Making the Most of a Visit to the Capital—and Getting my Uzbekistan Visa

Maundy Thursday, April 18, 2019

New Delhi

Making the Most of a Visit to the Capital—and Getting my Uzbekistan Visa

     Namaste from New Delhi!

     I awoke at about 6.30 am in the capital of India and savored those few seconds between sleep and wakefulness as I became aware of my surroundings. I had not even switched on the TV in my room although there was one. I blogged and then had a long chat with Llew before I got myself organized for a lovely luxurious shower. I kept my papers ready for my return to the Embassy today and knew that I would also need to get to a computer, first thing, to make another wire transfer. But first...brekkie!

     I found my way to the Fulbright Guest House Cafe where I ordered a masala omelette and two slices of buttered toast with a glass of lassi. Then I made my way up to the Fulbright office where Anupam watched as I did the wire transfer.  Thankfully, it went through at the first try—so the nightmares of the previous day were already history. Armed with the printed receipt and a couple of photocopies of my documents, I said goodbye to Anupam and went off on my border-crossing mission with a whole lot of hope in my heart.

     At the gate I found a rickshaw and told the driver where to take me. He found it easily enough and in a short while, I was at the Embassy where the same chowkidar of yesterday greeted me warmly and took all my papers. This time, since I had the bank payment receipts, it was smooth sailing. My passport was submitted and I left after being told to return at 5.00 pm after calling at 4.00 pm to confirm, that all was in order. Phew! Feeling the massive weight fall off my weary shoulders was such a relief and with that chore accomplished, I resolved to enjoy Delhi—having been awarded a bonus day in the capital.

  

Off to see Humayun’s Tomb:

     So I have to tell you that one of my favorite Moghul architectural monuments is the Tomb of Humayun, son of Babur and father of the greatest Moghul Emperor of them all—Akbar The Great.  Coming as he did swiftly on the heels of his illustrious father must have been an unbearable burden to this nondescript man for he really had some huge shoes to fill. And as if the responsibilities of his life were not enough, he died young. It is the one detail I remember clearly from my Eighth Grade Mogul History lessons—he fell while tumbling down his library stairs and died! 

     So while his life might not have amounted to much, his mausoleum is a landmark that left an indelible impression on my own mind—even though, mind you, I had never actually visited it. I fell in love with Humayun’s Tomb when I was sixteen and on a family trip—our parents were taking us to Delhi so that we could bring to life the Mogul history lessons we had learned and also so that we could appreciate the glorious architecture of our country’s capital.

      Humayun’s Tomb is located in Hazrat Nizamuddin which is one of the oldest parts of Delhi and one that was crammed with Islamic monuments built during the heyday of this erstwhile dynasty. If you travel by train from Bombay to Delhi, which I have done umpteen times—and which I did for the first time when I was 16–just past Delhi Cantonment Station and en route to Delhi Central station, the train which goes really slow at this point, passes by the stunning edifice that is Humayun’s Tomb on your left hand side. I remember seeing it, for the first time then and my jaw dropped. It is simply breath taking. And since you are literally just a few meters from it (as the railway tracks lie just beyond its property), you are literally up close and personal with one of the best Mogul monuments on the Indian sub-continent.      

     But, trouble is, I had never really actually visited this place as it had lain rough with neglect for centuries. It is only because of the work of recent Indian scholars in the field of Mogul architecture such as Ruby Lal (whom I had met at the East-West Center at the University of Hawai’i) that this amazing building has been seen and valued for what it really is: an architectural precursor to the Taj Mahal. Yes, the Taj Mahal. Because the only ways in which the two monuments differ is that Humayun’s Tomb is made of local yellow and pink sandstone and is devoid of the four minarets while Shah Jehan’s masterpiece, the Taj Mahal, is made of pure white Makharana marble from Afghanstan and is flanked by the minarets in its four corners. Other than these minor differences, there is nothing that makes Humayun’s tomb less arresting or significant than its more famous clone in Agra.

In 2006, the Aga Khan Foundation decided to devote its money and energies to a complete restoration of this mausoleum. They were joined in this endeavor by the Dorab Tata Foundation and over a period of almost fifteen years, this monument had been resurrected from the neglected pages of architectural history and is shining in its own light as the fascinating building it is—no longer a footnote in Moghul history but an entire chapter in itself.

