Tuesday, October 24 Eid-Al-Fitr, Shopping, Mosque

Today is Eid Al-Fitr, which is an Islamic holiday to mark the end of the holy month of Ramadan. During this day, Muslims wake up eat a large feast before the sun has risen. Then they go to mosque to pray to Allah before going about their everyday business. They are not allowed to eat until the sunset, whereupon the fast is broken and there is an enormous, delicious feast eaten in every Muslim home. There are also celebrations including fireworks, games, and dancing in graveyards. It is a holiday according to the lunar calendar, so the Islamic astrologers can tell on which day the celebrations will take place. This was apparent when I tried to visit the National Museum, and someone had posted on the gate an 8½ by 11 sheet of paper scribbled in, “Closed for Eid Al-Fitr”. I went to the study center to use the internet, but it wasn’t working, and because of the holiday, no one was available to fix it. This is because most Muslims are working-class, so they would be the ones who they would call to fix the internet. I went to Connaught Place to eat lunch buffet at Nirulas, which was so greasy I had a three-hour food coma. I went shopping in Chandni Chowk, and ended up buying a few bracelets at the Sikh Temple. Then I walked down the small alleyways, most of whose shops were closed. I looked at some jewelry, Diwali festival regalia, and carvings, until coming to Jami Masjid, the largest mosque in Delhi, and India for that matter. I was expecting to see massive prayers filling the courtyard, but there were none. The extent of the prayers was a line of Muslim men in beards, kofia, and kurta pajama. They prayed on their shins, on their knees, and with their heads touching the ground. The mosque was mostly filled with Hindu visitors, and some foreigners who stuck out like a sore thumb. Now with my dark tan, plus wearing a collared shirt and acid-wash jeans, I look completely Indian, and people come up to me speaking in Hindi asking where things are. Then I shoot them blank looks. The average Delhiite has no idea looking at me from behind that I am not Indian. It’s nice to be anonymous sometimes, because I watched the funniest spectacle at the mosque. Two cute white girls were taking pictures in front of the main gate, and about 200 young males out of the 1,000 people in the courtyard all gathered around in a massive semi-circle around them, watching and giggling. All of a sudden, I see the two girls sprint across the courtyard to the gate. The huge crowd mobs behind them. Then, a security guard, an old guy with a wooden stick, comes running out of the gate waving his stick towards the crowd, which parts like the Red Sea. The guard has to escort them for the rest of the time. See, times like those I’m glad I’m not overly conspicuous. But it also doesn’t get you preferential treatment when people think you’re one of the everyday billion people that live in this country. Going up the minaret was one such time. You have to climb up 250 feet of a tiny spiral staircase, with no light or air. It sucks. Then, once you reach the top, the views over Delhi are superb, but there are 50 people jammed one up against the other looking out at the city below. Indian people love being next to you; they crowd, push, shove, and touch you in every possible place, without even noticing that it might make you uncomfortable. Waiting in line has two possible scenarios; there either is no line, but rather a mob of yelling, crowding people. Or, the person in back will literally be touching your back with their hands and beer belly, and stepping on the backs of your feet the whole time. And when I push them out of the way for some space, they ask, “excuse me, what’s the problem”, like I am so out-of-line (no pun intended). I hate people pushing me, touching me, sweating by me, and breathing on me. I love crowded places and busy cities and streets, but not in India. Here I even avoid crowds, crowded trains, and long lines for that specific purpose. It’s just not worth getting in a bad mood over. And I don’t have the force or patience to fight it. I like most other aspects of India, but not this one. After visiting the mosque, I went shopping in Meena Bazaar and stumbled upon a random carnival for the holidays. It was smoky and dusty, and crowded with fobby Delhiites. There were rides (tiny little rides like teacups and merry-go-rounds, mostly all powered by hand. There were some carnival games, like shoot-the-balloons and cap the bottle. The funniest thing were the picture booths, though. You pay a photographer, and they have different set-ups you can choose as a background. One was a motorcycle that guys can look cool on, one is a stage with flowers on it for couples or groups of guys, and another has life-size, stand-up, paper, hot Bollywood actresses you can stand with to make you look like a pimp. I had to negotiate the streets of Chandni Chowk, and I saw a huge black rat in a dark gutter, and got scared I would see more, so I went shopping at Janpath instead, ate Hotel Sarawana Bhavan, and came back and watched Crash with Snehal and Tara.