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Illustration by Alex Siklos
Our 48-hour layover in Delhi was a cruel and unusual tease. How’s anyone supposed to explore this massive city in two days? So my husband and I did something we rarely do: nothing. We did no research. We figured we’d sleep off the jet lag, order too much room service, and hope to make it back to India before too long. The plan was to have no plans.
I spent the drive from the airport to the hotel paralyzed with exhaustion. As I watched Delhi’s unique brand of chaotic-magic unfold, my vacant stare couldn’t help but be roused. I knew deep down that our idea to do nothing was pretty much the worst idea ever. After a quick online search, we decided to check out a craft store near the hotel in the morning. Simple, right?
The next day, we were greeted by a mob of men at the end of the hotel’s palm-lined driveway.
“There’s a protest. Don’t go that way” explained one of them.
“I see.” I replied, fully prepared to turn around and go eat biryani in bed. But he chimed in …
“Where were you going?”
“The craft store over there.”
“I’m Arjun. I’ll take you to a similar store.”
“Thanks … ” I would normally add, “but no thanks.” But I stopped myself.
“It’s next to my bus stop. Follow me.”
Arjun escorted us to the door of the substitute craft store and went to wait for his ride. Within minutes, we found ourselves in the clutches of a carpet dealer who instinctively sensed our disinclination for haggling. We were hustled, overpaid and assured that the rug would show up in Toronto “sometime soon.” Skeptical we’d ever see the carpet again, we wandered back to the road in the kind of good spirits only retail therapy coupled with delusional jet lag can bring.
“How was it?” Arjun shouted, emerging from a horde of commuters.
“What are you still doing here!?”
“My bus is late. Where are you going now?”
“We have no plans.”
Arjun summoned a nearby tuk tuk driver and instructed us to get in. The control freak in me wanted to back out of this questionable situation, but my intuition stepped in and off we went.
“You will have dosas,” Arjun said. ”This is Mr. Singh.”
Without another word, our impromptu travel agent vanished and our driver led us into a never-to-be-found-again dosa shop. We tried to pay our chauffeur but he beelined it back to his tuk tuk, refusing our rupees. We ate our world class dosas stuffed with perfectly seasoned potato masala in silence, exchanging, “that was weird” looks of confusion.
Slurping the dregs of our lassis, we left the restaurant and decided to head back to the hotel. But before we knew it, Mr. Singh was awkwardly shepherding us back into his tuk tuk. It became clear that we were being gently roped into some kind of a piecemeal tour that we’d pay for later.
“Pashmina,” he asserted.
“Pashmina?” I inquired.
“Pashmina,” he confirmed.
Eventually, Mr. Singh turned down an unmarked alley somewhere in old Delhi’s underbelly. Intrusive thoughts featuring my untimely death popped up as we were ushered into a quasi-dilapidated building. Upon entry, my fears subsided. An older woman began draping me in shawls until deciding on a floral pattern in neutral tones. Did I like it? Not really. Did I buy it? Obviously.
Mr. Singh’s insistence on me having a shawl became clear as we pulled into our next stop where I would need a head covering: Gurudwara Shri Bangla Sahib – his Sikh house of worship.
Mr. Singh was in his element. He took us to the communal dining hall where anyone can eat a free, volunteer-made meal. Mr. Singh put me to work in the kitchen. I awkwardly joined a handful of chatty sari-clad women making chapati. Numerous hand-slaps and sighs of disappointment later, I finally got the hang of it. Sort of. Despite my ineptitude, this impromptu-Indian-bread-making experience felt special – I would have never stumbled upon it myself.
After swinging by Raj Ghat park and the Red Fort, our tour was over. Without instruction, Mr. Singh dropped us at our hotel. Did Arjun mention he found us there? Did he overhear us talking about it? I’ll never know how he figured it out, but after the day’s heavy dose of serendipity, none of this came as a surprise. We happily paid Mr. Singh his reasonable rate for what felt like the most magical shakedown of all time.
Our time in Delhi would have been much less interesting if I had done what I normally do: decline offers from strangers. Saying “no” is rarely a bad idea, but it’s almost always a boring one.
When you say yes, you let the universe do its thing: blow up your plans in the best possible way – even when you don’t have any.
Oh, and our carpet was waiting for us at home.
Krista Raspor lives in Toronto.
