As I was preparing for the summer I would spend in Delhi, many of the details remained vague or undetermined until the last couple weeks before my departure or, for some of them, until I arrived in India. The one thing I knew well in advance, however, was that the city had an ultimate frisbee team and that I wanted to be a part of it. After I settled in, I sent a message to the Delhi Ultimate Facebook account, got practice details, and, before I knew it, Mary Kate and I were meeting Jaidip, one of the captains of the team and the president of the Ultimate Players Association of India, at the metro station at 6:15am to go to practice.
The team is called Stray Dogs in Sweaters, named for the activity of a strange NGO that clothes the stray dogs of Delhi when the temperature drops in the winter. Practices happen every Saturday morning and Sunday evening with various informal meet-ups throughout the week for throwing and workouts. We’ve joined the team right as they’re gearing up for the Bangalore Ultimate Open, the biggest frisbee tournament in India. Next weekend we’ll be traveling with them to Bangalore to play three days of ultimate in south India. The jury’s still out as to whether or not I’m currently living out a dream sequence.
After our first practice, for which we were poorly hydrated and under-fed, Mary Kate and I went and got brunch with some teammates and then headed home to sleep it off. This past weekend, we decided to be a little more ambitious and planned to do some sightseeing after practice. We went to the apartment of our new friend Lisa, an ultimate player from Yale, and showered off before heading into the city in search of street food and aiming to make a stop at the Red Fort.
We wandered for a while before making a food decision, and eventually opted to make our first foray into Indian street food where all the locals seemed to be congregating. We each ordered dahi bhalla, fried lentil balls drowning in a sweet yogurt with spicy tamarind chutney and pomegranate seeds.
The difference in the time stamp between the before and after photos is approximately 11 minutes. Clearly no comment on quality of taste is necessary.
The menu board at our lunch stop promised mango shakes, but the cashier said, “I don’t have that” when we requested them. We were committed to satisfying our cravings for creamy mango sweetness, so we resolved to find a place to stop on our walk to the Red Fort. It didn’t take long to complete our mission.
Yes, they were topped with golden raisins, cashews, and shredded coconut. Yes, they were served in “for here” pint glasses of questionable cleanliness. Yes, they cost the equivalent of 66 cents. Yes, consuming that mango shake was one of the most blissful moments of my short life.
After we sucked up every last drop of mango ambrosia, it was a short walk to the Red Fort. We had been told that there was an entry fee, but we couldn’t find anyone taking money at the entrance, so we slipped our shoes off (this appeared to be customary based on our brief observance of other entrants) and walked right in.
The red tile was blazing hot. Someone had considerately rolled out these rope mats, presumably to preserve one’s feet from being burned beyond recognition. However, scratchy rope mat isn’t a significantly more pleasant sensation. Pick your poison.
These sweet girls ran up to me on the rope mat and began saying, “hello, my name is” over and over and over. I’m not sure what their names are, but I told them mine was Kati.
After sitting for a bit beside the algae-filled fountain, Mary Kate and I headed by metro to meet one of our teammates to go to a clothing exchange for interns that were coming and going and looking to get rid of some extra clothes. We each acquired some excellent finds for the low, low price of absolutely nothing. I went home with three full traditional outfits, all of which got some wear time this past week. I’m a happy camper.
At work on Monday, I was feeling a little curious and did a quick Google search. Turns out we did not, in fact, visit the Red Fort on Saturday. By turning the wrong way out of the metro station, we ended up paying a visit to Fatehpuri Masjid, a 17th century mosque on the western end of the oldest street in Delhi, Chandni Chowk. Apparently we were looking for the eastern end.
This explains the shoe removal, lack of general fort-like qualities, and men praying all over the place.
Happy Friday.
No comments:
Post a Comment