Day 190 – Working my way back to Delhi, India – 8:14 AM

I am currently nine hours in to a twelve-hour overnight train ride from Jodhpur to Delhi.  This stint in Delhi will be my third over the previous four weeks.  My first stop in the capital of India occurred after my brief stay in Agra.  I remained in Delhi for three days and took in a few of the sights: Jama Masjid, one of the largest Mosques in India, built in the mid-17^th century and Raj Ghat, a memorial erected on the spot where Mahatma Gandhi was cremated in 1948. My second stop in Delhi occurred after I departed Manali.  I needed to layover in Delhi for one night before I traveled west to Jaipur.  That lone night turned out to be very exciting as I planned to attend a Delhi Daredevils cricket match against the Gujarat Lions.  During my research for this round-the-world adventure, I learned that a true way to experience a culture is to attend a sporting event.  Luckily, the stars aligned and the Indian Premier League’s schedule was drafted in my favor.

The match was scheduled to begin at 8pm at Feroz Shah Kotla Cricket Stadium, a short rickshaw ride from my accommodation in the Paharganj neighborhood.  I did not pre-purchase a ticket instead hoping to acquire a scalped ticket outside the stadium.  I needed to factor in enough time to locate a ticket and contend with rush-hour traffic that smothers the city every afternoon. I decided to leave for the stadium at 5:30 PM.  In hindsight, I am glad I did.

After an early dinner, I descended to the lobby with my camera slung over my shoulder.  In the past I have been turned away from attractions because cameras are not allowed. I asked the receptionist if cameras were allowed in the stadium.  He smiled and nodded.  I proceeded through the double doors and into the street.  I turned right and hailed a rickshaw within minutes.

My driver spoke broken English and understood where I wanted to go.  After being quoted a fair price, I hopped in the back and he crank-started the engine.  We took off from the side street and turned right onto a main road that proceeded in a southeasterly direction.  Brake lights welcomed us and our progress slowed dramatically.  My driver weaved around traffic when able and we slowly worked south.

The lights from the stadium eventually appeared in the distance.  My driver turned and suggested it quicker to walk the remaining blocks rather then continue in the slow crawl of the traffic.  I noticed others walking in the direction of the stadium and decided he was right.  I paid him his fare and stepped out of the rickshaw.  I weaved between buses and cars and avoided the occasional reckless motorbike.  After bounding across two large intersections I arrived outside the stadium.

A large chain-linked fence provided a perimeter and police officers provided a certain sense of security.  I asked around for an available ticket.  Those I asked either did not understand, pretended not to understand or acted as if I was trying to uncover state secrets.  Individuals that fell into that last category looked at me with shock in their eyes, shielded their children from me and moved away in a hurried manner.  Maybe buying a ticket on the street is highly forbidden in India.

Eventually someone pointed me back in the direction I came.  He instructed me to visit a certain cafe that sold tickets.  I risked life and limb re-crossing the two major intersections and slowly walked up and down a few local roads.  My head swiveled from side-to-side looking for anything related to cricket or tickets.

No luck.

Growing frustrated, I decided to take my problem to the top.  I approached a police vehicle and with a smile asked the plain-clothed officers inside where I could find a ticket.  The officer in the driver’s seat stepped from the vehicle and put his hands on his hips as he looked from side to side.  I could tell the gears in his head were turning.  He pointed in the direction of the stadium.  After I informed him that individuals outside the stadium pointed me to my current location, he continued to point back towards the stadium.  My hope of watching a cricket game was quickly fading.

I walked back across the intersections to the perimeter chain-linked fence.  I proceeded down a sidewalk ready to give up.  I noticed a few police officers in the distance and figured they were my last hope.  They looked at me quizzically and bantered back and forth for a few moments.  Just then a man my age approached. He looked at me and then spoke to the officers.

“You need a ticket?” He asked in my direction.

“Yeah! Do you have one?”  I responded with a renewed sense of hope.

He nodded and I followed him down the sidewalk.  It turned out he was an employee at the stadium. I’ll refer to him as Employee 1.  He arrived for work late that evening and his boss told him to go home.  As he left the stadium, he saw me across the street and decided to walk over.  He informed me a co-worker, Employee 2, from inside the stadium could get me a ticket.  We walked a bit further and then waited.  And waited. And waited.  By now it was after 7pm.  I’m glad I arrived early.  Employee 1 asked why I did not reserve a ticket in advance.  I told him that I assumed there would be an abundance of tickets available on the street.  After all, I am from America where ticket scalping is a national past time.  He told me it was not the same in India.

We moved from corner to corner and he answered and dialed several telephone calls.  Again, it felt like we were committing some grave act and the military were likely to swoop in at any moment.  All I’m trying to do is buy a ticket to a cricket match.  Eventually Employee 2 appeared, ticket in hand.  I pulled out 500 Rupees ($7.50 USD) and handed it to Employee 2.  Employee 1 quickly pushed my hand away.  Apparently this trade needed to imitate an exchange you would normally watch on a surveillance video of a drug transaction.

Either way, I had my ticket.  I noticed the face value was 150 Rupees ($2.25 USD). That 233% markup made me feel like I was back on Lansdowne Street scalping Sox tickets. I breathed a sigh of relief and proceeded towards Gate 17.  I showed my ticket to the first agent and he waved me to the security checkpoint.  I walked forward expecting to breeze through the metal detectors without a problem.   A security officer stopped me and indicated cameras are not allowed inside the stadium.  Are you kidding me?  This is why I specifically asked before leaving my hotel.

