Nothing runs on time in India. At least, this is the impression I am left with in my brief stay in a corner of the country. A bus was to take us into the Taj Mahal this morning at 5am. Actually, we were told 6am then 5:30am, then 5:45 and finally at the end of the evening it was an emphatic 5am. I asked several times to be sure. No sense getting up that early if we did not need to. We were assured 5am. There we were at 5am with the rest of the delegates staying in the guest house. I was not completely surprised when the bus pulled away at 7am. I am writing this from the plane on our 15 hour jump to Toronto. The flight was to leave at 12:45am. No shocker that they did not start boarding until after 12:30 and it was nearly 2am when the plane lifted off. And like the bus there wasn’t an explanation, an apology or even the acknowledgement of a problem.
We checked in to our flight online this morning so I was confident as we strolled past the Air Canada counter and into the immigration line. After a long wait in line we were told by the immigration officer that we could not use electronic boarding passes! Seriously! You would think that Air Canada would let you know this when checking in on the web. So back we went to the Air Canada desk to get our boarding passes. Once through immigration, this time it was a guard who stopped me and pointed out that my boarding pass read Toronto to Vancouver not Delhi to Toronto. So back I went through immigration and to the Air Canada desk. Not so much as an apology.

This post isn’t meant to be a rant. I promise. I’m at the beginning stages of a 15 hour flight that began at the end of a 20 hour day where I travelled 8 hours by bus. I’m not complaining. I just walked around one of the seven wonders of the world with my dad. Now how many people can say that? A colleague of mine on this trip would say “India is an inner journey.” She’d be right too. To live here you’d need to channel real calm to stay sane. Is it any wonder that from this part of the world springs yoga and many meditation practices?

India is, in so many ways, offensive to my western sensibilities. Yet, strangely I find myself liking its people. Perhaps it is their desire to serve, their keen sense of hospitality, their patience? In spite of the trash all around me, the thick smog that burns the lungs and restricts breathing and the insane driving I find myself day dreaming about touring the country some day on motorcycles. We travelled by bus to Agra, a distance of several hundred kilometres, and the country seems simply bursting with people. Grass huts dot farmers fields leaving me wondering at the life their owners must lead. A man piles hand cut hay on a flat deck trailer pulled by oxen. A team of camels strung out in procession move with their master to some unknown destination. The windows of the bus speeding down a 4-lane divided highway seem to look out on a strange fusion of the past and present.

Agra was much like Old Delhi only the number and variety of animals increased. The same shops line the road ways, the same thick layer of dust covers their wares. Pigs and cows root through piles of refuse. Chickens nest inches from the road ways and directly outside the doorways of people’s homes. A teaming vegetable market crawls with activity like an over turned ant hill. We crossed the Yamuna River where water buffalo and cattle kept cool in its polluted waters. Women worked tirelessly at their washing in the river. Along the muddy shore miles of carpet and sheets lay spread out to dry in the sun. It seemed counter productive to me. Surely the cloth laid out so was getting filthy on the shore line?

We caught glimpses of the Taj Mahal as we approached on the bus. Its spires and domed roof well known symbols of India’s glory. We collected our tickets from a ticket counter in a long brick building. Foreigners pay 3 times the price but their tickets are “priority” ones that would take us past the long queues wandering through the Taj. We walked the kilometre from the ticket counter to the gates. There were any number of rickshaws or horse drawn carriages that vied to carry us the distance but we opted to walk as a group. In retrospect taking a ride may have saved us the grief of turning down every merchant we passed along the way. The red sandstone fort that surrounds the Taj Mahal (crown palace) kept the tide of filth securely outside its walls. We passed through security guards and metal detectors to gain our admittance. Food was confiscated from several in our group. Thousands upon thousands of tourists filled the courtyards and gardens leading to this wonder of the world. 16 gardens and 53 fountains to be exact. Incidentally the year of it completion, 1653.

