Rajpath

Took a stroll through the heart of New Delhi this morning, taking advantage of the Diwali holiday and Abigail's generous offer to watch Kierahn. I jumped into a rickshaw, still too cautious to drive myself despite having been here nearly five months. Shameful, really, especially considering I drive a beast of an SUV and much of the competition on the roads consists of tiny little rickshaws; but not being sure of the way or where I would park once at my destination, I splurged and paid the 5o rupees ($1.25) for the luxury of being chauferred in one of these little three-wheeled demons.

First stop: India Gate. I'd never been so close to the structure and it was much larger than I expected - a colossal arch of red sandstone inscribed with the names of fallen soldiers, mostly Indian in origin. The public was not permitted to walk under the gate for security reasons, and soldiers patrolled the scene, or, more precisely, boys with guns. They were so young, they looked like they were playing dress-up, except that the guns were real. Whether they were also functional, is an open question. The kids tried to look tough, but it is doubtful they intimidated anyone. After snapping a few photos of one these kid's adorable snarl, I moved on up Rajpath, the principal processional thoroughfare in New Delhi.

The street is lined by tidy open spaces tended by barefoot women and men sweeping the dead leaves and litter. Men dozed under trees. The half-naked child of a sweeper-woman played along the side of the road, scooping sand with a plastic cup as a group of pigeons - and his mother - kept a watchful eye. A few rickshaw-wallas tried to engage me in conversation. Rickshaw drivers who speak good English make me nervous; their language skills give them the ability to more effectively fleece foreigners so I tend to avoid them. I brushed them off rudely and without apology. Traffic was light.

I walked past the National Museum and stopped across the road from Central Secretariat, the imposing structures housing various important government ministries. I took a seat on the grass and happily took photos of the passing traffic, snapping some good shots as Ambassadors, ricksaws, bicycles and scooters paused at the traffic signal. A snake charmer with a python sat down nearby, pestering me for money and shattering my happy solitude. (I wonder how many other countries in the world feauture snake charmers kitty corner to their houses of parliament?) Once again, my discourtesy chased him off.

I continued towards Rashtrapati Bhavan, the former home of the Viceroy and current residence of India's president, walking between the North and South blocks of Central Secreteriat. The buildings are lovely, understated but imposing. By the standards of Indian monuments, they have been very well maintained, although birds nests overflowed from the lamp posts lining the road, the glass casings having disappeared.

Policemen lolled about, some dozing in their trucks, others more alert. A few carried weapons. More useful were the whistles some wore around their necks. These were blown with great frequency and vigor for reasons not always clear. One skinny fellow seemed to have forgotten it was between his lips, his languid toots altogether quite random. Another sharp fellow directed one of his toots at me, effectively stopping me in my tracks before I wandered onto a part of the lawn mere civilians are not permitted to tread. Needless to say, I was impressed with the effectiveness of the whistles.

I strolled about a bit more, then found a rickshaw to take me home. Happily, the driver's English was poor.