Lost in the Moonlit Market - Chandni Chowk, Delhi

We were lost; hopelessly lost in Chandni Chowk in Delhi, in a sensory overload of night-time noise and colour.

We had arrived at the “moonlit market” in the hot, dusty afternoon. Shopkeepers were sitting in the languid shade of their doorways, sipping chilled lassi with their neighbours. Customers were scarce, waiting for the cool of the evening. Screeching macaques chased each other across the rooftops.

In the textile area, steep wooden steps led to a cornucopia of saris and fabrics of every colour and pattern. Bolts of jewel-bright silk were being unrolled across the floor. They billowed like parachutes, before settling in flowing rivers of emerald and cerise.

Mr Rajdeep, the owner, sent his son for cups of sweet milky chai and we listened to his artful flattery.

Leaving with soft cashmere shawls, we descended to the street as dusk was turning to night. We retraced our steps along narrow lanes and alleyways, now crammed with shoppers and hawkers.

There were silversmiths, stalls offering falooda and tiny shops selling marbled paper. Electrical shops flashed with strings of garish lights and the streets became a swirl of bangles, sandals and spices.

The syrup-sweet aroma from a stall selling jalebi was merging with the pungent smell of rotting vegetables and a smoky scent of incense. A discordant symphony of horns competed with music blaring through tinny speakers. Dodging a relentless stream of handcarts and porters with swaying loads, I heard a call to prayer, and quickly said one of my own.

As we passed the same bookshop for the third time, I admitted defeat. Then, at a corner, a gangly teenager stopped me. “Rickshaw, ladies?”

Introducing himself as Vishal, he promised that his bicycle was nearby. He led us quickly through the alleys, winding skilfully between shoppers and meandering cows. In our haste to keep up, I didn’t notice he had taken us down a tiny unlit lane. I paused, my heart lurching. He turned and beckoned. We kept going on blind trust, my sandal squelching in something soft.

Minutes later, we were outside the market and balanced precariously on the narrow rickshaw seat. As we gripped our flimsy carrier bags of bounty, Vishal struggled gamely with his bulky cargo, swerving between buses, lorries and smoke-spewing tuk-tuks.


Then, without warning, he stopped at a huge junction and refused to go any further. He explained, with an emphatic head shake and a crooked smile, that he was not allowed to ride into New Delhi and he had to drop us there.

Diving across 16 lanes of traffic, we found a restaurant. After a bowl of tarka daal and two cold beers, we stepped back out into the street clutching our map. We walked to the corner and turned to each other with a shrug. For a map to work you have to know your starting point.

We were still hopelessly lost.

Copyright: M Huggins 2011