The Five Senses
“What is meditation? Meditation is controlling the five senses.”
Varun educates us as we are standing in an aged Hindu temple surrounded by ornate statues of Hindu gods and goddesses. Varun is our gracious guide for the day, but in his endearing words, “I am not your guide. I am your local friend.” We are on the ultimate food tour, exploring the heart of Old Delhi, and I’m having a very hard time controlling my five senses. In fact, my senses are on the edge of complete combustion.
Taste.
We are watching a plump man sitting next to an oversized pan filled with bubbling oil. His large hands roll the dough into perfectly circular shapes, like he’s done these balletic motions a million times, and he has. He nonchalantly throws the doughy discs into the oil, and they sizzle, float, and puff up like blowfish. He removes the freshly fried Puri bread and they cool for a few moments before being doused with a potato curry bursting with cumin, coriander, turmeric, and cardamom spices. Jeremy and I bring this ingenious concoction of seasonings to our lips for the first time and no words follow, only the absurdly approving sound we both simultaneously hum, “Mmm.” It is the bulkiest party in the mouth, fireworks of flavors and textures, and the scalding chili spice makes our noses run and our lips tingle.
Touch.
It’s only 8:45 in the morning and the heat sears through our pores; dry, blistering air scorching our skin and thickly coating the insides of our throats with every step. It is nearly 100 degrees already. We are being baked, fried, and barbecued all at once. I can feel droplets of sweat pooling at the center curve of my shoulder blades and then tauntingly making its way down to my lower back, tickling my spine along the way. I breathe deeply, and even though we cannot escape this sweltering oven, I am happy to be roasting right smack in the middle of it.
See.
Men everywhere. Everywhere. It seems for every 200 men I see on the streets, there’s only one woman, and always dressed in a sari. Striking colors of oranges, reds, and pinks pierce through the grayish, chaotic, and masculine painting before me. I blatantly stick out as a Western woman. I feel glaring, aggressive stares that never turn away and I’m uncomfortable. My unease begins to taper off as the day continues, but I cannot fully shake how such boldly intrusive curiosity from strange men makes me feel. It is a very unfamiliar and disturbing sensation. We are discovering the subdued mood of the hidden, darkened alleyways for a few, brief moments before returning back to the pandemonium of the main streets of Old Delhi.
Smell.
It is the biggest spice market in Asia. I detect the bleeding trails of scents from several blocks away. I’m taken aback by a mixture of distinct Indian flavors that perfume the air with such intensity and fervor, my nose is existing on an entirely new level of alertness. Curries of every kind, green and black cardamom seeds, turmeric powder, cinnamon bark, nutmeg, and cloves permeate the thick Delhi air. Saffron reigns as the crème de la crème, holding the title as the most expensive spice in the world. I wish I could buy every spice here and take it home with me, but alas, living out of a backpack has its limitations. We cross through the chili spices, ground up so finely, they linger in the air like a land mine, undetected and least expecting. Jeremy and I break into coughing fits, eyes watering, and it’s hard to catch our breath in such a fury of chili-infused oxygen.
Hear.
There’s nothing tranquil about this place. You want to sit under the serene shadow of a tree and meditate with an undisturbed peace of mind? Not here, my friend. Horns blast off like a song that’s stuck in your head all day long, harsh shouts from men loud-mouthing on the streets, the desperate voices of crippled beggars asking you for money, the racket of handmade foods being plated on the edges of streets, the fiery sparks of blow torches detonating at construction sites, the patter of the hooves of tired horses pulling cargo, throat hacking and spitting on every corner... HOLY SHIT. It is a full-scale cacophony of mind-numbing proportions.
