The Red Fort-Delhi

In December, I want to visit places in the city that I never went to before just because I knew they would always be there for me to get to them. Now, when time in Delhi is shorter, suddenly some urgency kicks in. I have a long list, but I can only do so much, saving the rest for another time.
So as I announce my plans for the day, a visit to the Red Fort , the universal reply that echoes back is "why would you go there?". The question mark is a combination of bewilderment and disgust. I think about fabricating another destination as an excuse.
Undeterred, with an equally enthusiastic accomplice, I catch an auto rickshaw from Connaught Place . A bit of haggling and the driver agrees on Rs 40 (less than $1) to take up into the depths of the Old City.

In my mind, nothing describes organized chaos better than Old Delhi. Narrow streets jammed with bicycles, auto rickshaws, cars, DTC buses, pedestrians, cows; lined by dilapidated sagging old buildings, propped up by newer structures. Human activity! Everywhere! I think about taking a picture as we navigate the streets. But thoughts of loosing my camera to the street as we hit yet another pothole, or to a wily snatching hand, makes me change my mind. There is a good reason why Old Delhi is snubbed by the yuppies of South Delhi. I have been to one fort in the U.S., expecting what I have always seen in Indian Forts-a mini city, a magnificent imposing structure, filled with embellishments, reveling in artisan craftsmanship. Twenty dollars poorer, in a ferry on the South Carolina shore, I look at the squatting greying mass ahead and realization dawns. How naive of me to think that in the land of *efficiency* a fort could be anything but a fort, a place to launch ammunition from.

Thankfully, the *efficient* phenomenon hadn't perpetrated to this side of the world.

The Lal Qila (literally translated as Red Fort) has adopted many roles over the ages, the palace that was the ruling power of the seventh city of Delhi (built by Shah Jahan who is also credited with building the Taj Mahal) , the headquarters of the British Army in Delhi, the stage for Independence Day speeches.

We enter through the Lahore Gate. A motley crew lines up to get in; sunburnt firangs (foreigners), families carting boatloads of wailing children, teenagers decked in their very best Sunday outfits. While the upper middle class thronged to swank malls in the upper-end South Delhi for a weekend outing, the lower middle class lines up to visit the Red Fort in Old Delhi.

We pass through a covered bazaar, lined with aggressive hawkers, an assortment of souvenirs and goods of dubious quality.

Inside, the Fort is somewhat of a disappointment. Spoilt by previous visits to the great forts in Rajasthan, I am expecting a huddle of structures, exquisite workmanship and mazes of corridors. However, the Red Fort's history has been more traumatic than others. The symbol of power in Delhi, it has been ravaged in the past by bloody wars, looters and the British (the pairing of words intended), many of its original structures destroyed.

We first head to the Diwan-e-Am or the hall of public audience where the Emperor would listen to the grievances of the common man. A couple of curious children try to jump the rope to get to the marble stone but are quickly shooed away.

The vistas created by the distinct Mughal arch, the proportions of the columns, the timelessness of the structure. Now, THATS what a fort should be like!

Most forts or even most historical buildings here are like a layered fruit that you slowly peel away. The sequence of structures, from public hall to private space is clearly delineated and the progression is an architectural expression in itself. So, we start peeling. We move on to the Diwan-e-Khas or the hall of private audience and the Rang Mahal or the palace of colors.

Looking the other way, I notice some ugly concrete structures marring the sandstone and marble around. It wouldn't take too much guessing as to who those unimaginative efficiencies could be attributed to.

I try and find quiet corners to frame my photographs but onlookers find a way to sneak in the frame and pose their way to anonymous photographic immortality.

The Rang Mahal with its walls like fading parchment, is one of the zenana halls or the residence of the ladies of the royal family.



To one side of these rectangular buildings is the Moti Masjid or the Pearl Mosque.

Its locked solemn door urges us to move on our way.

A large proportion of the Red Fort complex is still a stronghold of the Indian Army. I jump on a plinth surprisingly devoid of the curious fellow tourists, to get a photograph. I am quickly shooed away by an Army man. A bit exhausted by this bit of adventure, I debate whether to extend the exploration of Old Delhi and venture into Chandni Chowk or the Moonlight Square, across the street from the Red Fort. Chandni Chowk, once a boulevard with reflective polls and channels, today is a flurry of retail activity. Alleys lead off the narrow crowded street. One alley called paranthewali gali boasts the best paranthas (a type of bread) in the city. The gastronomical delight beckons but how was I ever going to make it across the street! I decide to save that adventure for another day.