      The vast surrounding gardens have also been lovingly tended and restored so that one passes through acres of emerald-green lawns before one walks through the grand darwaza (just as one does at the Taj) to come upon the grandeur of this building. I was mesmerized when I set eyes on it and I can tell you that I was not the only one: a teenaged boy who saw it for the first time, said, “Wow” and I was immediately reminded of the teenager I once was when I had said “Wow” upon seeing it for the first time so many decades ago from a passing train. 

     In so many ways, I was reminded of my multiple trips to the Taj Mahal in Agra: for this building, built at least one hundred years before the Taj to house the remains of Akbar’s father and Shah Jehan’s great grandfather, is so similar to the Taj  that every experience you have, from mounting the steep and very high stone steps from the base to the pedestal platform upon which the domed mausoleum stands  to actually standing right beneath the central dome on the inside below the main chandelier where the marble tombstone of Humayun is placed, is identical to being in Agra. Just below his marble gravestone is his actual grave which lies in the ground—not visible or open to the public. And as opposed to the Taj, which houses only the remains of Nur, beloved wife of Shah Jehan and, after is death, his own tomb, this one is chocful  of Moghul tombstones containing the remains of a vast number of Moghul family members of Humayun’s dynasty all denoted with marble monuments of varying size and ornamentation. 

     Meanwhile, if you look above, you will be enthralled by the optical illusions created in the domes by intricate paintings of flowers and a great deal of jali-work: carved screens made from sheets of sandstone (in the Taj Mahal, all the jali-work is made of marble sheets). The one thing missing here that is found in abundance at the Taj is pietra dura or inlaid stone work filled with precious and semi-precious stones. I saw similarities in the ceiling ornamentation with the macarabe work I had seen in the Al-Hambra in Granada, Spain, and I was so excited. Needless to say, I took loads of photographs. Nothing was more exciting to me than to actually walk inside Humayun’s Tomb which, for endless decades, I have admired only from the outside.

  Before leaving the complex, I sauntered into the architectural monuments surrounding the Tomb: there was the Tomb and a mosque built by one of Human’s ministers, Isa Khan—and believe me, the mausoleum was simply exquisite—it is one of the few octagonal structures of its kind. It is called the Neel Gumbad (Blue Mausoleum) because small cobalt blue tiles covered the 'chatris' or umbrella motifs that decorate it. And inside, I found about six different raised oblong grave stones. The accompanying mosque had many lovely mihrabs inside but it is no longer in use as a house of worship.

Off to Scour the Streets of Old Delhi:

     Thrilled with my very first sightseeing excursion into Mogul times, I took a rickshaw and told the driver to take me to Khan Market which was fairly close by as I wanted to see if I could buy myself a cheap electronic fan that will be indispensable to me during the next two months as the heat in Bombay mounts and it becomes unbearable outdoors . I had a lovely chatty driver who asked me what exactly I wanted to buy in Khan Market and when I told him I wanted the cheap Chinese hand-held fan, he told me I was in the wrong place as Khan Market is an upscale shopping center mainly for designer clothes. 

     Becoming fascinated with Mogul architecture at Humayun’s Tomb, I asked my driver if the Red Fort was very far away and he told me that it would be the best place to buy what I wanted. You need Lajpat Rai Market, he said. This is directly opposite the Red Fort at Chandni Chowk! What a bright driver! And what a God Sent he was!

     So, of course, I then told him to drive me there and after passing through some of the most striking parts of New Delhi (of which I simply could not get enough), we made the transition into Old Delhi—the Delhi of the Moguls. 

     We passed by the gorgeous Jama Masjid also built by Shah Jehan, the largest mosque in the world and capable of accommodating 20,000 worshipers at the same time! And then we were in the midst of the chaos and congestion of Old Delhi and the maze of bylanes that makes up Chandni Chowk! The massive sandstone edifice of the Red Fort was on my right hand side for what seemed like miles as we passed by its bright red ramparts and arrived, finally, at its arresting entrance, scene of the annual Republic Day Parades. It was all too exciting for me and I was simply singing in my soul!

Shopping For and Finding my Fans!

     Dropping me off at the right spot, the driver made off and I went on foot though some of the most congested parts of Chandni Chowk, marveling as I trod through its streets, at the Islamic tendency to live in close communal quarters with neighbors. I have seen such a penchant for cheek-by-jowl habitation from the souks of Dubai and Abu Dhabi to the casbahs of Morocco; from the al-Baisin in Granada to the bazaars of Istanbul and Cairo. And here, right in my own beloved India, is the same labyrinth of streets that make up Islamic common living—similar also to the streets of Dongri and Bhendi Bazaar in Bombay. I loved it all. 