I begged and pleaded with the guard.  No Go.  I tried to bribe him.  No dice.  I knew the gridlock in the city streets would not permit me to return to my hotel, secure the camera and make it inside the stadium before the opening bowl (or “first pitch” for all you baseball fans).  The security guard told me to leave it with a friend outside the stadium. I told him I was alone and had no friends.  My frustration grew; I was just over charged for a scalped ticket that I spent an hour trying to acquire and now I am denied access because of my camera.  The guard sensed my frustration and told me that rules are rules.  I completely understood his position and my frustration was not geared towards him at all.

I turned around and walked away from the security checkpoint. Yup, my cricket game is toast. Looks like it’ll be an early night.  I turned left into an alley that ran from the stadium to the main road.  The same main road I covered for an hour trying to secure a ticket.  Water and food vendors lined the alley selling products to stadium-goers.  I could not hide the disappointment from my face.  Off to my right I heard “hey, you can’t bring that camera in the stadium!”

I looked over.  “I know,” I responded.

“Leave it with me in my house.  I promise it will be secure,” the elderly man replied.

A million scenarios ran through my mind in that moment.  I could go back to my hotel and sulk for the rest of the night.  I could leave it with him and never see it again.  I could leave it with him, watch a great cricket game, retrieve it after and have a story for the ages.  I decided to hear him out.

I turned and followed him through a series of alleys until we walked into his small home.  Inside were his wife, daughter and two granddaughters.  Ok, he had a family.  That’s a ✔ in the “honest, good-guy” category.  His house looked secure and he promised me the camera would be safe.  I partially relied on the skills I picked up in my previous profession to judge his truthfulness.  He appears trustworthy.  I decided to leave my camera in his hands and hope for the best.

He handed me a slip of paper with his name and number and told me to return after the game.  I thanked him and went to hand him 500 Rupees.  He pushed my hand away and told me to wait until after the game.  I was glad he noticed me wanting to give him money.  I was hoping he thought, “Ok, this kid has money and will pay to have his camera secured.”  I liken it to paying a valet driver on the way into a parking garage.  Grease his palm so your car is returned in one piece at the end of the night.

The old man handed me a bottle of water as I left.  I thanked him and his family and walked out with my fingers crossed and nerves running through my body.  I proceeded back to Gate 17, was waved to the security checkpoint and went to walk through the metal detector camera-less.  The same security guard stopped me again.  He smiled and said bottled water from outside the stadium was not permitted within.   Every hurdle I cross just brings about another hurdle.  Traffic, tickets, cameras, WATER!!!  I smiled, laughed and told the guard I doubted I would make it inside at all that night.  It drew smiles and chuckles from him and his coworkers.  I guzzled the water and walked inside.  Over two hours had elapse since I left my accommodation. I slapped the guard a high five and continued towards my seat.

Prior to the match I had a very slight understanding of the rules and objectives of cricket. However, three individuals sitting nearby filled me in on the rest. In short, the field of play is a large grass circle. Within that circle is a long rectangle. At each end of the rectangle are three sticks, 1-2 feet high, that rise from the ground. These are known as wickets and a batter protects each set. Opposing the batter is a bowler, who pitches a ball, on one bounce, towards the batter. The pitcher’s goal is to bounce the ball into the wickets. The batter’s objective is to hit the ball into the field of play. Teammates of the pitcher are placed throughout the field of play to record outs. Depending on where the ball lands in the field of play runs are recorded for the batter’s team. Unlike American baseball where teams alternate batting every inning, in cricket, Team A will bat until all their outs are recorded. The sides will switch and Team B will then bat until all their outs are recorded. Once each team bats, the match is over. That is merely a brief overview and a full in-depth description is something I cannot provide because that is all I remember.

By the end of the night, I was standing and cheering alongside lifelong fans of cricket. Gujarat batted first and scored over 170 runs. I asked my seatmates and they informed me it is not uncommon to have a score this high. Delhi batted last and quickly collected a number of outs without scoring a handful of runs. However, Delhi’s batters overcame their slow start and pulled to within ten runs of Gujarat on a number of “homeruns”. In cricket, these are known as “sixes” because the batting team is awarded six runs per “homerun”. Delhi continued to mount a comeback and the match was a nail biter that came down to the final bowls. Unfortunately, my Delhi Daredevils failed to secure a late victory and lost 172-171 in heartbreaking fashion.

After the final out, I waved bye to my seatmates and raced out of the stadium. It was after 11:30pm and I was worried the keeper of my camera was likely in bed. I snaked my way through the alleys and came to his front door. I gently knocked and moments later it opened. He’s still awake!! He invited me inside and motioned for me to sit. His wife sat nearby and his granddaughters were sound asleep in bed. He walked to a nearby cabinet and retrieved my camera. It’s still here! And in one piece! He sat next to me watching the postgame coverage. He appeared frustrated at Delhi’s loss. Sports teams disregard your culture, class and nationality. The majority of the time they will leave you a frustrated, broken hearted fan. He instructed me to check the camera over and make sure my battery and SD card were accounted for. Everything appeared normal and I reached back into my wallet for 500 Rupees. I handed over the cash and thanked him for pulling me out of a tough spot earlier in the evening. He smiled and bid me farewell.

I walked back to the main thoroughfare and eventually hailed a rickshaw back to my accommodation. It was after midnight at this point and I had a 6am train to catch the following morning bound for Jaipur and my final two weeks in India.

 

* Additional photographs from Delhi are viewable within the India Portfolio section found on the Perpetual Footsteps homepage.  I depart India in less than 24 hours and I am officially caught up on all my delayed posts.  I cut it to the wire but I did it!  Bring on Europe!!