Delhi Diary
Are letters written by a South African journalist who has moved to Delhi. Discover the fascinating city with her...

First impressions
Our news is that we have been back for about a week from a pre-assignment visit to Delhi. Well, I LOVED it! We're pretty proud of ourselves because we worked really hard on house-hunting. We went out with about six agents, saw maybe 40 places, and eventually managed to find the flat that fitted all our requirements.
It is located within walking distance of Dave's work, Lodi Gardens (exquisite - with tree-lined avenues and ancient tombs) and the local market (for the basics) - in a suburb called Jor Bagh (pronounced Jaw Bahg - or Joburg, if you drawl!) It's a brand new, first-floor flat, in a block that has just three flats - ground floor, first floor and second floor. There are three bedrooms - we'll use one for a study, have one spare room and one room for us. There's a single big room for living and dining, a family room in the middle of the flat and a smallish kitchen, also quite central, next to the family room.
All three bedrooms and the lounge have little balconies. The study and the living room balcony, which face the front, look on to a huge frangipani tree.The back looks on to a giant bouganvilla and a row of parked bicycles. Each bedroom has its own bathroom. This is standard. I'm guessing there's a lot of showering that goes on in India. They were still finishing the building when we were there so we don't have the perfect picture, but the flat falls within a style of apartment that we saw a lot. They're called builders flats and all have white marble floors (for the heat), ceiling fans in every room (ditto), air conditioners in most rooms (again, ditto) and screen doors in front of the balcony doors to let in the air and keep out insects (though I didn't notice any insects all the time we were there - must be a seasonal thing). The fittings are smartish - glossy, polished wooden door frames, pin lighting and the odd chandelier - with sleek built-in cupboards and modern bathrooms. We were very torn at some point in our trip, trying to decide whether to get a builders flat like the one we settled on - quite bog standard and yuppie-ish - or something that might be termed a "character bungalow".
Our favourite house in this category was in a suburb called Sunder Nagar, near the zoo, a little closer to the old city, in an area densely populated with parks and huge, old trees (imagine a kind of tropical, 400-year-old Newlands). The house - ground floor, with the owners living on the floor above - had a huge stoep at the front, looking onto a lovely garden (featuring BUSHES of basil - imagine how I agonised). The rooms were just enormous and practically double volume. Before aircon this was the way people dealt with the heat. Outrageously high ceilings with ventilation windows at ceiling level. There was a courtyard at the back, off the kitchen, with tiles and pot plants - so very Provence.
There was an ornamental fireplace in the lounge, old hand-painted tiles in the bathrooms - look, I could go on and on. My fantasy, naturally, was of cane furniture on the front stoep, diaphanous drapes swelling with the breeze at the lounge doors and langorous breakfasts on the back terrace. Madam and her house guests would spend afternoons lazing under the mosquito nets in their bedrooms before wafting across a sports-field size silk rug for cocktails out of crystal glasses. Perhaps a walk in the dappled light past the zoo in the gloaming before dinner. So Bloomsbury, so Karen Blixen.
The reality was that the kitchen was an absolute fright, and the biggest and most beautiful bedroom was only accessible from the front stoep, or through a strange and ugly courtyard (with outdoor cupboards). Dave liked the idea of our bedroom opening onto the stoep, and the assumption in India is that Madam and Sir never enter the kitchen. It's strictly the cook’s domain. Still, I don't regret our choice. We were told by everyone we asked that we would never cool that place - cooling is a major, major consideration. One woman I met, who did opt for the romantic Indian idyll, said she had spent an entire summer in her bedroom with her door closed - to keep it cool.
She said she never used the big entertaining rooms except when they had parties - too difficult to cool down - and even with air conditioning in every room the hallways and passages were unbearably hot.
People told us the water and electrics would give us endless trouble and we'd require teams - whole families - of servants to maintain the place. Until you go to India you don't realise how different some things are. The heat in summer and the rain during monsoon season are so extreme that houses really take a beating. Water damage is very common.
Also, the systems for water and electricity are more complex. Water is only supplied for an hour or two once a day, so you have to store and pump your own water. Electricity is also unreliable, so you have to have a generator on standby all the time. In terms of basic housekeeping, the pollution is such that you truly do need to clean the fine layer of sooty dust that collects every day.