     And then, guess what, as I walked from one shop to the next, keeping my eyes sharply peeled for my fan, I found it! And at the same price as I had paid for it on the roadside outside Crawford Market in Bombay, i.e. Rs.150 for each! I now know that the life of these things is very short indeed—and so I bought two. At that price, you could not go wrong. So there it was: another mission accomplished and the glories of Delhi’s Mogul splendor all done and dusted in the bargain! I stopped outside the Red Fort to take pictures and firmly told the cycle rickshaw fellows who kept pestering me to ask if I wanted a tour of Chandni Chowk that I was headed home.

Riding Delhi’s Metro System: 

     The rickshaw driver had pointed out the metro station to me and so I decided that I would cram in one more experience: I would take a ride on Delhi’s Metro system and see what it was like. I was headed to the National Gallery of Modern Art but since I did not know which was the metro stop closest to it, I pulled out my google maps and found out that it was Khan Market on the Blue Line which was on the same line at which I found myself.

     So I bought a single ticket for Rs. 30 from the lady who also gave me a metro map and, believe me, within seconds, I thought I was in Shanghai again. The Delhi Metro system is an exact replica of the one in China. It is immaculately clean (spitting carries a Rs. 500 fine and everyone is on CCTV—so there is no question of going undetected). The platforms are spacious and brightly lit and the trains slide silently in and out of the stations to offer commuting of the most pleasant kind. Now if Bombay is only able to reproduce this sort of system in the grid that it is currently creating, I will be one happy camper when the work is done and the system is up and running. 

     My stop (Khan Market) was about 7 stops away and so I had a chance to take in the inside of the trains which run right through with no internal doors. There are no special Ladies compartments but with CCTV in every car, no one dares misbehave. I was enchanted. The one thing I found missing was clearly marked platform names—but there is an electronic band running in every car which announces the name of the next station and tells you on which side the doors would open. I was ever so happy that I chose to try out Delhis’ Metro system. It is truly a boon.

Finding the National Gallery of Modern Art:

     The National Gallery of Modern Art (my next port of call) was a good mile from the Khan Market subway station—so I chose to take a rick to get there. You pay nothing less than Rs. 50 for the shortest rickshaw ride—and the drivers do not run by meter. One of the drivers told me that the reason they do not is because the price of gas is double that of Bombay and going by the meter runs them to huge loses. Hence, they tell you at the outset what they will charge and the rule of thumb is to bring them down by 25%. I actually got quite adept at it and most of the drivers were really nice to me and exceedingly honest. 

     The driver knew exactly where to take me and in about ten minutes, I was at the entrance of the museum. I would certainly not have found it on foot.

Exploring the National Gallery of Modern Art:

     Unlike its Bombay branch, which has the same name and is located opposite the Prince of Wales Museum, this one does actually have a permanent collection. I do not recall visiting this place previously and I was so excited to be here because it promised me a superb capsule summary of the work of significant Indian artists from the middle of the 19th century to the present. But by then it was 2.00 am and I was famished. The museum Cafe would be the best place to get a meal. Sadly, it seemed to be under renovation and all it could offer me were Punjabi samosas and a room-temperature bottle of Coke. It would have to suffice. Taking my food outside, I sat under the spreading arms of a peepul tree and ate but, for my pains, I was badly bitten by mosquitoes. One of the things I have found out about Delhi is that all the greenery, though super appealing, breeds mosquitoes and as it appears that the city is never fumigated, they seem to proliferate everywhere. 

    I escaped from that mosquito-infested haven as quickly as I could and began my study of the glorious art work inside. For just Rs.20, the entry fee could not have been better value for money. It began with the mid-19th century when the work of British colonials such as Thomas Daniel and Tilly Kettle had brought to their compatriots at home, the exotic grandeur of the Indian sub-continent. Their oil paintings are ravishing and I feasted my eyes on them. Company Paintings, produced under the patronage of the East Indian Company and therefore named after them followed. I also saw the work of the early Indian indigenous artists such as Raja Ravi Varma (whose work I had first gotten to know when I was a teenager on a trip to Trivandrum with my parents) and to M.V. Dhurandhar (my college classmate Kavita’s grand-father) whose work I first got to know only six months ago when I attended his retrospective in Bombay.        

