Is it ironic to forget about an encounter with elephants? I did: yesterday we found the temple’s 3 pet elephants. I fed one and was “blessed,” aka it touched me on the head with a surprisingly creepy snout, by another, but it obviously did nothing to improve my memory.
Today is a late start then a long lunch with the Rajendrans. They’ve made the food extra spicy for Steve and I, the 2 white guys. I eat until I’m full and then have some more.
The afternoon’s a mixture of Delhi tourism and sleep. The sights are nothing too special: Humayun’s tomb is a large grave, the lotus temple looks like a big lotus flower, and I’ll let you guess what color Red Fort is.
A highlight happens as I look for a bathroom at Humayun’s tomb. I’m about to settle for a semi-public fencepost when I see a small, dirty man sitting on the sidewalk playing a flute. There’s a round box before him; as I near, I see a cobra emerge! Because I’m a nice guy and needed a photographer, I get Steve out of the car before returning to wear one of the cobras, which I’m repeatedly ensured “no bite, no bite!,” as a necklace. It’s smaller than last India trip’s python, but this one’s creepier: I saw one of the dude’s snakes strike towards him, and I don’t even have a flute to entertain the slithery thing. Proving that everything’s negotiable, I pay 20 rupees (~$.40) when the bum asks for 200 post-snake-sporting. We walk quickly away, frequently checking to ensure nothing and nobody is slithering after us.
My biggest problem in India has been that my stomach’s too small for how tasty this food is. Dinner at Bhakara, one of the “top 50” restaurants in the world and supposedly Clinton’s favorite eats in Delhi, is certainly no exception. We’re with Mr. and Mrs. Ahuja; although they own the 2nd biggest textiles operation in India and are definitely worth at least 100s of millions, they dress and act as relaxed as anybody else. I’m exhausted by the gluttonous quantity I consume, so I’m asleep before we’re even back to Anahita’s and back to sleep as I hit my mattress.