Paharganj

Yesterday a man named Hanesh, a Pahari from Naddi village, drove me from Dharamsala down the mountain, through the Shivalik Hills of Himachal Pradesh, past Kangra Fort, across the Nagar Dam and the Beas River, through Punjab and across the high plain of Haryana to Delhi. We drove for eleven hours, stopping for a banana and milk tea near Kangra, lunch of roti, daal and mutter paneer under a bamboo shelter at a roadside dhaba in Punjab, and then tea at a truck stop in Haryana. We came into Delhi on the north side of the city, passing a landfill at least as large as the one on Staten Island. The stench was so powerful that for about three or four miles I could hardly breathe, even with the car window closed. Black kites soared in lazy circles over the heaps of Delhi's refuse, while small bands of Dalit women and children combed the surface for anything remotely redeemable.

As we entered Delhi, a chaotic city of close to 16 million (I am told), I was overwhelmed yet again by its density, its noise, its squalor and its blue-gray caustic air. We wound our way into the narrow streets of Paharganj to find a hotel I had located on the Internet, one that would reserve a room with a credit card. The streets were so narrow and crowded it took us another hour just to go a few blocks, and then finally with the help of some locals we located Hotel Chand Palace off a little alleyway. I was very near giving up and heading fo the YMCA to see if they had a room, since this area was hit by terrorist bomb blasts in November, but I stuck it out and checked in, just to be indoors and safe. For twenty-five dollars a night I get running hot water, a toilet and shower, a bed, a tv, room service, a pigeon living in my bathroom window (no glass, just louvres), construction just above my room, the smell of the alleyway, and a ceiling fan to spread it around. I have stayed in worse, however, and I am glad to have the company of the tv, which provided me with British soccer last night, a terrific FA cup game between Manchester City and Aston Villa.

I slept in a long time this morning and then watched another soccer game between Tottenham and Wigan. I had lunch in my room, and now I am around the corner in another, more expensive hotel that has 9 compters in its basement that are linked to the Internet. I am paying fifty cents an hour to use one. It is 88 degrees and dusty outside today. Down here in this basement next to stacks of building materials under a flourescent light and a ceiling fan it is likely around ninety degrees. The Indian men around me are watching cricket online, IM-ing and looking up cars and sports scores.

I just need to hang around today and sleep here one more night, then tomorrow afternoon I will head to the airport for my night flight to Chicago. I am half-tempted to grab an autorickshaw and see more of the city, but honestly I am running out of energy and enthusiasm for Delhi. This is a difficult place to be after the relative peace and calm of Dharamsala. I will just bide my time, most likely, reading books about Buddhism and Tibet and watching soccer, listening to the honking horns, shouting street vendors, pigeons, drummers and chanters, the bangs of the hammer upstairs and the chatter of the hotel houseboys echoing in the staircase.

I am ready to be home.