      From there, over three fabulous floors of amazing work, where interior architecture went hand in hand with the contemporary aesthetic of India’s most important painters, I saw the work of the Bengali School represented by works of Rabindranath Tagore, Abinandanda Tagore, Gagendranath Tagore, Jamini Roy (whose style is so lovably distinctive), Nandalal Bose and others from the Shantiniketan School that Rabindranath had founded. I also saw the work of the Bombay Progressive Artists Group which included the work of F.N. Souza, Akbar Padamsee, S.H. Rasa, Tyeb Mehta (my friend Shahnaz’s uncle), K.N. Hebbar, M.F. Hussain, K. H. Ara, etc. And there were loads and loads of works by Amrita Sher-Gill—again, so distinctive, you  would know her style anywhere. For me, it was like taking a refresher course on contemporary Indian art and assessing the extent to which it was influenced by the raging Western movements of the time in the work of Picasso and Braque. I adored it all and seriously wish I had more time to really linger over the special canvasses that actually spoke to me. 

     But after scaling three floors and seeing it all, it was close to 4.00pm and I had to get on with my evening. I honestly could not have made better use of my day but there was one thing I really wanted to do: I needed to call the Embassy to find out if my visa had been granted and if my passport was ready and I had to make a return trip to the Art Heritage Gallery where I had met Amal Allana yesterday so that I could buy the book she had edited on her father Ibrahim Alkazi. Thinking about it overnight, I felt that it would be a great buy and very relevant to my current research. 

    So leaving the museum behind, I took a rickshaw to Bengali Market, found the Triveni Art Gallery complex where Amal’s gallery is located and picked up a copy of the book for Rs. 1,000. 

Off to the Embassy:

     Armed with my book, I took another rickshaw and with some difficulty found the Uzbekistan Embassy where my passport with my visa sticker duly inserted in it was returned to me.

     I told the same rickshaw driver to then take me to my Fulbright residence where I reached at 6.00 pm after what had been an unexpectedly enlightening day on a bonus trip to Delhi—again, visiting Delhi was not something I had anticipated even two weeks ago...and yet, there I was in this city that had stolen by heart away...all over again.

Getting Ready for Departure:

           It took me about 45 minutes to get myself ready and packed and calling an Uber, I took my last few pictures of this beautiful Fulbright property that I was very fortunate to call home for two whole days. 

      When my cab arrived, I had a chance to see Delhi with the soft light of the illuminations of the city just coming up—India Gate had the tri-color Indian flag super-imposed on it through a light projection. The area around this monument gets really crowded every evening with loads of tourists visiting from various parts of India stopping here to take pictures. At the end of Raj Path, India’s answer to the Champs Elysses, I could see the silhouetted domes of the Presidential Palace also softly illuminated. I felt extraordinarily proud of modern India and the manner in which it has staked its place in history past imperialism.

     We arrived at Delhi airport at 7.30 pm which left me plenty of time to check in, browse through the various shops until my feet felt fatigued and I reached my gate to sit down and await boarding. Meanwhile, feeling distinctly peckish, I had bought a paneer tikka toasted sandwich and a chocolate milkshake from a place called Baker Street and finished it before going through Security.

     

Flight to Bombay:

     I had an aisle seat this time on a packed flight.  Jet Airways has suddenly ground to a halt as the company has gone under and all the other airlines are picking up the slack. This results in packed flights no matter where one is traveling in India. I used my airborne time to blog on my Ipad and when I reached Bombay at 11.30 pm, I took a rickshaw that got me home by 12. 30. I merely changed and threw myself on the bed at the end of what had been a really stressful trip. 

     But with my mission accomplished and my Uzbekistan visa in my passport, I can now turn my thoughts to dallying on the Silk Road. I cannot think of a better few days in store.

     Until tomorrow

H is for Horrendous: A Godawful Morning Gives way to a Rewarding Day in Delhi

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

New Delhi

H is for Horrendous: A Godawful Morning Gives way to a Rewarding Day in Delhi

     Namaste from New Delhi!

     As days go, this is the worst I have had in India so far! So be prepared for an account of untold disappointment and unforeseen stress. 

