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April 2007—Delhi

After a gruelling six months writing my MBA dissertation, with my head bursting with "trajectories of sustaining innovation" and "overshot performance dimensions" and a lot more such twaddle, I needed a holiday that would, in computer speak, do a "hard reboot" on my brain. Fortunately, Nigel, our man in Delhi, was about to head off to the Himalayas to explore one of India's fascinating backwaters called Sikkim, which lies at the crossroads of Nepal, India, and Bhutan, with Tibet's exotic influence spilling down from the Himalayan plateau above. In the end we spent the whole of my two-week stay on the edge of Sikkim in Darjeeling in West Bengal, a state which curiously rambles from the Ganges Delta all the way up to the Himalayas.

But I'm getting ahead of myself—first to Delhi to meet up with Nigel.

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Jet Airways proved a good choice	Nigel's backside	Nigel's place: very comfy!

Nigel had arranged a posh taxi to pick me up from the airport so that I wouldn't have to face any strenuous cultural experiences on first arrival. He explained that the driver would navigate to the vicinity of his place, wind down the window and bark at people for directions about three times, driving in decreasing circles until he finally found his place in the higgledy piggledy of addresses within the gated suburb called "S-Block". This went off eerily according to script, requiring exactly three sets of directions, as predicted. The last of these came from a cheery trio who gestured to the street behind their house and chorused "Backside!"

Nigel's friend Mari let me in and I sat chatting with her for a couple of hours until the jet lag kicked in and I inadvisedly went for a siesta. When Nigel got home from his last day of work we went out for Indian Italian food (think spicy tomoto sauce on a fluffy pizza base) then a beer in a trendy bar where the DJ (like DJs everywhere) took his duties as impediment to conversation all too seriously, which saw us off home for an early night that I whiled away to the whine of a mosquito and the fulminations of an impressive electrical storm.

Nigel took me sightseeing around the city by autorickshaw the next day. Delhi swarms with these little green and yellow deathtraps that will whisk you across town for under a pound (or under half that if you haggle confidently)—usually alive and intact, and, now that they have been converted en-masse to gas power, without choking you on two-stroke oil fumes.

The first of many white-knuckle rides	Overexposed in an autorickshaw	Our Sikkim permit in hand

First stop was the Sikkim tourist office. As Sikkim borders three neighbouring countries, India likes to keep tabs on who goes there, and requires foreigners to get a permit even to enter the state. With what Nigel assures me was entirely uncharacteristic efficiency we picked up our permits and headed off to view the splendours of "Lutyens' Delhi".

Inaugurated in 1931, the three great palaces built for the viceroy and his administration atop the gentle Raisina Hill, and the absurdly broad avenue called Rajpath that sweeps down to the immense arch called India Gate are products of the hubris of the British Raj, which did not know that its time was almost spent. When he built it, Lutyens apparently believed that British rule of India would last forever, but in fact these buildings became Britain's legacy to the newly independent country just sixteen years later at independence in 1947.

While Lutyens won the commission to create the Viceroy's Residence, his contemporary Baker was given the two Secretariat Buildings which flank its approach, and if, like me, a visitor feels that Baker's symmetrical palaces steal the thunder of the Viceroy's Residence, which sits a little too far back, largely obscured by the incline, he can be assured that Lutyens thought likewise, and clashed bitterly with Baker on this issue. But Lutyens failed to win enough support, and the resulting architectural terrain embodied the realities of the political topology rather than Lutyens' autocratic ideal.

Baker's South Block fronted by a slightly dilapidated water feature	Lutyens' Viceregal Palace, now Rastrapati Bhavan ("President House") beyond the "Jaipur Column"	...and Baker's North Block

The other striking impression for me was that despite being on a hill, you can see little of Delhi beyond the verdant edges of the Rajpath. There is nothing of the fraternal jostle of buildings on the London skyline, or in fact that of almost any other capital city you could mention. Lutyens' Delhi creates a palpable sense of being at the heart of the almost interminable plain.

Lunatic jogger	Jogging down Rajpath	View towards India Gate

After pausing to watch a lunatic with a walkman who jogged backwards down the middle of the road, turned right at the intersection and continued in reverse down Rajpath, we walked up the hill (forwards) to view the palaces up close. Nigel pointed out to me the inscription on the main entrance to the North Block (left), which you can read by clicking on the image below. It is astonishing to reflect that this bald repudiation of equality and self-determination was made within living memory—and perhaps even more astonishing that the independent India has not excoriated it from the building.