Anyway, what a lot of waffle about house-hunting! What's much more interesting is that Delhi is stunningly beautiful! I thought it would be very dusty and dry. Sandy, gritty, with flies and people pushing past. In fact, when we got out at the airport I thought we'd touched down in Trinidad. Delhi - and particularly New Delhi - is very, very green. It's also humid, and there are fresh fruit juice sellers and piles of mangoes and coconuts all over the place. There are parks everywhere - huge, sprawling affairs with formal designs - like The Gardens in Cape Town times ten - and dotted throughout the British-designed New Delhi suburbs there are little communal patches of green. No surprise then that one is reminded of the shared parks in London suburbs (remember Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts in Notting Hill).
The streets of New Delhi are wide and tree-lined, and the traffic is not as chaotic as David led me to believe. Look, it's surprising that there are cows in the fast lane, and that actually nobody respects the concepts of lanes - there are just streams of cars and three-wheeler auto rickshaws hooting and weaving in the same general direction. But people don't drive that fast. Insanely, yes. But relatively slowly.
I was blown away by the clothing. Not because I'm prone to be blown away by clothing - which I am - but because the style of dress truly is remarkable. The colours the women wear, and the level of grooming, are unbelievable. The airport cleaners - I mean the women who clean the toilets and sweep the passages - wear silk saris in bright, meths purple with flat sandals, gold jewelry and smoothed-back, glossy hair.
The women on the street are all equally or more glamorous. There's not a fold of a shawl out of place. The tunic and the trousers are never, ever mismatched. The saris are wrapped just so, with perfect, equally-sized gathers at the waist. Nothing looks like it's been worn before!
Honest to God, everyone looks like they bought their outfit that morning. Make-up, jewellery and handbags are big - the very antithesis of my UCT campus look - and any colour that wouldn't look good on a Smartie is unpopular. Taupes, biscuits and beiges are not big. Turquoise, yellow, fuchsia, orange and pink are huge. I've written so much now I feel I'm being a bit boring. Also a little gushy. Because it wasn't all perfect. We went for dinner one night in the Old City and I found it pretty chaotic. And dirty, and dilapidated, to be honest. I think you have to get some understanding of the history before you really start to appreciate it. I also got rubbed up against by some little twit (called Eve Teasing over there) which left me in a bit of a bad mood about Old Delhi. I just kept wishing I'd hit him in the stomach with my shopping, which is what I'd had an impulse to do. (Dave also regretted not slapping him - so now we know for next time!) Beyond the touristy stuff - the kind of exotica and threats of sleaze one can read about in the guide books - the thing that was most significant to me was that people were genuinely friendly. We socialised a lot with Dave's colleagues and their families, and they made me feel totally welcome. I already have a yoga friend and cooking friend! We even made friends with some people in a bar, who promised to take me to art exhibitions and plays. The atmosphere is very trusting and actually very accommodating of difference, which was another nice surprise. I'm a bit exhausted now!
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Cointreaus and clangers - Delhi Diary
The great thing about India is that the “exotica” never ends, and I mean that in the most self-conscious way. But it’s true. In our final weekend with the Pasriches at number 212, we were invited to join them in a celebration of one of the most important days of the Sikh calendar: the birthday of --- (sorry), a relatively recent guru. Mr Pasrich is, of course, a turban-wearing Sikh. He is also an advocate. His wife, Hemy, comes from Pakistan originally (Punjab is the home of Sikhism) and is a socialite in the Adele Searll mould. Both Hemy and Chen are name-droppers of note, and staunch royalists. In terms of world view, they would not be out of place at Henley or Ascot – and in fact spent their Diwali holiday in Oxford and Rome.
At their party – perhaps soiree would be a more appropriate term – we were served drinks in crystal glasses and snacks in silver bowls. We chatted to the former Admiral of the Indian Army – huge grey moustache in manner of Victorian gentleman – the current Rotarian head – charming British gentleman, faultless social skills – a Finnish diplomat – quiet, expensively dressed, arrived with a bottle of Finnish vodka – and Clarissa, a British friend, dressed in pink, clearly of impeccable breeding.
Dinner was served in the garden. The piano was carried out to the lawn (it’s always nice to have teams of servants around at moments like these) and the tuxedoed piano player delighted the guests with requests including “Oh My Darling Clementine”, “The Rose of Tralee” and, of course, “Daisy, Daisy”. Hemy and the Admiral’s wife sang at the piano in faltering sopranos, regularly urging the diners to join in. We listened in awe to the Rotarian and the Admiral discuss military hardware (turns out the Rotarian has a working knowledge of aircraft carriers) and were served after-dinner drinks in the “drawing room”.
