“There’s the Red Fort,” Ranjeet said proudly.
Jennifer looked out the windshield at a monstrous crenellated structure of red sandstone, far larger than she’d imagined. “It’s huge,” she managed. Her mouth was agape. As they drove along the western wall, it seemed to go on forever.
“The entrance is up here on the right,” Ranjeet said, pointing ahead. “It’s called the Lahore Gate. It’s where the prime minister addresses the Independence Day rally.”
Jennifer wasn’t listening. The Red Fort was overwhelming. When she’d read about it, she’d envisioned something about the size of the New York Public Library, but it was vastly larger and constructed with marvelously exotic architecture. To explore it adequately would take a day, not the hour or so she’d intended.
Ranjeet turned into the parking area in front of the Lahore Gate. A number of huge tour buses were parked along one side. Ranjeet motored by them and stopped near a group of souvenir shops.
“I will wait just over there,” he said, pointing to a few highly stressed trees providing a bit of shade. “If you don’t see me the moment you come out, call me and I will come directly back here.”
Jennifer took the business card the driver extended toward her, but didn’t answer. She was gazing at the immensity of the fort and recognizing the futility of trying to see a famous edifice the size of the Red Fort in an hour. It certainly would not do it justice. Adding to that negative feeling was the general exhaustion she felt with her jet lag, the lulling sensation the car had provided, and her admission she was not much of a sightseer of old buildings. Jennifer was a people person. If she was to make an effort, she’d prefer to see people than crumbling architecture any day of the week. She was far more interested in the spectacle of Indian street life, a portion of which she’d just witnessed from the car.
“Is there something wrong, Miss Hernandez?” Ranjeet asked. After handing her his card he’d continued looking at Jennifer. She’d made no effort to move.
“No,” Jennifer said. “I’ve just changed my mind. I assume we’re close to the bazaar area?”
“Oh, yes,” Ranjeet said. He pointed across the road running the length of the Red Fort. “The whole area south of Chandni Chowk, that main street leading away from the Red Fort, is the bazaar area.”
“Is there somewhere convenient for you to park so I can wander in the bazaar?”
“There is. There is parking at the Jama Masjid mosque, which is at the southern end of the bazaar.”
“Let’s go there,” Jennifer said.
Ranjeet made a rapid three-point turn and accelerated back the way they’d come, raising a cloud of yellowish dust. He also hit his horn as they bore down on a man dressed in black and carrying a jacket over his arm. What Ranjeet didn’t see was a short man standing at a refreshment stand toss away a canned soda and sprint for his car.
“Is Chandni Chowk both a street and a district?” Jennifer asked. She had gone back to reading her guidebook. “It’s a little confusing.”
“It is both,” Ranjeet said. Although stopped at the traffic light, he hit his horn again as a taxi turned into the parking area for the Lahore Gate more rapidly than appropriate, came within inches, and sped past. Ranjeet shook his fist and shouted some words in Hindi that Jennifer assumed were not used at “high tea.”
“Sorry,” Ranjeet said.
“That’s quite alright,” Jennifer said. The taxi had alarmed her as well.
The light changed and Ranjeet accelerated out into the broad multilaned Netaji Subhash Marg that fronted the Red Fort, turning south. “Have you been on a cycle rickshaw, Miss Hernandez?”
“No, I haven’t,” Jennifer admitted. “I’ve been on an auto rickshaw, though.”
“I recommend you try a cycle rickshaw, and specially one here at the Chandni Chowk. I can arrange for one at the Jama Masjid, and he can take you around the bazaar. The lanes are called galis and are crowded and narrow and the katras are even more narrow. You need a cycle rickshaw; otherwise, you’ll get lost. He will be able to bring you back when you wish.”
“I suppose I should try one,” Jennifer said, without a lot of enthusiasm. She told herself she should be more adventuresome.
Ranjeet turned right off the wide boulevard and was promptly engulfed in the stop-and-go traffic on a narrow street. This was not the bazaar per se, but it was lined by modest-sized shops selling a wide variety of merchandise, from stainless-steel kitchen utensils to bus tours in Rajasthan. As the car slowly moved along, Jennifer was able to gaze at the myriad faces of the local population reflecting the dizzying variety of ethnic groups and cultures that have miraculously become glued together over the millennia to form current-day India.
The narrow street butted into the exotic-appearing Jama Masjid mosque, where Ranjeet turned left into a crowded parking lot. He jumped out and told Jennifer to wait for a moment.
While Jennifer waited, she took note of something about the Indian temperament. Although Ranjeet had left the car in the middle of the busy parking area, none of the parking attendants seemed to care. It was like she and the car were invisible despite blocking the way. She couldn’t imagine what a firestorm it would have caused to do something similar in New York.
Ranjeet returned with a cycle rickshaw in tow. Jennifer was horrified. The cyclist was pencil-thin with protein-starved, sunken cheeks. He didn’t appear capable of walking very far, much less pumping hard enough to move a three-wheeled bicycle supporting Jennifer’s hundred and fourteen pounds.
“This is Ajay,” Ranjeet said. “He’ll take you around the bazaar, wherever you might like to go. I suggested the Dariba Kalan with its gold and silver ornaments. There’s also some temples you might like to see. When you want to come back to the car, just tell him.”
Jennifer climbed out of the car and then with some reluctance up into the hard seat of the cycle rickshaw. She noticed there was little to hold on to, making her feel vulnerable. Ajay bowed and then started pedaling without saying a word. To her surprise, he was able to propel the cycle with apparent ease by standing up and pedaling. They rode along the front side of the Jama Masjid until they were soon engulfed by the extensive bazaar.
By the time Dhaval Narang got back to his car at the Lahore Gate at the Red Fort, Ranjeet had already gotten a green light and had accelerated southward to join the traffic coming from Chandni Chowk Boulevard. Hurrying, Dhaval was able to get to the light before it turned red. Accelerating as well, he rushed after the hotel’s car, trying desperately to keep it in sight. Since the traffic was heavy, it was not easy, even though he was driving very aggressively in an attempt to catch up. He was doing well until a bus pulled away from the curb in front of him and blocked even his view.
Forcing himself to take even more of a chance, Dhaval pressed down on the gas pedal, cut in front of a truck, and managed to get around the overly crowded bus. Unfortunately, by the time he could again see ahead Ranjeet had disappeared. Slowing to a degree, Dhaval began looking down the side streets that headed west as he passed them. A moment later he had to stop at a traffic light, allowing crowds of people to surge forth to cross Netaji Subhash Marg.
Dhaval was disgruntled, impatiently tapping the steering wheel while waiting for the light to change. Originally, he’d been happy about the Red Fort, as it was big and packed with tourists, making it easy to do a hit and melt into the crowd without fear of being caught. But then Ranjeet had suddenly driven away, giving Dhaval no idea where he was going or why.
When the traffic light turned to green, Dhaval had to wait impatiently while the vehicles in front of him slowly accelerated forward. At the corner, he glanced down toward the Jama Masjid mosque and made a rapid decision. Halfway down toward the mosque and mired in traffic was what looked like the Amal Palace’s Mercedes.