Of Spices, Snakes, and Sperms

English is widely spoken in India. People use it as a common language to communicate because nobody cares to learn any of the 20 or so major Indian languages but their own. And in general people have a pretty decent grasp of basic English. Then you get gems like this:

Sperms Maker Capsul

I was deep in the heart of Old Delhi, in a labyrinth of twisting alleys between the major bazaar streets. The entirety of Old Delhi is a bazaar, stretching for miles in every direction. You have your spice bazaar, your paper bazaar, jewelry, sculpture, electrical goods, and all types of bazaars. My favorite is the tires-and-wheels bazaar, located adjacent to the main mosque. If you look down from the mosque courtyard you will be treated to piles and piles of motorcycle wheels, as well as Baboor and Son's, which I am assured is Delhi's best shop for fly-ass rims.

I turned to look into the alley to which the Sperms Maker Capsul sign beckoned me. It was dark and lonely, and my Sperms felt just fine, so I left well enough alone. I can make my own, thank you very much.

It is impossible not to be looking at a store sign in Old Delhi. There must be hundreds of thousands of small shops, lining every single street from end to end. In the multitude of signage, I don't know how many brilliant Indian-Englishisms I missed. I was intrigued particularly by a large neon blue and yellow sign imploring me to

BUY BEST COCK
brand rockets and firecrackers

 

Needless to say, upon getting a closer look I was deeply disappointed.

I decided earlier that morning to give up on errands. They were just making me miserable and putting into conflict with every local I spoke to. So I cut out an inset of my hard-earned Delhi map, memorized it as best I could, and strolled unaided towards Old Delhi. Tromping through like I owned the place, I was completely unhassled. As most of Old Delhi holds no appeal to the tourist mob, the people there simply have better shit to do than bother every foreigner they see on the street. On my home planet we call this practice "having a goddamn job." I walked for miles through the madness, ducking ox-carts and rickshaws laden with oversize piles of every sellable product under the sun , and all manner of wandering cows, oblivious and ill-fated goats, and porters weaving through the mob in great haste to get the large sacks of cement mix and other dry goods off their heads until I eventually found my way to the Lal Qila, or Red Fort.

While the Jama Masjid was alright, the Red Fort was awesome. The main gate is a massive fortification that would not look out of place in Lord of the Rings. Within the walls are numerous beautiful marble pavillions of various kinds, as well as the Emperor's public throne, a marble behemoth two stories high. It bears a certain resemblance to the Alhambra in Spain, but is not quite as vast or spectacular. The Indians take great pride in this fort, and as such it is meticulously gardened, and army troops stationed there keep out the ubiquitous human barnacles that attach themselves to you elsewhere in Delhi. It is a lovely haven of tranquility, and Indians from all over the country stroll around in admiration, dressing in fine clothes for the occasion.

When I left the fort I ran into Muzhu. Muzhu is a very impoverished rickshaw-wallah who followed me with great tenacity earlier in the morning, offering to take me on various tours or to drive me to the Red Fort. I declined forcefully on the logical grounds that I could see the Red Fort from where we stood and I didn't need a rickshaw. Such appeals to reason hold no weight in India. Anyways, Muzhu had been waiting for me, as I was the first customer he approached that day and if he didn't get my business he would suffer from ill fortune so he had waited over an hour for the chance to pick me up as I left. I could see the guy was desperate, and I wouldn't mind a little ride, even if I had intended to walk back, so I let him give me a tour. He cycled his rusty rickshaw with great difficulty into some exceedingly narrow alleys I had been avoiding to show me...I wasn't sure what.

Another rickshaw came in the opposite direction, forcing us to stop and maneauver around. As this went on , a man standing next to us asked asked if I wanted a picture. While I tried to tell him that I had no camera, he thrust a small green box into my lap and removed the lid. Out popped the head of a fucking cobra. Now, I am not afraid of snakes, and I am vaguely familiar with the various ways cobra-handlers drug up their snakes and so on to keep them tame, but I did not want this cobra in my lap one bit. I waved frantically, using all the concentration I had to appear angry rather than like a sissy-pants.

In a side-alley off a back-alley off an alley Muzhu stopped the rickshaw. We walked to the end, past a series of dire-looking hovels until we came to an incongruous marble doorway. "Is Jain temple, very holy" he said. Fair enough. I walked inside. Here in the heart of Old Delhi, mixed up and hidden in all the fray is this serene and truly beautiful little temple, packed to the brim with art dating back a thousand years. Jainism has the coolest religious art I have ever seen. There were exquisite paintings of the life of Mahavira, pearl and marble lotus flowers, and silvers carvings of snakes, elephants, peacocks and so on. Jainism. Wikipedia that shit. It's the bomb. When I left I looked up my guidebooks. This was not the Jain temple any of them talked about and was not even on the map. Muzhu was right, he is a very good guide.

Muzhu then took me to the spice market, a massive, multi-story Mughal-era building where all the various masalas are sold by the tens of pounds. The place was both amazing and vile. As we climbed higher and higher up the stair-tower I looked into centuries-old rooms, some packed to the brim with warehoused spices, others bustling shops where restaurant boys carried off huge sacks of spices for the day, and others filled to the ceiling with rotten and burnt garbage spilling out into the hallway. making it to the roof, we had a commanding view of Old Delhi. A pack of young boys stared at us, pausing only to assault each other's nipples with a large pair of pliers. From the roof we could see the fort, several large mosques, the massive Shivaite Hindu temple, the main Jain temple, and of course thousands of shops and hovels. Directly below us a collapsed roof revealed a sweatshop-like bakery in which children fried loaves of bread and lentil cakes. The general stench and decrepitude of the spice market, which was strong enough to overpower the scent of literally metric tons of potent spices, began to get to me so we left. One of the boys finally caught his buddy's nipple and gave it a brutal twist. He came to me for a high-five.

After a circuitous tour of the Delhi bazaars, Muzhu dropped me off at the tire-and-wheel market by the Jama Masjid. Friday prayers were letting out and thousands of white-robed Muslim men descended the steps around me. Many of them turned into an alley on the corner, where I found Karim's, the most popular Muslim restaurant in Delhi. I had goat kebab. It was delicious.

With some successful tourism and some articles to send to the bosses, things are finally starting to look up. I've decided to say to hell with New Delhi for now. It's too big, too full of scammers and scumbags, and I kind of hate it. I'm going to hit the road for a while and up my game in some more sensible towns. When I do come back I will take this place by storm, and I mean it. Nadir Shah ain't got shit on me.