number displays above the desks. I got the information I needed and left, determined to return tomorrow rucksack in hand, ready to leave. Today was Red Fort day.

I’d borrowed my sister’s metro card, and was directed to the nearby New Delhi metro station by some soldiers (through the NO ENTERANCE sign sir, obviously), where I was scanned for any metallic items, then ushered through as the alarm detected the many metal items I had on my person.

A few stops later and I hopped off into “real India”, or at least as real as I had seen – Chandni Chowk, Old Delhi. The walkway from the station was lined with the usual street vendors and hawkers, and led to a busy junction. The smells and colours were unbelievable, spices and fried food mingling with sewerage, incense and dust into a not displeasing cocktail. Bright saris and fabrics clashed with the smiles of the locals, and the greys and dull reds of the buildings. I tried to shake off a determined rickshaw driver, who gave me great directions once it was clear that I intended to walk. Turning the corner, there it was. A half mile away and towering above the Indian chaos in sandstone magnificence.

I made my way to it, stopping to look at various nick-nacks and tat for sale, and to purchase some bottled water (seal still intact). One hair raising road crossing later and I was under its mighty fortifications. The barbican literally towers over your head. Bullet holes are evident in the gates, and a proud Indian tricolour hangs limply in the still midday air, defeated by the Delhi heat.

I hurriedly bought a ticket, and decided to get an audio tour. The young man at the audio tour counter looked kindly upon me, and gave me two sets, in case the batteries failed. He also pressed his mobile number upon me, insisting that I call with any issues once inside.

The tour was fantastic, and once again I was blown away by the grand architecture of the interior. More city-sized than I expected, how I would have loved to have seen it in its pre-British splendour. The British (probably rightly) come across poorly during the tour; army hospitals and mess halls being set up in some of the most extravagantly beautiful buildings on the planet, and countless tales of sliver ceilings and treasure disappearing. What’s left only hints at the splendour of the inner fort, breath-taking in its own way. The glorious gardens swept away my tiredness. Indian gardeners and mowers were dotted everywhere, faithfully trimming and pruning.

My Grandparents visited the fort some twenty years ago, and were delighted at the cows following the mowers – an elegant solution to the problem of clearing the mown grass. Unfortunately, not a single cow was to be seen; just the usual hordes of Kites and dogs, swooping and basking in the sun.

Sadly, I reached the end of the tour, and after taking in the fantastic museums, I wandered back through the covered market entrance to return the sets to my friend (who had completely forgotten me in the meantime – but it’s the thought that counts I suppose).

Wandering back through the streets of Old Delhi to the metro, I turned back more than once to stare at the walls.

That evening, my sister finished work and took me to a great Southern Indian restaurant near Connaught Place. The food was delicious, and I ate my fill of fried potato Dosais, and stunningly sweet desserts. For a night-cap, we marched up to the guarded checkpoints protecting the Grand Imperial Hotel from unwanted visitors, and were admitted without a second glance. Inside, I was struck by the contrasts of the day, and marvelled at the grand chandeliers and imperial paintings and photographs.

The following day, I sadly packed my rucksack and set off to the station. At the gates, I fought my way yet again through the ticket touts, shaking them off as they demanded to see my reservations, ignoring their claims that the international tourist bureau had burnt down. I bowed my head and surged through, the weight of my rucksack aiding me.

Resting my pack on the floor in the tourist bureau office, I hastily filled out a ticket form and punched a button to be rewarded with a ticket showing my place in line. Re-taking my seat, an hour went by before my turn came.

Alas, no space on today’s train due to the Holi festival. Perhaps Sir would like to travel tomorrow. Sir would, and is happy to be in 3AC, as long as there is a bed. Ticket bought (a 17 hour overnight train for roughly £10 pounds!), I navigated my way via metro and rickshaw to my sister’s office. After talking myself into being allowed up, I explained what had happened, and took back her spare key.

So, one more day in Delhi, and I don’t have much planned other than re-packing and relaxing, perhaps with a cup of coffee or three. My physical and electrical batteries are in need of recharging before my 24 hour journey overland to Nepal. I’m returning here post-Nepal and Thailand, for a longer stay – so am not too worried about losing a day to indulgence and recovery. It had been a long two days, but looking back I realise that rather than the grand tourist trail, these are the types of happenings that I’ll remember. The type that shape your travels – the getting there, I suppose.