One of my most significant social blunders thus far – apart from confusing my Cointreau with Clarissa’s Cognac, and they are completely different colours – was arriving at a party in Gurgaon (Delhi’s Midrand / former-mink-and-manure-belt-gone-highrise-mad) in a modest black kurta and black trousers. We’d been at a Ramadan fast-breaking supper earlier, where modesty was an issue, and I thought, hey, it’s black, it’ll be fine. Cut to Iain and Ayesha’s open-plan lounge/dining room populated by women in tight T-shirts (Wonderbras in evidence) Lycra skirts and black stilettos. Men in skinny rib jerseys, Italian shoes and pressed jeans. Glitter eyeshadow, lipliner and glam coiffure city. It was a little like a Bollywood wrap party. In a good way. I did the only thing a girl with a flat bob, no make-up and a drab, flat shoe outfit could do: Skulked until I was drunk enough to socialize. We ended up meeting two very nice journalists. Ian, Scottish, writes for Newsweek, The Guardian, The Scotsman, etc. And Anjali, English, AFP South Asia bureau chief. We met up with them again recently to watch the World Cup Final at the Australian High Commission’s interestingly sterile bar.

Mixed blessings - Delhi Diary
I am delighted to report that I’m writing this from my own desk, in my own study, in my own flat. It’s pretty chilly outside, dim but windless. I’m sitting here in a jersey and vest. Surprisingly. Today is a public holiday. Local election day. All the shops are closed and there are heavy, rough wooden tables on the streets with posters pinned to their fronts and bored-looking men behind them. There are no queues. At Jor Bagh market I saw a truck of soldiers in fatigues with automatic weapons. They looked equally bored. The most interesting thing I’ve seen today is a family of four in matching tracksuits.
It’s quite nice to have a quiet day. We’ve had a hectic few weeks getting settled here, not least because it’s positioned us as residents; no longer visitors.
A few days before we moved in, I was invited to attend a traditional puja, a blessing ceremony for the flat. I arrived a little late, expecting nothing very formal or elaborate. When I walked into the flat I found the landlord, his wife, his mother, his two children, his driver, his housekeeper and a priest chanting around a wood fire in the centre of the lounge. After I sat down I had to drink some water from a vessel with a spoon, twice, then I had to touch my fourth finger to my thumb, wet my index and middle fingers and then, in time to the chanting, dab water on my ears, nostrils, eyes, mouth and temples. The dabbing represented the engagement of the five senses in the ceremony, I think.
Next, the priest came round and gave us all orange marks on our third eyes, and sprinkled water and petals on us. A framed picture of Ganesh (the elephant god) and another of the landlord’s father (I think) also got orange marks (called pujas, like the ceremony) .The priest heated oil and sugar in a small pot over the fire, and this was handed to the landlord. The rest of us got plates of broken twigs and sawdust to share. The chanting started again and we all threw pinches of wood into the fire after a certain phrase. This went on for a while, and the priest explained he was blessing the house from north, south, east and west. When we threw the shavings, the landlord poured the hot, sweet oil on the fire. All this resulted in a great deal of crackling, smoke and mess, especially as the landlord’s young son was throwing his shavings overarm at his parents.
After the group chanting, the priest gave a kind of sermon in verse, in which he asked the gods to bless the occupants of the home with wealth (he specifically requested luxury cars – instead of the traditional herds of cattle), health, peace, happiness and – this was translated for me with much smiling and nodding – many children. I felt genuinely happy sitting there, with the heat of the fire on my face, surrounded by strangers blessing my prospective home. It was lovely – despite having to spend the entire hour-and-a-half with my knees curled uncomfortably flat in front of me (there is a time for the long denim skirt, and house pujah is not one of them.)
When the ceremony was over, the priest tied red strings around our wrists and the granny produced a Tupperware containing semolina halva. I was delighted by this, mainly (I’m afraid) because I had tried to make semolina halva at home and wasn’t sure how it was supposed to look and taste. (For those who are interested: granny’s version was more syrupy than mine, and served warm, like a thick pudding, to be eaten with your fingers. I had rolled mine into balls and given some to our previous landlord and his wife as sweets. A bit like having someone round for cold pizza sandwiches, I should think.)
Anyway, we had the semolina pudding out of pressed betel leaf bowls, and the landlord told me he was really pleased as he hadn’t realized before that the flat faced north-east, the most auspicious direction according to Hindu convention. As I was taking this in, I realized the semolina I was eating was the same thing that had been melted in the fire. The whole puja gave me a very good feeling; sufficient even to soften the blow of having an orange swastika painted on our front door.
A few days after the puja our move began in earnest. Our shipment arrived from SA (minus my Walkman and my big dining room rug, sob!) The furniture we’d ordered was delivered and we got a taxi to help us move from our basic stuff from 212 to 171 Jor Bagh (about the distance from Nine West to Woolworths).
