Indian capital's best-recognised monument

New Delhi's historic Lal Qila, or the Red Fort I am in the markets of Delhi's Old City, hands on hips, tapping my foot tensely and wondering why it takes a village to make anything happen in India. The map that describes my destination seems clear enough to me, if only I knew where the described landmarks are, but to the six, now seven, and here comes an eighth person, to be roped in to figure it out it seems incredibly unclear. Thus far eight people - now nine, his brother has arrived - are gathered around me, trying to decipher where I am going, while a further half dozen are peering over their shoulders, onlookers yet involved. When an 11th man arrives, he confidently takes my hand and leads me through a throng of people, only to return me to the road I was already on and point, with confident finality, to the Jama Masjid in the distance.
"That's where I came from," I say tightly, and return to the throng.
It didn't start like this. The day before, I stayed with a family in the new part of Rajendar Nagar, in the leafy west of the city. Late into the night I sat with a gregarious man with an MBA, who had decorated his home with statues of Ganesha, the elephant-headed Hindu deity, discussing the similarity between the "om" incantation Hindus believe is the life-sound of the universe and the "amen/amin" affirmation Christians and Muslims use in their prayers. The smell of incense was in the air: I leaned back in my chair and looked up from this mini-garden in the middle of New Delhi and pondered in how many cities such an eclectic conversation on business and religion could be the norm.
Now I know. I am searching for directions to a business and I am repeatedly invoking God.
Getting to this point is the easy part. I spend the morning at Lal Qila, the Red Fort, a fortress built by the 17th-century Mughal emperor Shah Jahan, who also built the Jama Masjid, two of the city's most recognisable monuments. (Though Shah Jahan is better remembered for giving the world the Taj Mahal, south of the city in Agra.)
The Red Fort doesn't disappoint. I first glimpse it through the crowds of Chandni Chowk, the long and busy market that runs perpendicular to it, squatting majestically in the distance, the sandstone really quite red. Up-close it is organised and spacious; the queues move swiftly, the security is all smiles and pat-downs. Entering via Chatta Chowk, a short, covered bazaar of shops selling clothes and souvenirs, I spend a pleasant half-hour with an old seller, discussing the deities of the Hindu pantheon. It is Diwali - expected this year on October 26 - and he is languorous, keen to talk.
The Red Fort is big - the walls cover around 2.4km - and inside it's easy to imagine life at court. At the northern edge are the royal baths and it is not hard to see a satisfied Shah Jahan spending the afternoon bathing in the hammams after listening to the grievances of his subjects at the diwan-i-am, the hall of public audiences, where disputes were aired. Sitting on the steps of the hall, in the shadow of one of its tall pillars, the gardens stretch out, cooling even at midday.
From the Red Fort, I take a cycle rickshaw and am towed through Chandni Chowk to the Jama Masjid, the largest and most striking mosque in India. Occasionally, Arun, my gregarious if worryingly thin rickshaw wallah, asks me to help him get the rickshaw over a pavement or out of a pothole. He can barely drive the rickshaw without anyone in it and after half an hour of pushing through human and motorised traffic - before we've even reached the turning towards the mosque - guilt overwhelms me and I pay him and walk the rest of the way. I see him struggle back to the beginning, his thin frame standing up to generate enough force to turn the wheels of the cycle.