Rathore, who hails from the hamlet of Padampura in the state of Rajasthan, needed little time to introduce the stark contrast between India’s past and what it hopes to become. He had only to take us through
New Delhi, the country’s capital and most identifiable city, to make his point.
There, a population of roughly 16 million means nearly constant traffic gridlock set against the backdrop of gorgeous monuments, each with a prominent spot on the country’s time line. This includes the towering Qutab Minar tower, which dates to 1193; the massive
India Gate, near the government buildings; and the nearly 500-year-old tomb complex of Humayun, where my son’s aforementioned encounter with the country’s omnipresent house bats occurred.
Intersected by the languid Yamuna River,
Delhi represents a unique snapshot of the modern and ancient that, together, define India. Throughout the city, architecture that dates back to the era of the Mughal Empire (which dates from 1526 to 1858) is situated alongside the new glass-and-steel structures that dominate the skyline.
In recent years, the country’s government has invested thousands in manpower and budget to preserve India’s links to its past. More than 3,600 sites, many in and around the Golden Triangle, have been declared national monuments. Improvements designed for tourists are continually under way.
“Once the visitor arrives at a monument, we want to give him all the facilities he requires so that his stay is comfortable and educational,” says Ashok Kumar Sinha, the country’s director of monuments.
No site does a better job of this than the breathtaking Red Fort in Delhi. The facility, surrounded by a wall that stretches nearly a mile and a half, was the residence of the country’s last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar II, and the rallying point for some of the factions in the Revolt of 1857. Several notable demonstrations during India’s decades-long drive for independence from the British also took place here, and the fort offers an inextricable clash of old and new — including bearded ascetics wandering past noisy merchant booths and young Indians in polo shirts and jeans.
Our particular visit to the fort was followed by a ride through the clamorous streets and alleys of Old Delhi in a tattered, creaking bicycle rickshaw (called a “trishaw” by the locals).
For a full half hour, as squawking city kites — large black birds — circled overhead, our trishaw driver worked to navigate beggars, peddlers, three-wheeled taxis, goats, dogs, marketplace shoppers, and craggy, weathered streets that hadn’t seen repair in a century or more.