Delhi, bhai.
Delhi can be lovely.
That feeling just grew, almost all of a sudden. Tracing back our trail, the epitome of the Delhi romance began that one day in Chandni Chowk, the day when I finally overcame the slight jetlag which should never have been. It was the day that senses opened, pulse of the chowk being felt, a labyrinth of saree merchants who just seemed to pop up as you went along.
The day started in a less colorful way, spent roaming through jewelry stores, picking the designs that best suited tastes and value. Not an easy feat, at times tiring, nevertheless educational. In less than an hour I became familiar with gold prices, different percentages of gold content in a set, their price range by design. There was no limit to choices, the only pressure felt was time. Unlike other areas of consumption where quality of decision diminishes if choices were oversupplied, jewelry selection prompted a decisiveness the moment something that feels right is presented. That was a blessing on a long afternoon and days to come spent.
The papri chat and paranthe break that followed was a treat. It was almost the precise existential reason for them to be situated just nearby the buzzing markets; shoppers need a bite. More importantly, it was almost as if portions of paranthe were meticulously designed so no extra consumption time was required, yet adequate size to fill the common appetite. Time is commodity for the shopper, the wholesaler, the business person.
It was with this renewed energy that the senses opened.
Fixers outside of bazaars were waiting on the big fish of customers in exchange for a hefty commissions. Indeed, it would not have been an easy feat to navigate those labyrinths of saree and sherwani merchants. It was a peek and walk process, and it was not only after a few that we managed to settle in one. Prices and variety of choices are key.
Saree picking itself is an art, of which I still know little. It is a comforting scene however. White square cushions filled every square inch of the space. Shelves decorated all sides of walls, also organized in form of squares, and packed with folded sarees of multiple colors. Shelf sizes were designed to fit the normal fold length of a saree, allowing for their maximum utilization. The episode began when customers removed their shoes, sat and folded their legs. Merchants, all male and no exception, threw down the sarees as the customer requested for a price range and styles. There seemed to be no system, yet it was in fact a highly efficient one; all shopkeepers had their designated tasks, knew exactly where each category of sarees were stored. Within a half hour, piles of sarees piled the floors, some opened and inspected, and over the course of hours, an originally white cushion floor became piles of small mountains embroidered in all colors and forms.
There was a reason why this particular shop was enticing. For one, their lighting a warm gold, which lit up but not to the extent of turning night into a day. A warmish gold that enhanced the colors of sarees. Then there was the affable saree merchant, clever and efficient guy, top of his game, who chanted out commands in a spontaneous manner, in a tongue which I did not understand. What resonated was the commands, which almost always ended with the word bhai, adding a crisp rest to an already rhythmic sounding Hindi, thereby enhancing the language's audible beauty, and at the same time served as an affirmation of the camaraderie of the one who fulfilled the commands.
"xxx xxxx xxx bhai."
We could not help ourselves but take a few selfies toward the end of the episode, amused by the fun of it, fatigue forgotten. The joy of jewelry and saree picking that blossomed over a few meticulous details, rendering all gaining of soreness and sweat worthwhile.
Ordeal as such could not have ended but in early hours of the day, which was befitting to the romance of the night. Chandni Chowk remained as night fell. The chaos in the morning shifted. The night time chai walla was in a thriving business. The main road dwindled in car flow and volume, but horse carts were more active than ever. It was fairness to its true sense; whether you were riding a horse cart full of logs, or an auto walla or a sports muscle (though not particularly seen), you were subject to the same speeds on this particular road, where sales of all sorts of goods extended almost to the side road. The street was like straightened carousel, where all forms and walks of life were going about their business as your any vehicle went by, everyone focused on their own reality.
The wind breezed on the way back, on the bridge which hopped over Yamuna River. Roads are unique in that they were specific in the closest destination which it led to, but what happened on them was a matter of national character. Aptly, roads in India need not any lanes drawn; what's the point when they are ignored anyway? Yet this was precisely the beauty that dawned on me the same day on Chandni Chowk, the buzzing roads and colorful saree markets. It is chaos alright, an orderly chaos, an order that breathed out of chaos, which somehow functioned. Stare at a free flowing Indian crossroad for 15 minutes, you will notice not a single driver would wait for their turn, for you would never get your turn in India. Your turn needs to be fought for, so you just pedal through, and swerve whichever way that makes it work. Somehow everyone manages to reach their destination, in a lead time probably not at all any worse than if drivers followed traffic lights on the crossroad. A matter of national character.
The orderly chaos, of an Indian crossroad, of a saree shop.
Wedding planning in India merits to be a type of travel in itself; more so for the foreign man, if a chance is given.
