Friends’ warnings rang in my ears as I stepped onto the runway in the middle of a steamy Delhi night. 

“It’ll be worse than anything you can possibly imagine”, they said.
 
Blessed with a fertile imagination, I conjured scenes of starving children, mutilated beggars and heartbreaking poverty.  My fantasies were terrifying.  If Delhi were worse than my most gruesome imaginings, what was I letting myself in for?

One thought reassured me.  One of my less cautionary friends had a cousin (Billy) living in Delhi.  I was staying with him for the first few days of my Indian adventure.  And, to my eternal gratitude, he had promised to pick me up from the airport.

Twenty minutes of frantic crowd-scanning later, I realised he wasn’t coming.  Terrified, I mustered courage and ventured into the humid night, clutching Billy’s address in clammy palms.  

A taxi rank slumbered outside – crumpled, sweat-stained cabbies wilting onto the steering wheels of Ambassador cars.  They jumped to life at my approach, suddenly alert and blandishing inimitable Indian charm: “Please, good lady, oh-so comfortable taxi, special price for you.”

I stuttered the unfamiliar sounds of Billy’s address.  Eyes opened wide at the mention of Vasant Vihar.  In my bedraggled back-packer attire, I didn’t look like a typical resident of this part of Delhi, traditionally home to government officials and multinational tycoons.

Driving along, I formed my first impressions.  Cows, boars, monkeys and goats roaming free; thousands of raggedy people asleep on the streets; shiny, glass-fronted modernity sitting alongside seedy shantytowns. A town unlike any I had ever seen.
                                                                                                                 
Thirty minutes later and a world away from the sleeping homeless, I was driven through a gate guarded by a uniformed, truncheon-bearing Indian.  A yawning Billy apologised for the mix-up at the airport and led me to cool, comfortable bedrooms.

In the morning, breakfast was served by a silent manservant.  Billy tucked into poached eggs on toast while he quizzed me about the latest news from home.  His chef was visibly startled when I opted for an Indian breakfast of dhal, rice and yoghurt.

Leaving for the gym, Billy said his driver was mine for the day.  Chefs, drivers, menservants; I was certainly far from home.

Bolstered by the success of my first ten hours in Delhi, I asked to be dropped in Connaught Place.  A circular construction of shops, hotels and restaurants at the centre of the city – it seemed like a good starting point. 

Out of the car and into the mayhem.  Cars, bikes, rickshaws, buses, cows, monkeys, a few elephants and all imaginable kinds of people thronged the streets. 

Green as freshly mown grass, I stumbled into one tout’s ruse after another.  Mistaking interest for friendliness, I was lured into bogus travel agents, regaled with stories of the lost Eden that is war-torn Kashmir, and urged to buy “cut-price” bus and train tickets.   Against all odds, I emerged with my wallet intact.

I hired a rickshaw to take me to the Red Fort.  Instead of following my explicit instructions, the driver diverted to a shop selling indigenous crafts.  “Good lady, I see perfect shop for you,” he insisted.  “Come, see beautiful things.”

Resigned to my lack of control over my itinerary, I obliged by buying souvenirs.  One final indignity lay in store.  My driver abandoned me, distracted no doubt by the possibility of a commission.

Then I happened upon Sohan.  What a difference he made.  His pristine white shirt and scrubbed appearance conveyed a genuine eagerness to please.  After listening to my tale of thwarted sightseeing, he offered to bring me on a tour of his city.

He recounted tales of British Delhi as we drove by government buildings at Raj Path.  He told me about Gandhi when we visited the site of the Mahatma’s assassination – now a peaceful haven in a city of ceaseless noise.

Darkness fell and we arranged another tour for the following day.  Back in Vasant Vihar, I was greeted by dour-faced guards and presented with a choice of dinners by the gourmet chef.

The next day was an assault to the senses.  The sculpted tower of Qutb Minar shimmered red in the sunshine.  The delicate arches and bulbous domes of Humayun’s tomb told of the aesthetics of a bygone age.  The petals of the modernist Lotus Temple reflected pink in the dusk.

The frenetic pace of Old Delhi was exhilarating.  Shops on Chandni Chowk bustled with customers; buying all sorts of everything.  Whole streets sold wedding paraphernalia – sumptuous saris, jewellery, marigold chains, and even crisp new bank notes to use for the dowry – only the best for Indian newlyweds.

At the heart of this chaos, I came upon Jami Masjid – India’s largest mosque and the most affecting sight of the day.  The sheer serenity of the place and the infinite variety of its people seduced me.
 
Thousands of people, some at quiet prayer others lying prostrate on prayer mats, chanting sacred words; still more purifying body and soul in the mosque’s absolving waters.  Groups of men huddled together, stroking beards and lost in discussion of what sounded like deep spiritual matters – at least, it didn’t look like they were talking about the latest cricket test match, but maybe… 

Returning to Vasant Vihar, impressions of the day swirled.  The guard’s stern expression contrasted with devout faces at Jami Masjid.  I remembered the terrors of a bone-rattling rickshaw ride as the servant unburdened me of my camera and shoes.  The spicy flavours of my first roadside masala dosa couldn’t have been more different to the western fare at my cousin’s.

There were many sides to my Delhi.   Life on the streets – where people worked, ate, worshipped and lived – was chaotic and colourful.  Wealthy Vasant Vihar was cosseted and cool, air-conditioned and comfortable.

My friends were wrong.  Delhi was not worse than my wildest imaginings.  It was simply more.