I have seen the Taj in pictures and video but to see it in person is something else. The scale of it cannot be expressed. To my initial distaste a guide found us. One that insisted his services were free but naturally would take a tip at the end. He was worth the tip, however. A sleight man dressed in a white katur pajama and wearing a white tight woven Muslim cap that reminds one of the doilies found on the tables of their grandmothers. He kept our group remarkably together and showed us many features of the palace that we would have otherwise surely missed: optical illusions, the translucent white marble that would change colour depending on the quality of the light shone upon it, the variety of stone expertly set into the carved marble.

In the main chamber of the palace the only light is the little that filters through the open door ways and the windows set high above us. Photos are not allowed in here, though an occasional flash from the uncontrollable crowd wandering through would go off. Our guide borrowed a smart phone from one of our group and used its flashlight to illuminate a small stone set in the marble in the pattern of the lotus flower. It lit up like a Christmas light and the vision of the mausoleum’s architects was suddenly before us. The interior walls are intricately covered in these stone lotus patterns and you knew that with just the right lighting these stones in their blues, yellows, greens and reds would ignite like a hundred thousand stars. One can book a night viewing of the Taj only in the few days around the full moon. I’m certain it would be worth the long flight to India just to stand in that chamber when the moonlight reveals the genius of India’s architects.

Shah Jahan the emperor responsible for the construction of the Taj had it raised in honour of his 3rd or 4th wife (his favourite) who died bearing her 14th child. She would never see the monument he had erected in her honour. It took 22 years to complete it. He would have gone on to erect a similar edifice in honour of himself made from black marble (10x the cost) but his son refused to let him spend the public funds on an edifice to his own ego and had him imprisoned where he eventually died. At least this is the legend according to our guide.

Upon leaving the grounds of the Taj Mahal we found ourselves directed to a stone craftsmen’s shop. Apparently the same families that built the original Taj still live at its feet and create stone art to this day. Again, according to our guide. They had some beautiful works of art that I wish I could afford. I was glad for the air conditioned shop though. At this point dad was completely cooked. He’d had too much sun so I flagged down a rickshaw driver and had him take us the kilometre back to the ticket office and a small restaurant.

Dad has done quite well this trip. We’ve put in a fair number of kilometres, endured some long days and extensive travel. We’ve gone by: plane, train, boat, car, tuk-tuk, rickshaw, bus and foot. We’ve come a long way since our days of exploring the Cariboo in the old station wagon. When I was 15 he and I drove the van out to Prince Rupert and back camping and fishing all along the way. We caught one fish, and a little one at that, but we made vibrant memories that are easily recalled today. Not many people have a dad like mine. I’m hopeful that we’ll have many years more together and many more adventures. Jaron and I will have adventures like this too and he with his sons and so on down through generations of time. My dad never knew his father and could have perpetuated that legacy with his own children but he chose a different path and my life is all the richer for it.

Dad and me at the Taj Mahal

The Taj Mahal framed by the red sandstone gates to its courtyard

Dad approaches the Taj Mahal

It’s been a few days since my last post. My time in India has included much later nights than in Italy making it near impossible to write. Of course, I’ve been at a conference much of the time so there is little to report on a daily basis that would not bore you to tears.
A couple cultural observations (and while these may appear to be criticisms they are not intended as such): some cultures are more punctual than others. This culture is the least punctual of any I’ve encountered. The session I gave was a half hour late, the awards ceremony (I chair this committee) was 15 minutes late, the bus to the national arts festival was an hour late, the bus to the Taj Mahal (which I am now on) was 2 hours late. Indeed, nothing truly seems to run on time here and none of the locals seem the least irritated by it. Their lack of impatience is perhaps the most aggravating to this westerner. Second, there is a pronounced inability to not admit when you don’t know something often accompanied with a characteristic head shake. This is most aggravating when attempting to get somewhere by cab. “We need to go to Chintan Guest House. Do you know where that is?” “Okay, okay, okay, no problem, no problem.” Yet, it is not okay and there is a problem and it involves driving in circles in Delhi traffic.
Yesterday I managed to get dad out of the room and into Delhi. We took much the same route as I did the first day. We were joined by a colleague of mine, Scott, and his wife Debbie. Scott has worked at BYU for the last 31 years (dad is a BYU alumnus so they had something to chat about). I must say dad did remarkably well, he complained very little when he boarded the tuk-tuk for the ride to the metro. Never mind the death grip he had on the bar in front of him.
Scott needed an adapter to use his North America plugs so we made our way into the electronics district of Old Delhi. The entrance to this district is marked by the sour stench of the very public urinals. We wound our way through the crowd and visited a variety of shops to find everything from light bulbs to, well, mostly just light bulbs. We would eventually find an adapter but not in the electronics district.

