Home for now - Delhi: There's no getting away from the country's sounds, smells or heat, writes David Orr. But you soon come to appreciate its charms.
The extraordinary thing about India is that no matter how much you try to shut it out - and, believe me, there are days when you need to - it comes looking for you. There is no hiding from India: from the sounds, the smells, the heat, the sheer Indianness of it all. The place is often exasperating, but in the end you yield to its strong embrace.
By early May the temperature hits 35 degrees, and the first sounds you are likely to hear on waking are the thrum of an air conditioner and the whirr of an overhead fan. But in the lovely months between February and April the music of India is all around, even in Golf Links, the sedate neighbourhood where we have lived for five years.
Having been awakened by the shopkeeper raising the shutter of the little store by our back door - or more probably by the nagging "Get up, get up" of our two children - I might hear the sounds of chanting and bells ringing in the nearby gurdwara, or Sikh temple. There will also be the scratch-scratch-scratching of sweepers wielding their brooms up and down the lane.
The first caller of the day will be the fruit wallah, who comes by on a bicycle loaded with panniers of mangoes, papayas and melons. He will present us with a large orange-ripe papaya that will be weighed with great ritual on an old set of rusty scales. All around, the colony will be coming to life, with malis, or gardeners, watering the plants and dogs being walked (in some cases by servants in white livery). Green parakeets will be flitting overhead and squirrels chattering in the trees. From the distance might come the raucous cry of a peacock.
From here the acoustics get steadily worse - or that is the way things have been going for the past two years. Bang, bang, thump, thump, screeeeeech! First of all the landlord of the property next door knocked down the entire house and rebuilt it as luxury flats. This being India and labour being cheap, the whole operation was performed by dozens of men wielding sledgehammers and women in bright saris carrying trays of bricks on their heads. With not a digger or crane in sight the only concession to modern methods was an ear-splitting marble grinder, and by the sound of it enough marble was fitted to rival the Taj Mahal. For the past few months a similar refurbishment has been going on in the flat upstairs.
During the course of the day a constant stream of callers will appear at our front door. As my wife and I work from home the intrusions are not always welcome, but so used have I become to the procession of wallahs that I'd miss them were they to stop. The only ones I really object to are the man with the dancing monkeys - how sad to see them cavorting in their little tutus - and the jewel- bedecked hijras, or eunuchs.
One morning, soon after a group of them had come banging on the door looking for money, I discovered my daughter's cot empty. My immediate thought was that a hijra had kidnapped her - not unknown among eunuchs. As I ran panic-stricken through the house, looking for Tamsin, I wondered what I should tell my wife when she returned from her work trip. I need not have worried: the baby had squeezed out through the bars and was playing in the sitting room.
Unlike many expatriates, we do not employ a large retinue of servants, although when we moved to India we were horrified to realise we had inherited from a colleague a leaking old barracks and a staff of seven. I have since gone freelance, and we have moved to a ground-floor apartment. We have an ayah, or nanny, for the children, and her sister helps around the house in the mornings.
Isn't it well for you, you might say, and you wouldn't be wrong. Having domestic staff is, of course, a luxury by any standards, but in our case it is also a necessity. We could not work from home nor travel on assignments without the back-up: our operation would simply grind to a halt.
It is outside the gates of the colony that the real India starts. To go shopping you walk out through the flats to Khan Market, past the boys playing cricket and preening the feathers of their fighting cocks. On the right you'll see the roadside barber with his scissors and mirror propped up on a wall, waiting for a client. There'll be some street kids begging by the traffic lights, although for some reason the really bad cases, the lepers and the cripples, prefer to congregate at the far end, by the junction with Lodi Road.
You'll have to be careful crossing the road. The notions of drivers stopping at pedestrian crossings or keeping to their lane are unheard of. As for giving way as you drive onto a roundabout, forget it. If you're big enough and going fast enough you'll get through. Indicators? What are they for? Use your horn instead: everyone else does. And watch out for the cows.
The children take it all in their stride: Cartoon Network in Hindi, elephants at birthday parties, uniformed hotel employees holding parasols over the kids' heads when they walk in the sun. The only thing that enrages Alexander, our son, is when Indians come up to him in the park, tweak his cheek and insist he pose in their family snaps.
Today's Delhi - the most recent incarnation of a city whose history can be traced back 2,500 years through seven civilisations - is a vast sprawl of indifferent suburbs intermingled with miserable slums and magnificent Mogul ruins. At its centre is New Delhi, the imperial capital completed by the British in 1931, whose stately government buildings, imposing monuments and elegant whitewashed bungalows flank huge open spaces and tree-lined boulevards.
We tend to avoid Old Delhi, with its teeming multitudes and crowded alleys, although there was a time, when we were going through the process of adopting Tamsin, that we often visited the Missionaries of Charity, who run an orphanage there. If we want to buy some presents or need to savour the Orient, however, we still make for the lanes and bazaars around the Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque - and wonder why we don't go more often.
Many things would drive you mad about life here: the petty bureaucracy and rubber-stamping of the babus, or government officials; the lack of any sense of personal space (stand at the counter of the post office and you'll soon be apoplectic as people shove in front or thrust their hands over your shoulders); the burping and hawking and spitting of areca-nut juice all over the place.
But what I like about India is the people's calmness, their easy-going charm. I love when you ask them where they live and they wiggle their heads as they reply "I live in Delhi only" or "I live in Bombay only". And I love those evenings, when it's not too hot or mosquito-ridden, when you sit out with a sundowner as night closes in and all the sounds and smells of the place drift towards you.
What to do if you're in Delhi
Visit Humayun's Tomb Built in 1570 by the senior wife of Humayun, the second Mogul emperor, this is the first important example of Mogul architecture in India and a precursor of the more famous Taj Mahal. One of the most beautiful buildings in the city (and a World Heritage Site), its gardens and watercourses have been restored to their original splendour by the Aga Khan Trust for Culture.
Hop into a three-wheeled autorickshaw and head for Sunder Nagar Market Root round the antiques shops, then call into Mittal's for some little wooden boxes of Indian tea emblazoned with brass elephants. Head on to Dilli Haat, a daily market where you'll find handicrafts from all parts of India.
Lunch at Karim's in Old Delhi Foodies frequently cite this restaurant as their favourite in the city. In a small courtyard close to the huge Jama Masjid mosque, this is the place for great seekh kebabs, tandoori chicken and Delhi's famous paper-thin romali rotis. The bill will come to the equivalent of €2 or €3 for two. Then on to Silver Street (no prizes for guessing what's sold here) and Wedding Street (just to marvel at the colourful outfits and matrimonial accoutrements).
Three things I miss about Ireland
Coming from Malahide, I miss walking along the beach and driving over to buy fish on Howth pier. Delhi is landlocked and far from any decent countryside. The state of Rajastahn is within striking distance for a weekend, but on Sundays it would be great to think you could head for a ramble in the Wicklow mountains. Indian food is delicious, but even snacks are cooked - and frequently fried. When I'm out and about I miss being able to grab a quick sandwich.
There are evenings when I'd give my last rupee for a Guinness - gassy old Kingfisher just doesn't compare.
Monday: Derek Scally on Berlin
