to the porte cochere and told a Mercedes would soon be up from the garage for her. She was also told the driver’s name would be Ranjeet Basoka and that the Sikh doormen had been informed and would direct her to the right vehicle.
As she stood waiting for the hired car to appear, she amused herself by observing the mix of nationalities, but in so doing she didn’t make particular note of a man dressed in black with several gold chain necklaces exit the hotel, weave his way through the crowd, and climb into a black Mercedes. Nor did she notice that the man did not start the car but merely sat in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Would you Care for more coffee?” the waiter asked.
“No, thank you,” Neil said. He folded the newspaper he’d been given, stood up, and stretched. The breakfast had been terrific. The buffet had been one of the most extensive he’d ever seen, and he’d tried just about everything. Having already signed the check, he walked out into the busy lobby, wondering what his plan should be. Catching sight of the concierge desk, he thought he’d start there.
It took a while before it was his turn. “I’m a guest in the hotel . . .” he began.
“Of course,” Lakshay said. “You are Sahib Neil McCulgan, I presume.”
“How did you know my name?”
“When I arrive in the morning, if there’s time, I try to acquaint myself with the new guests. Sometimes I’m wrong, but usually I’m right.”
“Then you must be aware of Miss Jennifer Hernandez.”
“Absolutely. Are you an acquaintance?”
“I am. She doesn’t know I’m here. It’s sort of a surprise.”
“Just a moment,” Lakshay said as he rushed out from behind the desk. “Wait here,” he added, as he ran out the door.
Bewildered, Neil watched him though the glass as he made a beeline to one of the colorfully dressed doormen. They had a quick conversation, and then Lakshay ran back inside. He was slightly out of breath. “Sorry,” he said to Neil. “Miss Hernandez was just here two minutes ago. I thought maybe I could catch her, but she just got into her car.”
Neil’s face brightened. “She was just here at the concierge desk a few minutes ago?”
“Yes. She asked for some recommendations for sightseeing. We sent her to Old Delhi’s Red Fort, the Jama Masjid mosque, and the Delhi bazaar, with lunch possibly at a restaurant called Karim’s.”
“In that order.”
“Yes, so I believe you could catch her at the Red Fort if you hurry.”
Neil started for the hotel exit when the second concierge called out, “She’s using a hotel car. A black Mercedes. Ask the transportation manager its tag number. It might be useful.”
Neil nodded and waved that he’d heard, then headed to the transportation desk, got the vehicle tag number and the mobile number of the driver, and then rushed out to snare a taxi.
Jennifer Was instantly grateful she’d allowed the concierge to talk her into hiring a hotel car for her outing. Once she was nestled within the muffled air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes, it was like being on a different planet, compared with either the auto rickshaw or the regular taxi. For the first fifteen minutes she enjoyed gazing out at the spectacle of the Indian streets with their fantastic collection of conveyances, crush of people, and admixture of animals, from restive monkeys to bored cows. She even saw her first Indian elephant.
The driver, Ranjeet, was dressed in a fitted, carefully pressed dark blue uniform. Although he spoke English, his accent was so strong Jennifer found it hard to understand him. She tried to make an effort as he pointed out various landmarks, but she eventually gave up and resorted to merely nodding her head and saying things like “Very interesting” or “That’s wonderful.” Eventually, she opened her guidebook and turned to the section dealing with the Red Fort. After a few minutes the driver noticed her concentration on the book and fell silent.
For almost a half-hour she read about the architecture and some of the fort’s history to the point of being unaware of the traffic or their route. Nor was she aware of two cars that were following hers: one a white Ambassador, and the other a black Mercedes. At times these trailing cars were very close, especially when they all stopped for a red light or backed-up traffic. At other times they were quite far away but never out of sight.
“We’ll soon be seeing the Red Fort on the right,” Ranjeet said, “just beyond this traffic light.”
Jennifer looked up from her reading, which had switched from the Red Fort to the Jama Masjid. What she immediately noticed was that Old Delhi was significantly more crowded than New Delhi, with both people and conveyances, especially more cycle rickshaws and animal-drawn carts. There was also more trash and debris of all sorts. Plus, there was also more activity, such as people getting shaves or haircuts, medical treatment, fast food, massages, their ears cleaned, clothes cleaned, shoes repaired, and teeth filled—all in the open, with very little equipment. All the barber had was a chair, a tiny cracked mirror, a few implements, a bucket of water, and a large rag.
Jennifer was mesmerized. Everything about living life that was secreted away behind closed doors in the West was being done out in the open. For Jennifer, it was visual overload. Every time she glimpsed an activity and wanted to question her driver what people were doing or why they were doing it in the open, she saw something else more surprising.
“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.”