     So after having gone to bed at 4.30 am in the Fulbright Guest House in New Delhi where I landed an hour previously, I felt relatively sure that things would move along as planned, i.e. I would go to the Bank at Vasant Vihar, pay my visa fees, then head to the Embassy of Uzbekistan, hand in my passport and supporting documents and get my visa in the evening to allow me to head back to Bombay on the 9.30 pm flight this evening.

     Except that none of this happened. It occurred to me, when I awoke in the morning at 8.00 am after 4 hours’ sleep, that the reason the Fulbright Office staff were not here on the premises today was because it is a Bank Holiday—it happens to be Mahavir Jayanti! I had no clue—and it seems neither had it occurred to the Fulbright office staff.  Or maybe they did not know that while it was important for the Embassy to be open (which it is as they do not follow Indian holidays), they did not realize that my visa procedure involved going in actual person to a bank to make a transaction. 

     So when I called my Dad first thing in the morning to tell him that I had arrived safely in Delhi and that all was well with me, we realized in the course of our conversation that there would be no bank open for me to make visa fee payment in the specific account of the Embassy!

     I ended up calling Anupam, the Fulbright staffer who is in-charge of my travel, and he called his colleagues and they reached the same conclusion I had done—no banks would be open today so no payment could be made.  He called me a little later to suggest another course of action. Why don’t I go to the Embassy and explain to the Consular staff that I had the money (both in US and Indian currency) and could pay them in cash for the visa directly if they could make an exception in view of the bank holiday.

     And that was what I did. Because the Consulate would not open before 10.00 am, I headed to the Fulbright cafe where I had a complimentary breakfast: a masala omelette with two slices of toast and butter and a glass of lassi. It was a lovely breakfast and it fueled me well for the rest of the ordeal that I did not know would lie ahead.

     Just as I was finishing my breakfast, I found Olga, wife of the Director of the USIEF Program, Adam, playing with her dog Patrick on the lawns outside. It turns out that her apartment was in the Director’s residential wing, a few feet away, on the top floor. Sadly, I could not meet Adam as the two of them were leaving in about an hour for their Easter holidays in Sri Lanka. However, it was great to see Olga again as I had become quite friendly with her when we met at the Fulbright Conference in Cochin in February.       

In an Uber to the Embassy:

I called for an Uber that took me from the Fulbright Office gate near Connaught Place to Chanakyapuri’s diplomatic enclave to get to the Embassy. I have to pause her for a minute to tell you how thrilling it was to be in Delhi again and how excited I felt to be viewing this urban masterpiece of Edwin Lutyens and Herbert Baker, designers of this glorious city, all over again.  I had last been to Delhi in 2008, i.e. 11 years ago and one tends to forget how appealing it is. 

       Fortunately, in some minor ways the Gods of Good Fortune we’re smiling down on me—although in big ways, they were really taking the mickey! The weather was gorgeous: I had been dreading Delhi in the heat of a North Indian summer; but believe me, it was like spring in Connecticut: the air was crisp and devoid of humidity and so much better than Bombay has been in the last couple of weeks. As I coursed through the city in my cab, I passed by India Gate on Raj Path and swiveling my head around, I saw the magnificent domes of Rashtrapati Bhavan’s rose and gold sandstone edifice: such a symbol of imperial power that is now a symbol of post-colonial independence.  On beautiful broad boulevards and avenues we drove, past very clearly marked institutions—the National Archives, the Shastri Memorial Library, the Indian Railways Headquarters—they made me feel so proud of my Indian heritage. And, of course, when we passed the National Museum of India, I made a mental note, that time-permitting, I would saunter in there. 

     Along the way, we passed also those clusters of Lutyens bungalows—built as residential quarters for colonial officials—Two up, two down brick structures that are uniformly painted off-white with wide wraparound verandahs and Juliet balconies. Today, they are occupied by Indian ministers who live in secluded privacy behind tall off-white walls. Delhi is also lush and green—each boulevard is lined with established trees that form a shady canopy above and each radiating rotary is a fairy-tale garden with a shot of delightful color in the form of perennial Indian flowers. This is modern urban design at its best. 

     Also, since it was a holiday, the streets were emptied of all traffic and human habitation. They were nothing but a pleasure to drive through—I kept thinking that this must have been how Delhi looked seventy years ago when the British were leaving and the Indians were taking charge again. I felt truly exhilarated to see this city in this light when nothing but its brilliant architecture could be appreciated as my hungry eyes took in the urban eye candy. 

