By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
I assumed the Hotel Tara Palace was the only building in the surrounding area of Chandni Chowk to have survived a nuclear bomb. Our tuk-tuk driver had refused to take us to the front door, his already compact vehicle unable to navigate the narrow alley on which the Tara Palace stood. Instead we walked the final part of our journey. It was the first time my feet had touched the floor in Delhi, excluding the airport terminal. The winding streets were so dark and tall with buildings they appeared to be falling in on themselves. The bustle of the nearby market was cacophonous. The onlooking locals were unabashed in their staring. I felt small and aware of my body. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my head as Nan began to comment loudly on how we were in the heart of the action. I turned on her and demanded why she had chosen a derelict building situated in a labyrinth surrounded by beggars. She replied quietly, ‘I want to take you to the Jama Masjid. It’s where I met Bapuji.’ I was silenced. The Tara Palace interior was uniformly beige, but thankfully quiet and clean. I pulled out my iPhone. ‘No wifi?’ I asked. ‘No. But there is a telephone, attached bath with hot and cold water and colour TV.’ I counted my blessings. We walked to the Jama Masjid as the sun started to hang low and heavy in the sky. I say walked, in truth we shuffled. In the late afternoon, the streets were heaving with people, cattle and dogs. ‘Isn’t it the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen?’ Nan was just in front of me, her hand trailing behind her. She spoke nostalgically about her childhood and her twenties spent in Delhi, smiled at the local people and stopped to sample mouthfuls of street food, butter chicken and chaat and parathas. I didn’t eat the food, never stopped to stroke the richly coloured reams of fabric and I avoided eye contact with the locals. I held my GoPro aloft like a periscope, surveying the bazaar and my Grandmother’s happiness. Nan paused, licking her lips clean of parathas crumbs. ‘This is how it is, my love. People everywhere. The place is pulsing with life. Don’t you feel alive?’ At that moment I felt damp with sweat and suddenly aware I was holding a £499.99 GoPro above my head, as if advertising its theft. ‘This is how people should be living,’ she continued. ‘With each other. As a part of one another. Not avoiding eye contact, queuing and bickering about Brexit.’ Then she squealed, ‘oh look, he’s making jalebis.’ I stared as we passed a man dipping what looked like pretzels into a vat of sickly sweet smelling syrup. Nan turned around to face me, ‘don’t film, little Baba. Look.’ Nan pulled my camera out of the air and for the first time, I saw Delhi without the guidance of a viewfinder. Locals were laughing as they bartered, tourists were seduced by tradesmen, beggars proffered empty cups to ankles walking past. ‘This is life, darling. Leap in.’ The Jama Masjid didn’t encourage leaping in. The largest mosque in India, you are required to remove your shoes and leave them on your entry. But despite my Birkenstock heist anxiety, I was moved. A sprawling mass of red brick and marble domes set against a dusty pink sky. I watched the sun sink beneath the turrets through the screen of my iPhone as Nan flung her arms from her body and grinned at me. ‘I met Bapuji on this spot. Right here.’ She turned around and around until she stumbled. I came to stand with her, and she flung her arms around me. ‘Our next adventure is the train, little Baba,’ she said, looking up at me. ‘How long is the journey?’ ‘Not too long, only twelve hours.’ Nan released me, took a deep breath of polluted Delhi air and strode back toward the Chandni Chowk. As she walked, she called back over her shoulder, ‘we won’t stay for the light show. It’s for tourists.’