The goal of the trip was to visit the very large mosque in Old Delhi. It was built by the same Moghul emperor that raised the Red Fort and the Taj Mahal. In the same architectural style of the Red Fort the mosque rises above the city in blood red sandstone. We took a couple rickshaws from the electronics district to the mosque. Dad enjoyed this about as much as the tuk-tuk, which is to say, he tolerated it quite well.

We arrived at the mosque to find it was closed for the next couple hours. Right, it’s Friday. So, we walked back into the markets to look around. We passed through the fireworks market and an area devoted to brass works generally depicting Hindu gods. Debbie nearly stepped on a rat at one point. The streets were as crowded as before and possibly more so. Squeezing through one narrow space I was hit by an oncoming rickshaw. Not hard enough to do any real damage but enough to prompt greater caution on my part. We found ourselves on a street dedicated to used book vendors. Sadly these were not your typical bookstores. Merchants sat at their stalls with their books piled behind them from floor to ceiling. Apparently you had to know what you wanted and ask the merchant to retrieve it. The majority of items appeared to be textbooks: medical, dental, computer and business were the dominant subjects. String bound half a dozen titles together. I assume you buy the books by the bundle. Like everything in Delhi a thick layer of dust and grime covered the pages along with everything else.

We passed through a variety of merchant districts where the haggling was fast and furious: the paper district where we watched as paper was made and even decorated by hand, the poster district where the most animated trading seemed to take place, the Saree district with its colorful cloth a stark contrast to the filth around us.

Eventually we caught a couple more rickshaws back to the mosque. As soon as we dismounted, a little boy perhaps 4 or 5, was at my side begging for money. I tried my best to ignore him. We’d planned to stop for a snack just outside the mosque. The little boy followed me to the kiosk. He was so cute. “No money” I said “but would you like a drink?” “Bebsi, bebsi,” was his excited reply. So I bought him a cola and the sheer delight on his face was solace to my heart. Dad bought a drink for a woman in burqa (possibly the boy’s mother).

The mosque was like many others except we had to pay to bring a camera inside. I was wearing shorts so I had to wear a skirt. I looked pretty good in my skirt; my sisters would be jealous. There was a pool in the midst of the courtyard and prayer mats were being rolled up and stowed away. They’d thrown a large amount of bird seed out and hundreds of pigeons feasted and then scattered to circle and return to their meal. Some sort of circling hawks likely fed on the pigeons.

We walked about the mosque enjoying its architecture and its general peace after the crowds of the market. We paid the hundred rupees to ascend one of the spires for a view of the city. Dad found a corner to relax in and watched our shoes as we made the climb. Climbing and heights have got to be two of dad’s least favorite things.

The staircase wound up and up in a tight spiral for 120 steps. At its peak it opened to a small platform from which I imagine the call to prayer was sung in days past. The gated windows prevented any great pictures of the 360 degree view but they also prevented me from plummeting to my death so I was glad for their presence. The Delhi skyline reveals a vast sea of squat dilapidated buildings overflowing each other and home to more than 10 million people.

Our return to the guest house was much of the same, rickshaws, tuk-tuks and the metro. Except dad did spot a couple monkeys outside the metro and he managed a picture or two.

I left dad at the guest house; he’d had enough for one day. I went with the conference sponsored outing to the national arts festival. It was a huge production. The outdoor seating was couches in long rows with ample aisle width. Very comfortable! The performances from artists across India were both fascinating and bizarre to these western eyes. India has a unique musical sound and its dancers are equally unique. I quite enjoyed myself even if the performances were a little longer than we are used to. Time truly runs differently here.