     So, by the time we reached the Embassy, I was filled with renewed excitement and I looked forward to a brilliant day ahead.

At the Uzbekistan Embassy:

    I could not be more mistaken. Dropped off at the Embassy gates, I made my way to the tiny window (no larger than a bank counter) to a virtually-hidden chowkidar who asked me the nature of my business. I told him I had come for a visa. He asked me which country I was from: I told him the USA. He asked to see my passport. I handed it over. He asked if I had my telex number. (This was sent to me from the US Embassy in Uzbekistan). I gave it to him. He asked me for my bank receipt for payment. I told him I did not have that as all banks were closed today. That’s when the trouble began...

     A conversation ensued between him and someone inside—all on the phone. Turns out they could not issue my visa unless payment was made. When I asked if they would accept cash, the chowkidar told me that someone would be coming out to talk to me. I am positive they did so only because I happened to have a US passport—the chowkidar kept referring to me in his conversations in Hindi with the folks inside as the “US citizen”. 

     About ten minutes later, two Consular officers came out to meet me: a man and a woman named Mafrat. They treated me with the utmost courtesy as they invited me inside into a small office. They told me that as an international embassy, they are prohibited from entering into any cash transactions with anyone—hence the arrangement with the local bank. They understood my predicament and when I told them that I had a return flight to Bombay that evening, the man suggested I do a bank wire transfer—NEFT as it is known in India—from my personal account in my bank to their bank account. He gave me the bank details and told me that it was a simple matter, could be done in two minutes and the instant transfer of the money would be reflected in their account. Once they received the money, he said they would issue the visa.  In my case, they would make allowances, he said, and allow me to deliver my payment receipt and papers past the 12 noon deadline. He instructed the chowkidar accordingly.

     With nothing more to say, I thanked them profusely and called for another Uber to take me back to the Fulbright office. Anupam instructed the security staff to open the office for me so that I could use one of the computers that is attached to a printer and we set to work. Luckily, Anupam stayed on the phone with me as I tried to make the wire transfers. 

     I will not go into the painful details but I will tell you this. At every stage, I was made to feel frustrated.  Either the system was too slow or the system was shutting me out or technical errors made it impossible for me to make the transaction.   It was simply endless.  Feeling more and more stressed, I had to take deep breaths to pull myself together mentally. Finally, when I did get through, I discovered that my bank had a  day limit of no more than Rs. 10,000 on wire transfers. My visa cost about Rs. 13,000–so I had a firewall that came up to prevent me from doing any further transactions. Meanwhile, I had misunderstood and thought that I could do no more than Rs. 10,000 per transaction (not per day). So I had decided (with advice from Anupam) to do two transactions for a total of Rs. 13,000. That was a bad move because, as it turned out, the Embassy would not accept anything other than a single transfer for the entire amount. It was a nightmare, if you can imagine it!

     Anyway, with Rs. 9000 already deposited in the Embassy account and no way that I could deposit any more until tomorrow, I called the Embassy again. This time an accountant informed me that they would make an exception in my case provided I write a letter to the Ambassador explaining why it had been necessary for me to make two payments. He told me to make the second installment of the payment tomorrow, bring printed receipts for both payments, bring the signed letter of explanation and return with all these documents to, hopefully, get the visa. 

     This meant that I had no other choice but to cool my heels here in Delhi for another 24 hours. Believe me, I had tried all possible options in attempting to get my visa today and I had failed. I had to pray for the serenity to accept that which I could not change. And I did. 

     I left Anupam to sort out the business of putting me up for one more night here at the Fulbright Guest House (which is very safe, really luxurious and in an incredibly quiet part of the capital) and to adjust my ticket so that I leave tomorrow night instead of tonight! It also meant that I had to contact the folks in Bombay with whom I had scheduled interviews for my field research as I am booked solid with work assignments until the rest of the week—I cancelled both of them and told them I would reschedule them. I also called the person in charge of Lectors to let her know that I would not be able to do the Second Reading in church on Maundy Thursday. I also told my Dad about my predicament. He was close to tears as he had been looking forward to seeing me home for the Holy Week services. 

