New Delhi arrived outside our window at about 10.30, + we headed directly to the Amex office, where we had high hopes of having some mail waiting for us. Alas, we were to be disappointed – not even a postcard, let alone the long chatty letters we’d been so looking forward to. But we tucked our disappointment into our backpacks along with everything else that we carry, + continued walking to the Arts Centre Guest House. We were hoping we would simply be able to nod at the caretaker, + get him to open up the cottage for us, but tho’ the caretaker + his assistant were amiable enough, they had to send us to see the Secretary to obtain official permission. It was not the scatty tea-drinking individual that we had met before, but a lesser official, concerned merely with day-to-day running. As such, he was a far better man for us to see. Our application was accepted within a few mins, + we were happily ensconced in the cottage once again before many more.
After lunch we set off into the city to attempt to sell our camera once again. The safety line that the sale of the watch had given us was just about played out now, with the expense of travelling back down, + once again we were forced to look for funds. We didn’t even have enough to pay for our Iranian visas, should we find them to be ready tomorrow. We went first to the inner circle of Connaught Circus, New Delhi’s true heart, hoping that we would be asked whether we had anything to sell, but there was not a peep out of anyone, so, as much on a hunch of Val’s as on any concrete information, we went down a busy little street opposite New Delhi stn. This was much better. Not only was the street a lot more interesting in itself, but we started to get some positive noises about selling stuff. Of course, we weren’t offered enough, but the 2nd guy we saw, an old photographer, offered Rs3200, not at all a bad amount, + encouraging to the spirits. It encouraged us so much in fact, that from now on we started approaching places, lots of them. There was a lot of interest, tho’ only in a few places was a serious offer made, + none of these bettered 3000.
It was hard work, plodding from shop to shop, + of course we were becoming hungry, so at about 5 we stopped at a small café recommended in the book. I was served a simply vast portion of mashed potato with beans + eggs. While I was still steadily demolishing it, Val went back to see a young guy in a shop who had promised to take us to a friend of his, a doctor, who would “definitely” want to buy the camera. To Val’s surprise, the young man had not been lying, + she was taken to see a doctor who had no interest in the camera as he already had one. He was, however, on the lookout for a lady’s watch, for his wife, so Val showed him ours, with which he seemed reasonably impressed, + not put off by the price of 800. Unfortunately, his wife was not there to have a look at it, so he asked Val to come back later. This was awkward, as we had determined to go to a sarod recital back at the Arts Centre. (A sarod, by the way, as we had discovered on our walk round today, is an instrument like a sitar, but without frets.) So we hedged, + said maybe.
In fact, it was already going to be very difficult to get to the Concert Hall in time, as it was now 6, + the recital began at 6.30. We refused to take an auto-rickshaw, of course, + really, we were getting to the stage where we couldn’t afford such a thing – so we set off at a furious march, back the mile and a half or so. We arrived at the theatre just in time to hear 3 bells sounding, signalling to the audience outside that the performance was just beginning. So we raced up the steps, + pounded over to the Box Office to buy 2 of the cheapest tickets. We were then ushered hurriedly into a passage, + then a lift. Curiously, it went up, not down, while I was sure that the recital had been advertised for the Basement. My nascent fears were realised when, peeking around the door toward which we were being bustled, we saw the performance had indeed begun – it was a modern play, in Hindi. With some difficulty, we forced our way back past some other latecomers. I could not believe that we had rushed all this way only to buy tickets for the wrong event.
But if this was pantomime, the rest was melodrama, when the box office attendant refused to give us our money back. To make things even worse, we discovered that the Sarod recital was going on at this very moment, in the basement, + that it was free! Obviously, it was silly that we should both miss the concert, but we simply couldn’t afford to give up Rs10, so after a brief wrangle, Val descended, while I stayed at the Box Office window. The young man on the other side of the glass was quite immovable, despite all my arguments. A simple refund was “impossible” – I would have to wait until someone else arrived to buy seats, + for the same price. Since the play was now a quarter of an hour old, I thought it pretty unlikely, but after 5 or 10 mins a small posse of different groups came in, one of whom – the last to be served, naturally – was buying tickets at Rs5 a throw. Mine were taken by the young man, I rec’d my refund, + rushed down to see the rest of the concert.
The music turned out to be the very thing to soothe my savaged nerves, intricate yet flowing. There were 2 musicians – a very young man on sarod, a slightly older man on the table, + they seemed, to my completely untutored ear, well-attuned to each other’s rhythms + moods, for it was entirely improvisational. Generally they played together, tho’ sometimes their rhythms were deliberately syncopated, sometimes the sarod would play long stretches alone, but the bits I enjoyed most had a rock frenzy to them. Not everyone enjoyed it all as much as we did, for there was much wandering in + out, but such is one of the perils of a free concert.
We had decided to return to the Bazaar after the concert, being so desperately short of money that we felt we should try any possible opening. It meant another long walk, of course, another 2, counting the return, + galling, when we were so close to home, + so tired. But needs must. We thought it best to let Val handle it alone once again, so I went to the café again to wait for them. When she finally arrived, her face was so dejected that I thought we’d blown out completely, so I was relieved to discover she had sold it for 450. Not as much as we’d hoped for, it’s true, but more than we would have accepted at rock-bottom. It meant that we had a bit more breathing-space, time perhaps to get just a bit more for the camera. We plodded home once more happy enough.
Tis a wearisome business, all this desperate selling (but absolutely necessary, to get us home!) And all the more irritating when it intrudes on a piece of culture that was actually most enjoyable. But needs must, and we do seem to be acquiring some much-needed funds.
