Old Delhi, New Delhi, Any Delhi

If India is the country of contrasts, then Delhi is certainly the appropriate capital. Serviced, among others, by hordes of muscly-calved Indians treading away at cycle rikshas (the Mumbaikers even turn up their noses as normal auto rikshas), it is also the home of one of the most efficient, clean and generally spit-free underground system I have yet had the pleasure to use. The London Public Transport Board should consider a study trip.
But the charm of having a cow stroll along main road is probably something which wears rather thin rather quickly, especially if you are in a hurry. On the whole, Mumbai is still my personal number one, but Delhi has potential. And I would be interested in seeing what it looks like after the current spate of "digging hole and filling it again" has been successfully terminated. You never know. India has a tendency to surprise.

A Word on Trains

Yes, I realise this seems to be a recurring theme, and not a very sexy one at that. But after spending 43 hours on a train from Goa to Delhi, I feel entitled to say a few words about it. Because, you see, there are two ways to ride a train. Well, only one because even here I have yet to see someone clinging to the roof. But I talk of the mental state. One can either see a train ride as a way to get from A to B, or one can see it as part of the journey. If the former is what you choose, then 43 hours can stretch out to be an incredibly long time. But in the latter case, everything, from the woman selling grapes at the station to the bullocks chasing the train, and not to forget the spectacular sunsets are worth remembering. And you can almost feel sorry when the train pulls in at the final station.

Neeru! Neeru beku!

The other day, yesterday to be exact, I sat, lay, stood on a train for 15 hours from Udupi to Mumbai. And then, because I enjoyed it so much, I sat, lay, stood on another train for 4 hours to get to Pune. Well, sat to be exact because in second class (ladies) without reservation the only place you can lie is on the baggage holder above the seats. Needless to say, they were all already occupied.
Being the object of much discussion for the 16 other ladies squashed into the 6 seats with me, I figured I would show them that I was not simply another clueless backpacker on my way from big city to big city. No no, I was intergrated, one of them, I was the shit. My time to shine, incidentally came in the form of the drinks-wallah. Parched from the dry air coming through the open window I called him over at the station and, after a self-congratulatory look to my companions, said in a loud, self-confident voice: "Neeru! Neeru beku!"
It was only after the other ladies started giggling and the man started moving away from my window looking bored that I realised that I was in Maharashtra and my Kannada wouldn't get me anywhere here. Dammit!

Mildew, Mould and Ironing Boards

Since India has so much to offer in terms of material with which to entertain those of us stuck in offices/libraries/cold weather in general, I never DID get around to telling the incident involving jeans, mildew and an iron. Tasty combination, you must agree. What happened was the following: about three weeks after arriving and settling in in my beautiful cell my clothes were attacked by mildew. So, thought I, before slaving away at the washing stone, I shall bring them to the laundry and have them professionally cleaned for 5 rupees a piece. Needless to say, the nice laundry man, in his lungi and without a shirt did not understand even the most elementary English. But still being new to India and its ways, I figured mouldy pants were pretty self-explanatory. In a laundry no less. Not so. I got the jeans back, nicely ironed. But still mouldy. They were, subsequently, the object of much hilarity at the school. I, however, felt more like crying...