Off to Explore Delhi on my Own:

     You know by now what my philosophy of life is, right? When Life gives you lemons, make a ruddy G and T! So I was off and hitting the roads of Delhi before you could say Jai Hind! I took an auto and asked the driver to take me to the National Gallery which was not far away at all.  It was about 2.00 pm and Delhi’s population had finally awoken. There was some traffic build up but still...nothing of the sort one could expect on a working day. It was still a pleasure to be ferried around this stunning city.

At the National Museum:

     Like all official buildings, the National Museum of Delhi—known also as the National Museum of India—is a solid pink and yellow sandstone edifice that houses some of the most significant national treasures.  Of course, I could quite easily have spent the entire day here, but I decided instead to head straight for the most magnificent exhibition one could ever have the good fortunate of seeing. The Jewelry of the former Nizam of Hyderabad, that the Indian Government had acquired instead of allowing them to be auctioned off to the highest international bidders, was on display. I had been telling my students for years about this collection which was reputed to have diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies as large as hen’s eggs. Well, today, I had the chance to set eyes on them myself.  And I was simply blown away!

The Jewelry Collection of the Nizam of Hyderabad:      

      All of you know that the Jewelry section of the Victoria and Albert Museum in London is my favorite part of that museum. So you can just imagine what I was looking at: a collection that puts the entire two floors of that section completely in the shade.  You had to see this collection to believe it: apart from the Jacob Diamond which is 185 carats and is valued at Rs. 450 crores plus its antique value; there were necklaces, ear-rings, bracelets, armlets, anklets, rings, turban-ornaments and such that were absolutely staggering. I was literally dumb-founded by the miles of strings of pearls and the size of those emeralds. The Moghuls had a fondness for emeralds because the color green is associated with Islam—and indeed they were as large as small bird’s eggs. There was a stunning Navratan brooch that is on the brochure and there were matching bracelets that were gifted to the Nizam’s faithful retainers! The collection truly beggars description.  What’s more, it is so impeccably curated with pictures of the ladies of the harem and close family members actually wearing these items in black and white photographs of the period that have sepiaed with age. Truly, my enjoyment in being in Delhi was full enhanced by this completely unexpected treasure trove on which I could actually set eyes. The collection is protected in a vault and has round the clock armed guards keeping watch. By the way, the ticket to enter the Museum costs Rs. 20 but you pay an additional Rs. 50 to see the Nizam’s Jewels.

     If you remember, when I was in Hyderabad in October last year, I had spent a lot of time in the Salar Jung Museum—now Salar Jung was the Dewan or Prime Minister of this Nizam—the Nizam off Hyderabad. I remember thinking as I feasted my eyes upon Salar Jung’s treasures that the horde of his employer would probably be a thousand times more dazzling.  Little did I know, when the thoughts passed through my mind in October, that by April, I would actually get to see the Aladdin’s Cave accumulated by the Nizam! How’s that for coincidences? What’s more, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time as this Jewelry exhibition only began in March and will be on until May 5. So in the midst of the horrors I had experienced at the Embassy, the silver lining to the gloomy cloud was seeing this once-in-a-lifetime collection. Truly a highlight of my year in India.   

     Before I left the museum, I browsed through its permanent collection that included wonderful miniature paintings from the Moghul and Rajasthan schools, superb Chola bronzes, grand stone and metal sculpture, an entire section devoted to the Indus Valley Civilization which contains the famous Dancing Girl from Mohenjo-darp and other major archeological finds. The Museum is huge, beautifully laid out,spotlessly clean and well maintained. Truly a national treasure.

Lunch in the Museum Canteen:

     By then, it was 3.00 pm and I was hungry—so I asked where the museum canteen was and I made my way there.  The thing about having such a glorious city is that you cannot find the sort of roadside shacks that you see all over Bombay in a place like this—and thankfully so.  Should you need sustenance, you will need to head to an area far from the diplomatic or artistic enclaves—and I did not want to waste time trying to find food.

     The museum canteen would do just fine: I had a special thali which came with rice (which I did not eat), two heavy parathas, dal, paneer masala, raita and papad and I ordered a glass of lassi—no one makes lassi like the Delhites. I remembered the amazing lassis we used to have as a family when we were on a holiday when I was in my teens. They were so creamy and so rich, we could only have a few tablespoons of it before feeling satiated. 

