broken skin
I’m in the backseat of a rickshaw stuck waiting at a red light. In a flash, a passing sex worker grabs at the Italian charm bracelet on my wrist. The driver barks something sharp at her in Hindi and speeds off like we’re in a getaway scene. She doesn’t nab my bracelet, but she still gets a piece of me — my sleeve’s ripped clean at the seam.
That’s about as good of a morning as you’re gonna get in Delhi.
I end up in the madness of Paharganj market, where the air smells like incense, fuel, and something vaguely sweet rotting under the sun. I grab breakfast and start drifting through the stalls. I shoot some landmarks. Eventually, the Red Fort lures me in — big, beautiful, and ominous in that way that old stone monuments usually are. I pull out the long lens and take a few shots of its blood-red walls.
Then I see it — a half-dead ferris wheel lurking behind the fort like the ghost of a traveling circus. Rusted. Swaying. Daring me.
Of course I buy a ticket. The kid running it — because yeah, he’s a kid, maybe thirteen — barely looks up as I step into the rattling deathtrap. No cage. No bar. Just metal and gravity.
We go around three times. Every creak sounds like a last breath. The whole thing shakes like it’s trying to decide whether to kill me or not. When I step off, I contemplate kissing the ground for a brief moment.
I wander downtown Delhi for a while. Nothing really makes sense, and that’s fine. Then I hear it — a shout from a rickshaw driver. He calls himself Bolbam. Everything in me says don’t trust him. But something else says, I should. I give him a chance.
He offers a tour, says he’ll take me to the good spots, and get me food. I nod. Let’s see where the day takes me.
He takes me to a spot to eat jalebi — fried, sticky, and sweet. It’s daring you to have a heart attack. He tells me about his family and where he grew up. I tell him about my life back in NYC. I ask if there are any bars nearby. I want to try a local beer.
He smiles and tells me he can get me a beer. “I know a guy.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
We end up in a jewelry shop. I stare at necklaces for twenty minutes, mostly to kill time. I find one I like. It’s got a worn, handmade feel to it. Feels honest. I pay in cash. The owner invites me behind the curtain, shows me the tools they use to make their pieces. I hold a piece of raw gold in my hands. I feel like Howard Ratner as he hands me jewels and precious metals to feel. He starts talking about the concept of karma like he's got a PhD in it. I hear him out and find the goodness in his advice on living with purpose. He tells me his wife loves orchids. He buys them every year for their anniversary. He smiles when he says it. I respect that. I always respect a romantic.
Bolbam’s friend shows up — the guy with the beer. He’s got two suspicious bulges in the sides of his gray shorts. No prizes for guessing what they are. Bolbam leans in and whispers that we’ll drink them at a private place nearby. Of course we will.
In India, drinking is technically only allowed in proper bars and hotels. There are none close by so we'll have to drink these beers illegally in the backroom of a fabric store.
The fabric store is a hole in the wall. Dingy. Faded. Exactly right. We duck into the backroom and spot the owner who's mid-transaction with a local woman. Bolbam's friend leaves. We crack open the two lukewarm beers like we’re part of some secret society. The woman doesn't care. She's got her full attention focused on to the clothing item she's about to buy. She makes her purchase and leaves and the owner starts talking to me about the history of cashmere while I’m halfway through the can. I nod. I listen. I let it all soak in.
Bolbam tells me more about his family. I listen. Just like a stranger should.
I’m in the backseat of a rickshaw stuck waiting at a red light. In a flash, a passing sex worker grabs at the Italian charm bracelet on my wrist. The driver barks something sharp at her in Hindi and speeds off like we’re in a getaway scene. She doesn’t nab my bracelet, but she still gets a piece of me — my sleeve’s ripped clean at the seam.
That’s about as good of a morning as you’re gonna get in Delhi.
I end up in the madness of Paharganj market, where the air smells like incense, fuel, and something vaguely sweet rotting under the sun. I grab breakfast and start drifting through the stalls. I shoot some landmarks. Eventually, the Red Fort lures me in — big, beautiful, and ominous in that way that old stone monuments usually are. I pull out the long lens and take a few shots of its blood-red walls.
Then I see it — a half-dead ferris wheel lurking behind the fort like the ghost of a traveling circus. Rusted. Swaying. Daring me.
Of course I buy a ticket. The kid running it — because yeah, he’s a kid, maybe thirteen — barely looks up as I step into the rattling deathtrap. No cage. No bar. Just metal and gravity.
We go around three times. Every creak sounds like a last breath. The whole thing shakes like it’s trying to decide whether to kill me or not. When I step off, I contemplate kissing the ground for a brief moment.
I wander downtown Delhi for a while. Nothing really makes sense, and that’s fine. Then I hear it — a shout from a rickshaw driver. He calls himself Bolbam. Everything in me says don’t trust him. But something else says, I should. I give him a chance.
He offers a tour, says he’ll take me to the good spots, and get me food. I nod. Let’s see where the day takes me.
He takes me to a spot to eat jalebi — fried, sticky, and sweet. It’s daring you to have a heart attack. He tells me about his family and where he grew up. I tell him about my life back in NYC. I ask if there are any bars nearby. I want to try a local beer.
He smiles and tells me he can get me a beer. “I know a guy.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
We end up in a jewelry shop. I stare at necklaces for twenty minutes, mostly to kill time. I find one I like. It’s got a worn, handmade feel to it. Feels honest. I pay in cash. The owner invites me behind the curtain, shows me the tools they use to make their pieces. I hold a piece of raw gold in my hands. I feel like Howard Ratner as he hands me jewels and precious metals to feel. He starts talking about the concept of karma like he's got a PhD in it. I hear him out and find the goodness in his advice on living with purpose. He tells me his wife loves orchids. He buys them every year for their anniversary. He smiles when he says it. I respect that. I always respect a romantic.
Bolbam’s friend shows up — the guy with the beer. He’s got two suspicious bulges in the sides of his gray shorts. No prizes for guessing what they are. Bolbam leans in and whispers that we’ll drink them at a private place nearby. Of course we will.
In India, drinking is technically only allowed in proper bars and hotels. There are none close by so we'll have to drink these beers illegally in the backroom of a fabric store.
The fabric store is a hole in the wall. Dingy. Faded. Exactly right. We duck into the backroom and spot the owner who's mid-transaction with a local woman. Bolbam's friend leaves. We crack open the two lukewarm beers like we’re part of some secret society. The woman doesn't care. She's got her full attention focused on to the clothing item she's about to buy. She makes her purchase and leaves and the owner starts talking to me about the history of cashmere while I’m halfway through the can. I nod. I listen. I let it all soak in.
Bolbam tells me more about his family. I listen. Just like a stranger should.