Main entrance to the North Block

Hindustan Ambassadors at Rashtrapati Bhavan. Based on the the 1956 Morris Oxford III, these are still in production and add a lot of charm to India's roads	Liberty will not descend to a people...	Courtesy of a passing Chinese tourist

We walked down Rajpath past some pungent drains to India Gate where I was able to practise my haggling skills with the street hawkers. After a while they got overbearing so we made a strategic withdrawal. As we walked on, past a raving madman who reminded me of one of the crazies back in Camden Town, we discussed the surprising amount of litter strewn around this memorial to the Indian soldiers killed in the First World War. Despite manifestly having great affection for India and Indian people, Nigel unhesitatingly branded it the dirtiest place he has been on his extensive travels. In his opinion the problem is rooted in the caste system. For the majority of India's higher-caste people litter picking, cleaning, and other dirty jobs are - by definition - somebody else's job. With uncanny timing, a smartly-dressed Indian lady illustrated his point by flinging a used packet onto the ground just feet from the large litter bins daubed "USE ME" which she was about to walk past. It would have required of her not one iota more effort to drop the litter in the bin instead.

I was keen to see some of the daily life in Delhi that Nigel is so enjoying, so he took me to a cheap eatery that serves South Indian food, in which the "curries" (for want of a more authentic word) are thinner and more digestible than the rich oily sauces of the Hindustani cuisine of Northern India with which we are more familiar in Britain. The food was great, though the staff, who probably didn't see a lot of European faces in there, were attentive very nearly to the point of sitting on our laps and eating the food for us. They cajoled us to eat the sloppy curries with the fingers of our right hands, though thankfully they provided spoons when we demured. Particularly as there was no soap in the toilet we felt that was a custom better honoured in the breach than the observance.

Next Nigel took me to Connaught Place, known to the locals, who are very fond of abbreviations, as "C.P." Built to resemble the Royal Cresent in Bath, it was intended as the place where memsahibs could shop in style. Typically of circular plans, its elegance is matched only by its inconvenience. Its three concentric rings are now a maze of one-way streets, and its symmetrical parades hide away any particular shop you may be looking for from all but the savviest of locals. The object of our trip was one of Delhi's two outdoor supplies shops. When we eventually found it we discovered it had nothing but the basics, which of course we already had. It's amazing that the capital of a country containing the Himalayas could be so meagrely served with outdoor supplies. Take note if you plan to go trekking in India—take your own kit!

No trouble catching the waiter's eye here!	The BC Building, by Indian Architect Charles Correa	Connaught Place, or "CP"

After another hair-raising ride we arrived at Humayun's tomb, which is described amply by the tablet visible in the picture on the right. As the blue sign at the turnstiles makes clear, foreigners have to pay 25 times as much as locals to enter—that is unless you are a British Council teacher like Nigel, in which case you have diplomatic status technically on a par with the High Commissioner himself, which entitles you to all sorts of things including local prices at tourist attractions. Nobody in the queue saw the attraction in this state of affairs except Nigel of course. The ticket clerk gave him his Indian ticket without a murmur, although the guard at the turnstile ironically observed that we were one foreigner and one Indian. We didn't mind. After 5 years in Japan a little light sarcasm is cause to be grateful.

Even at 25-times the price it's only £3	Some consolation that I didn't get to see the Taj Mahal	Tablet explaining what it's all about

Climbing up to the tomb	A sikh temple visible from Humayun's Tomb	Side view from the gardens

A banyan (?) tree in the park around Humayun's Tomb	Caligraphy on a gate on the approach to the tomb	Perforated stone screen called a jali

We then dropped by Nigel's workplace, the British Council, to pick up some dry cakes. One of his colleagues called Rebecca had a brother in Darjeeling, and since we were going would we mind delivering some dry cakes for her? Nigel had of course readily agreed, assuming that a box of biscuits wouldn't be any trouble. It turned out to be the biggest box of biscuits we had ever seen, about the size of a small suitcase but without the carry handles. I balanced it on my lap in the autorickshaw and lugged it around the market where we bought groceries for the evening. A considerate greengrocer asked if I wanted a boy to carry it, but I had only been in India a day and was not yet used to the idea of hiring minions, so I continued to heft it myself.

The next morning we took a taxi to Indira Ghandi Airport. Nigel has evolved a strategy for minimizing misunderstandings that consists of repeatedly asking the obvious question. "Terminal Two please, okay?" — "Yes sir."
"...so that's Terminal Two then?" — "Yes sir, Terminal Two."

...but naturally we ended up at Terminal One anyway, though we didn't discover that until after we had paid the guy off. Fortunately, Nigel had also factored in time for the cock up, so we got another taxi to the correct terminal in time for our flight to Bagdogra Airport in the northern part of West Bengal, and the next leg of my Indian adventure.

Nigel and Mari in their salad days	Mari waving us off from Nigel's flat	Typical automotive daredevilry in Delhi