     

Heading to an Interview:

     One of the things I’d had the intellectual foresight to do when I knew I would have a few hours to kill in Delhi between submitting my passport and picking it up was schedule an interview with someone I was very keen to meet as part of my study: Ibrahim Alkazi is known to be a giant among contemporary Indian developers of culture and the arts. He is Delhi-based and has been since 1961 (having started his work in Bombay where he was eminent in English-language theater). Sadly, he is now 94 and unable to speak. His daughter, Amal Allan, however, a theater director herself, had been very happy to fix an appointment with me and it was her that I was meeting at 4.00 pm. She texted me the address and in an auto rickshaw, I was there in about 10 minutes. As she was running late, I had a chance to see the wonderful exhibition on the lower level of the Art Heritage Gallery (which Alkazi had started and which his children now run as a family business) of the recent prints of the artist Devraj Dakoji whose work I had first seen in Bombay  while I was in my teens and had still lived there. 

  

An Exhibition of the Work of Devraj Dakoji:

     So, while waiting for Amal and after meeting her son, Tariq, I feasted on the work of Devraj Dakoji who has been living in New York, on Long Island, for the past 25 years. He is a print maker par excellence and I was thrilled to become acquainted with his recent work. In the style of the American poet, Walt Whitman, who had lived not far from Babylon, New York, where Dakoji lives, Leaves of Grass, the poet’s masterpiece had been created and printed at his own printing press. I told Devraj this when I met him a little while later. It was fascinating to see what he has done with the Long Island Railroad tickets as he commuted from Manhattan to Long Island—he sketched on them to pass time and many of those sketches became full-scale prints or lithographs—this was very exciting for me to see. 

   

An Interview with Amal Allana:

     My interview with Amal took place in her office in the basement of the Triveni Art Gallery complex where her own art gallery Art Heritage is located. I found her a delight to chat with as she told me about her father’s contribution to the Performing and Fine Arts in contemporary India. She showed me the books she has edited, the volumes that were brought out for his 90th birthday and about all her memories of growing up in the illustrious Padamsee family (her mother was Roshan Padamsee, Alyque’s sister) with this multitude of cousins. As the oldest cousin, she is a storehouse of memories and she could reiterate for me what Yohan  and Raell had told me earlier. Plus she should tell me about the family life she enjoyed with her father and mother Roshan, both in Bombay and in Delhi. It was simply amazing. I loved every second of our dialogue and truly wished it could have lasted longer. 

     Later, I met her husband Nissar, a theater set designer, who also owns an art gallery in New York City that is called the Alkazi Gallery. He told me about the number of plays the two of them had done in Bombay before they migrated to Delhi—mostly the work of Bertoldt Brecht as Amal had trained in Germany on dramatizing Brecht’s plays. I was deeply excited by the contribution of this family to the work I am currently pursuing. I was also happy to participate in the opening called Urbania of the 12 artists they are featuring in their multi-artist exhibition right now. There was tea and rather delicious snacks but as I’d had a very late lunch, I could not stomach much at all.   

Browsing Around Connaught Place:

     After a fabulous evening in the midst of a thriving capital art community, I took another rick to Connaught Place and decided, while twilight fell softly over the city, to browse through the handsome shops there. I reached there in another ten minutes in a rickshaw and made a beeline for the Oxford Bookshop. It had rained quite suddenly and the temperature had dipped rather fiercely. I was very cold in my shirt-sleeves and was happy to be in the book shop for a while as I lost myself in the travel section.

     Connaught Place is very smart these days; it is newly painted and gleams in a pristine white. The Doric columns that made up this arcaded shopping area looked grand. It is suitably adorned with designer showrooms and all the international brands you could want. I needed a new cable for my phone and went into a store to buy it. I have decided to go in for the cheapest brands I can find as these cables only last about a year on an average—whether one buys Apple or anything else. 

     With my buy done, I went into Burger King and bought a meal: A Tandoori Chicken Burger with fries and a Pepsi for my dinner. I carried it out intending to eat it in about two hours when I would feel hungry again. 

     I then took a rick and made my way back to the Fulbright Guest House at about 7.30. I settled down to have a chat with Llew and tell him about my woes of the morning which I had decided to put behind me as I focused on enjoying a little bit of Delhi now that I have the unexpected opportunity to be here. Tomorrow, no doubt, will bring a fresh share of tension and I need to steal myself for the worst that I can expect. I had, meanwhile, received the updated ticket from Anupam—so, hopefully, I will get my visa tomorrow and be able to get on with my travel plans.  

     Until tomorrow.