I arrived back to the guest house after 10pm and packed for the trip to the Taj and then on home the next day. A few days in Delhi and I’m not the same man I was when I arrived. Neither is dad. He has hardly eaten since he arrived and he keeps having to cinch up the belt. He is leaving a good deal of himself behind.

A woman dances while balancing pots on her head – conference entertainment

View from a window in the spiral staircase in the mosque spire.

Scott and Debbie in the rickshaw behind us – Old Delhi

Some experiences are raw and unfettered, experiences that leave you breathless and reflective that both cut deep and inspire. Today was such an experience. If this post feels like I am reaching, if its tone is strained, it is because the story is beyond my control of the English language. How does one convey in words the feel of a place, its sights, its sounds, its atmosphere, its emotion? The day we arrived a thick smog lay over the city of Delhi. Like a sickness it hung on the horizon. In just a few minutes the back of my throat was prickly and the corners of my eyes burned with it. The air can be felt like silty water. Delhi in many ways is ill. It is a sick man struggling to feed his people. To breathe the air, to feel it enter your lungs is to breathe its sickness. To walk its streets, to witness its people moving and being and living is to suffer if only a little with them. To be clear, sickness is not sin and suffering does not make a person or a people less than another. Indeed, it is through sickness and suffering that we must pass, or so I believe, to find peace and happiness.

After a light breakfast this morning I headed into Old Delhi with several colleagues and their companions. Dad was still suffering jet lag this morning and after a harrowing ride from the airport to the guest house yesterday evening he was not keen to venture into the city. So while he stayed behind 5 of us embarked on an adventure that I will not soon forget.

We flagged down a couple tuk-tuks. These are the 3 wheeled vehicles that look like the offspring of a VW bug and a dirt bike. For 100 rupees (about 2 dollars) the drivers took us into the metro station. I’ve ridden in a tuk-tuk once before on a back road devoid of traffic in Sri Lanka. This was nothing like that. This was utter chaos poured out without mixture. Bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, rickshaws, ox-drawn carriages, buses, BMWs, Jaguars, vans and people all moved, sometimes slowly and sometimes a little less slowly, in the same general direction. Like the vehicles that moved on the streets the people darting in and out of traffic were of every fashion, every age and persuasion. Poverty lined the streets like English hedgerows.

Within 30 minutes we were entering the subway. 16 rupees (maybe 30 cents) would take us into or near Old Delhi. Our destination was the Red Fort. A large red sandstone structure built by the same leader that raised the Taj Mahal. Indeed, the sandstone was imported from Agra where the Taj stands. The modern subway was a stark contrast to the chaos we left above it and what we were about to find.

I’ve experienced crowded souks in the Middle East, struggled in pilgrimage to the top of Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka, jostled through malls in Hong Kong, stood in crowded London squares and just days ago navigated the crowds of Rome and Venice but I was not prepared for this. The narrow streets outside the station were awash with humanity. Little shops to either side sold to metro goers an assortment of edibles and merchandise. Dogs wandered amongst the people or sat scratching their sores. A rat was seen nibbling something amongst the garbage. Beggars here are drowned out amongst the movement of people and many are too weary or too sick to beg. We passed a man curled lifeless in a corner his dark weathered body exposed to the elements except for a small cloth; every bone clearly visible beneath his aged skin. What is his story? Who is this man that lays helpless amongst all these people? Is there someone that cares for him? Is someone even now struggling beneath some burden to pay for this man’s last meal? We walked on. We walked on! What could I have done for this man or the man with the deformed hands and feet we would pass or the children that would beg at the side of our tuk-tuk?

Running by palaces in Dubai the thought occurred to me that I would never want the responsibility of that kind of wealth. What might I tell God at the end of this life when he asked what I did with such privilege? “I had a great theatre room; the leather seats in my Maserati were heated.” Walking the streets of Delhi today I realize I am the wealthy Emerati. What is my answer to the wealth and privilege I enjoy?

