Delhi: A Work In Progress

India attacked my senses like a midget wrestler to my groin. And I have to say that I enjoyed it. It is a country of constant sensory overload. Colours so rich and vivid – the people, dressed like moving rainbows, dashing in front of my eyes. Pungent smells, both wonderful and putrid, floating down the crowded streets, ripping through my nose and rattling my bones. And piercing sounds that never stopped - not for an instant. Not even for one moment of silence. Here was India. And it was un-like anything that I had ever seen. I was captivated.

We started our trip in Delhi, where the nights were cold, and so were the people. Generally, the most animated response that we would get from someone when asking for directions, would be a look of disdain and the all-encompassing “Indian Head-Tilt” – a slight jerking of the noggin from side to side; speed, and the number of tilts depending on the enthusiasm level of the head-jerker. Smile - usually not included. Coming from Japan, a land where they have near perfected politeness, we were in for a shock. Luckily, an un-expected lay-over in Beijing, en route, gave us some practice in dealing with a rude culture.

Visiting India proved to be an incredible experience, albeit layered with personal ups and downs. I would spend nearly 50 percent of my three week vacation feeling ill. I was vomiting within 48 hours of landing on Delhi’s chaotic landscape, and spent half of my time in the capital city, keeled over in the back of our hired taxi, too sick to explore the many cultural and historic sights. Whether it was the toxic water, the dirty food prepared by cooks with un-washed hands, or the horrible air quality, by the time Delhi was finished with me, I was several pounds lighter, and was drained of energy.

Holding in my liquid sickness as we barreled down the hodgepodge roads of Delhi, the images were overwhelming. The streets are jumbling messes of human life – cars, rickshaws, cyclists, pedestrians, old, beaten-up tractors- all criss-crossing; weaving back and forth as they travel perilously through the city– one near death experience after the next. The paint dividing the traffic lanes has either long faded or is simply ignored. Drivers constantly swerve in front of one another; passing on blind corners, speeding to overtake a colorful bus or an old man mounted on a camel or an elephant, pulling a cart overloaded with straw, metal or television sets. Mopeds zigzag through the thick traffic, often transporting a whole family; a husband and wife, and three or even four children squished onto the tiny motorized bike, all without helmets, all completely relaxed, as if they had done it a million times. The city is alive like no other that I’ve seen. It is a city where the most brazen driver reins supreme; where courage is king. The constant honking still echoes in my mind.

Delhi, like most of India that we saw, is not pleasant on the eyes. The roads are bleak and falling to pieces. Massive heaps of bricks and mud lay like rubble from a bomb in front of the tiny store-fronts, flowing out onto the roads, causing drivers to swerve around the scattered piles of debris. Un-finished bridges, leading to nowhere, sit like ugly, forgotten monuments, spikes of jagged rebar shooting out of them toward the sky. Dust hangs in the air like a blanket over the town. The most stunning parts of Delhi have had their beauty all but stolen by the surrounding ugliness, leaving former symbols of magnificence lost amongst the scars of a worn-out city.

The city’s people are in no better shape than its structures. Like India as a whole, Delhi has an extreme gap between the rich and poor. But there is something in this city that people of all incomes must share, and that is its horrible living conditions. India is not a country where your money can buy you total ease and comfort. The rich travel the same horrendous roads as the poor. They use the same filthy public facilities. They eat from the same un-hygienic street vendors. As I took in the objectionable sites that a city in the grip of poverty has to offer, I noticed this fundamental difference from the other developing nations that I’ve visited. Regardless of how rich a person is – regardless of how much money lines your pockets – you wouldn’t be able to buy a clean and quiet lifestyle in India. Madness surrounds you at all times. On the roadsides, groups of elderly homeless people lie lifelessly under blankets, or sit around flaming piles of burning garbage, trying to stay warm in the cool, winter air. At stop-lights, young children, mud etched into their skin and dressed in rags, walk barefoot between the waiting vehicles, stopping at the windows of passengers and lifting their dirt-covered hands to their mouths to motion that they are starving. Others try to sell cheap goods to passing drivers; anything that will make them a Rupee or two – a calculator, a Santa Claus mask, a piece of colored fabric. For the most part, all I could do was stare straight ahead, as if they weren’t even there.

Scattered across the city, old faded metal signs, with the words ‘Work In Progress’ painted across them, stand in areas where the rubble is at its thickest – beside giant, dug-out pits in the earth, near abandoned construction sites, and in areas where gutted buildings stand, crumbling away, as they have probably stood in the same state for years. I couldn’t help but laugh quietly to myself. The ‘progress’ was nowhere to be seen. With its garbage-lined alleys, Baghdad-style infrastructure, and a ruthless poverty that has engulfed the city, tearing at the heart of any human with a pulse, Delhi, it would seem, was more so a ‘Work Falling Apart’. The city is a massive bee-hive. And I think the queen might be dead.

Photos by Navin Bahl