That feeling just grew, almost all of a sudden. Tracing back our trail, the epitome of the Delhi romance began that one day in Chandni Chowk, the day when I finally overcame the slight jetlag which should never have been. It was the day that senses opened, pulse of the chowk being felt, a labyrinth of saree merchants who just seemed to pop up as you went along.
The day started in a less colorful way, spent roaming through jewelry stores, picking the designs that best suited tastes and value. Not an easy feat, at times tiring, nevertheless educational. In less than an hour I became familiar with gold prices, different percentages of gold content in a set, their price range by design. There was no limit to choices, the only pressure felt was time. Unlike other areas of consumption where quality of decision diminishes if choices were oversupplied, jewelry selection prompted a decisiveness the moment something that feels right is presented. That was a blessing on a long afternoon and days to come spent.
The papri chat and paranthe break that followed was a treat. It was almost the precise existential reason for them to be situated just nearby the buzzing markets; shoppers need a bite. More importantly, it was almost as if portions of paranthe were meticulously designed so no extra consumption time was required, yet adequate size to fill the common appetite. Time is commodity for the shopper, the wholesaler, the business person.
It was with this renewed energy that the senses opened.
Fixers outside of bazaars were waiting on the big fish of customers in exchange for a hefty commissions. Indeed, it would not have been an easy feat to navigate those labyrinths of saree and sherwani merchants. It was a peek and walk process, and it was not only after a few that we managed to settle in one. Prices and variety of choices are key.
Saree picking itself is an art, of which I still know little. It is a comforting scene however. White square cushions filled every square inch of the space. Shelves decorated all sides of walls, also organized in form of squares, and packed with folded sarees of multiple colors. Shelf sizes were designed to fit the normal fold length of a saree, allowing for their maximum utilization. The episode began when customers removed their shoes, sat and folded their legs. Merchants, all male and no exception, threw down the sarees as the customer requested for a price range and styles. There seemed to be no system, yet it was in fact a highly efficient one; all shopkeepers had their designated tasks, knew exactly where each category of sarees were stored. Within a half hour, piles of sarees piled the floors, some opened and inspected, and over the course of hours, an originally white cushion floor became piles of small mountains embroidered in all colors and forms.
There was a reason why this particular shop was enticing. For one, their lighting a warm gold, which lit up but not to the extent of turning night into a day. A warmish gold that enhanced the colors of sarees. Then there was the affable saree merchant, clever and efficient guy, top of his game, who chanted out commands in a spontaneous manner, in a tongue which I did not understand. What resonated was the commands, which almost always ended with the word bhai, adding a crisp rest to an already rhythmic sounding Hindi, thereby enhancing the language's audible beauty, and at the same time served as an affirmation of the camaraderie of the one who fulfilled the commands.
"xxx xxxx xxx bhai."
We could not help ourselves but take a few selfies toward the end of the episode, amused by the fun of it, fatigue forgotten. The joy of jewelry and saree picking that blossomed over a few meticulous details, rendering all gaining of soreness and sweat worthwhile.
Ordeal as such could not have ended but in early hours of the day, which was befitting to the romance of the night. Chandni Chowk remained as night fell. The chaos in the morning shifted. The night time chai walla was in a thriving business. The main road dwindled in car flow and volume, but horse carts were more active than ever. It was fairness to its true sense; whether you were riding a horse cart full of logs, or an auto walla or a sports muscle (though not particularly seen), you were subject to the same speeds on this particular road, where sales of all sorts of goods extended almost to the side road. The street was like straightened carousel, where all forms and walks of life were going about their business as your any vehicle went by, everyone focused on their own reality.
The wind breezed on the way back, on the bridge which hopped over Yamuna River. Roads are unique in that they were specific in the closest destination which it led to, but what happened on them was a matter of national character. Aptly, roads in India need not any lanes drawn; what's the point when they are ignored anyway? Yet this was precisely the beauty that dawned on me the same day on Chandni Chowk, the buzzing roads and colorful saree markets. It is chaos alright, an orderly chaos, an order that breathed out of chaos, which somehow functioned. Stare at a free flowing Indian crossroad for 15 minutes, you will notice not a single driver would wait for their turn, for you would never get your turn in India. Your turn needs to be fought for, so you just pedal through, and swerve whichever way that makes it work. Somehow everyone manages to reach their destination, in a lead time probably not at all any worse than if drivers followed traffic lights on the crossroad. A matter of national character.
The orderly chaos, of an Indian crossroad, of a saree shop.
Wedding planning in India merits to be a type of travel in itself; more so for the foreign man, if a chance is given.
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