On we went down the broken sidewalks of Delhi toward the Red Fort. Something dripped on me from an awning above (water I hope). Through dusty streets, in and out of traffic we went and the whole time a man pestered us to be our guide. A rickshaw driver, he would take us all over Old Delhi: to the Red Fort, to the spice markets, to the mosque, to the jewellery market. We declined and he pestered, we ignored and he pestered, I got quite rude with him “the answer is no!” and he pestered still. He followed us all the way to the gates of the Red Fort and then promised to wait for us and he would take us to all the places we wanted to go. Finally we agreed that should he be there on our return we would take him up on his… offer, pleading.

What can I really say about the Red Fort? It is a massive stone building of stunning architecture. Within its walls are impressive relics and structures of an opulence passed. We found a guide, or a guide found us, who walked us through the structures and told us the history and stories in an accent that made it hard to understand. I don’t like being guided through these places, mostly, because I don’t trust the history I’m being told but also because I feel rushed and then obligated to hand over my money. We wandered the grounds of the Fort and its buildings, watched children play on the grassy courtyards while patched and thin dogs bathed in the growing heat of the day. Sitting on a park bench for a break we were approached by a woman who wanted to take a picture with us, we posed. Then a group of 5 young men (studying law at a local college) asked if they could take a selfie with us. Others I could see simply stood in the distance and took their selfies slyly. Our blue eyes and western dress made us famous.

An hour or two after leaving our pestering rickshaw driver we emerged from the Red Fort to find him waiting with friends. We climbed aboard the tricycles and proceeded on an adventure that I can hardly retell. I thought I had been daring to take a tuk-tuk a rickshaw is another experience entirely. To their word they took us to the spice market. More than this they led us through the market to the wholesale spice market in a dark and filthy building. The overflowing bags of spices and chilies filled the air and we could not help but cough and sneeze and water at the eyes. They took us up a gloomy flight of stairs and then another and another. Men were sitting in the stairwells chatting and eating. We emerged on a roof top where food was being served to a group of local men. Tourists must be shown these sites often as they did not stir as we moved amongst them. We were presented with a view of the streets below us. A chaotic jumble of old and new. Then to the other side of the roof and a view of the courtyard of some monastery or mosque. Clean for India and marked by a tall ornate obelisk and a fountain filled with colourful fish. Delhi, we are learning, is a city of contrasts.

From the spice market we were taken to a silk and fabric store through narrow streets filled with vendors of all kinds. There seems to be districts of goods. Now we are passing through the shoe district, then the bangles, automotive parts and then fried foods. It was the meat market that really got me. A multi-layered cage held chickens ready for the butcher. The remains of their sisters, freshly dissected, lay atop the cage dripping their life’s blood upon the butcher’s next victims. Goats were in the streets, no doubt, destined to meet a similar end. Mutton hung openly in the stalls and fish exposed in boxes where flies were occasionally brushed away by merchants. I understand why many Indians would choose to be vegetarian.

We ended our rickshaw tour at the Mahatma Ghandi museum. The museum was surprisingly free. A group of school children loudly toured the facility in our wake and were very pleased to try their limited English with us. Outside the museum we finally stopped for a rest and small snack: chips and a cola at a local vendor. Finally, we walked through the resting place of Ghandi’s ashes. A beautiful memorial to a man that strived to bring peace to India.

We were getting really bold now. We piled 5 of us into a single tuk-tuk built for two. I sat up front sharing a single seat with the driver. There was nothing between me and the open road as we wove in and out of traffic. An ambulance desperately tried to push its way through traffic but the traffic responded reluctantly and I watched as the big ambulance stopped centimetres from ramming the tuk-tuk in front of me clear from the road. Back on the subway and then another tuk-tuk, which got lost, we finally made it back to the guest house 10 hours after we’d begun.

The conference begins tomorrow and I speak first thing. I should have spent some time going over that speech tonight but I had to get this down while it was fresh. Reading it through I am certain it will not convey what I wish it could. My first brush with Delhi will affect me for a long time. I suspect that like all great memories I will mine it for meaning and enlightenment over many years.