Like many of the older sights of Delhi, the Jama Masjid lies in Old Delhi, just off a severely traffic-snarled main artery. Following our walk through Chandni Chowk, we came upon the masjid. It rose from amongst the buildings of the neighborhood as a holdover from another era. Like Madurai's temple, it pushes up against the heavy air and marks itself apart. One you climb the stairs, the masjid seems to hold itself steadfast against the rucous below in the streets that surrounds the mosque on all sides.
Wandering the masjid was a welcome respite from the endless walking in the old city. Masses of pigeons and birds danced in tamdem in the air, scared from their bread and seed feast blanketing part of the grounds. The large structure, however omnious from the street below, seemed inadequate for the city around it. It's narrow prayer space pressed aggressively against the mirhab. Soft carpets covered the floors where the devout read their passages at peace.
Yet, in India, it is always what tends to surprise. Ajay's eyes twinkled suddenly and his camera flipped open. The lens pointed to a sight even Westerners would look at aghast. Perhaps the clothing had shrunk or maybe he just didn't know, but directly in front and preserved digitally for the ages was the worst offense of low hanging pants I have ever seen. The man's pants, as he sat on the floor with his legs spread to the side, were practically exposing his whole backside to the Muslim community of Delhi. Ajay giggled. My jaw fell. Sensing our mixture of fascination and disbelief, a well-intentioned cleric rushed over and scolded the tourist in plain, urgent English. I think it said "Pull up those pants now or go." Confused, the man stood, did as he was instructed. The tourist ended up in the corner for his time there.
