We are already running late. Our Gurkha driver, Seeray, flies down the highway in our Ford into the center of the city, his face almost completely covered by a winding scarf. It’s winter in Delhi and barely 50 degrees. The car windshield is completely fogged up but we shoot forward, split two rickshaws and scream into the parking lot of the city Tourist Department which also happens to double as the city’s sprawling flower market.
Seeray, a sergeant in the 10th Ghurka Rifles and personal attendant to a Brigadier General, throws the car into park and beckons us forward into the maze of flower peddlers. He is thick and noticeably athletic. While immensely kind to us he is precisely the type of soldier no man wants to meet in the field. He is under strict orders to get us to the tourist office by 7:45 am sharp to ensure we are on time for our 8:00 am bus tour. Failure is not an option.
He moves exceptionally fast through the single-file paths of the market, jumping over flowers, dodging lazy buyers sipping chai and reversing direction when need be to reroute around human roadblocks. He is in front, followed by my impossibly close friend Chetan, – the nephew of the Brigadier General – me and then Chetan’s girlfriend Rosie.
When cutting through the pushy tangle of the flower market proves impossible, Seeray leads us out to the edge of the road in an attempt to circumvent the mess and get us to our destination. As we move down the street, motor bikes and rickshaws fly past inches to our left. I keep edging further out into the street trying to use my body as a shield for Rosie as we push forward. My plan doesn’t work. A motorbike flies past me and a side-view mirror clips her shoulder. She grunts, assures me she’s okay and we keep moving.
No comments:
Post a Comment