During the move there were people in and out all the time – delivery men, the guys doing the aircon, the phone guy, the internet guy, etc etc. On the Friday afternoon I was sitting in the bedroom cleaning the inside of some drawers when the front doorbell rang. The door was open. I was sick of leaping up so I shouted: “Come in!” Then, when there was no response: “In here!” No response. “Come in!” Then “I’m in here!” This went on for a while. When I realized I’d been defeated I got up. The sight that greeted me in the hallway was of three large transvestites in saris, surrounded by nervous-looking workmen and a security guard. The oldest of the three women – with shocking teeth that looked like they were wrapped in clingfilm, I was later to discover – had seated herself at the doorway with her skirt and the end of her sari (pistachio green) arranged artfully around like an upturned lotus flower. She was a study in demureness, with her covered head bowed to the floor and her hands crossed in her lap. In sharp contrast, her two companions stood very upright, beaming at me through bright lipstick with (large) hands clasped to the front. I had read about hjidas so wasn’t terribly surprised.
“Oh! Hello!” I said, and we met each other with the traditional prayer-hands, bowed head greeting.
They said hello, and that they were here to offer their blessing on the house. I thanked them and asked if they were going to sing a song (I’d read about song singing somewhere). They said: “Nahi, nahi. Bakshish.” This with much nodding and stretched smiles. Bakshish means tip and this didn’t surprise me much either. I knew that these transvestites – also known as eunuchs, because many of them are castrated, either voluntarily or forcibly – demanded money at weddings and christenings. If they were refused they could create a scene, with obscenities and flashing (imagine!) I also knew the tips were generous, as this was the only source of income for an extremely marginal group. So off I went to find my purse, and came back with Rs2 000 (about R320). The old lady rose and held out her dupatta for me to drop the money in. I did, smiling grandly (probably). Nobody moved. The largest of the ladies stepped forward, grinning woodenly. “Nahi,” she shook her finger at me. “E-lev-en thousand.” No! Ha ha. Too much!”
The tall, auburn-haired one in the polka dot sari – with stubble in her cleavage, I now noticed – stepped forward again. “Eleven thousand.”The other big one, with black lipstick and red, paan-stained teeth, stepped forward too. “Madam! Eleven thousand!”
I consulted the workmen and security guard cheerily, who had by now backed away and were looking alarmed. I had been herded into a doorway. I argued (with the guard translating from the back) that I used a credit card and did not have that much cash in the house.After much sari rustling and hairy hand gestures I managed to free myself on the understanding that the three would return the next day for the balance.
“My husband will be here tomorrow. He would love to meet you!” I said.
When they had gone I got the impression from the workmen that I hadn’t shown the proper degree of terror. To myself, I thought: “For goodness sake, they got 2000. They won’t be back.”
They did come back, on Saturday and Sunday. On Saturday we bolted the door while they banged and shouted on the other side. As they left they threatened to slash the guard’s hands. When they returned on Sunday they made such a racket on the other side of the door that Dave opened it, with the chain on, and threatened to call the police. He was greeted by hands shooting towards him through the gap. We managed to get rid of them by standing on the balcony pretending to be calling the police. It’s not something that happens to them often, I gather. Most people here are very superstitious about the hjidas and will go to great lengths to avoid their curses. For my part, I was happy to accept the ugly ending for the sake of finding three beaming transvestites in my hallway one Friday afternoon.
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Taj dreams - Delhi Diary
Dave and I have been busy this week getting our holidays organized. We’re going away for the weekend to the Taj Mahal and nearby Bharatpur, which is home to the biggest and most important bird sanctuary in India. We’re going to stay in a small haveli in a town even smaller than Bharatpur, so we’re really excited about that. Around New Year we’re going south to Kerala – slogan: “God’s Own Country” – where we will meet a group of friends, stay at a beach and then go on for an overnight houseboat trip.
I joined a book club this week, which is lovely. The women are all a bit older and classier than the other expats I’ve met and they really love books. This in itself is a relief after mixing with women who talk about clothes and soft furnishings a lot. Oh, and staff. Lots of skinner. Dreadful. I attended a Tupperware party earlier this week. For crying in a bucket what was I thinking?!
Christmas is fast approaching, and although Christmas is not a huge deal here, there is the odd plastic Santa in a shop doorway. I’m pretty excited about it – as I always am – and plan to get a tree and decorate it with the unbelievably beautiful hand painted ornaments they sell here. A little party is in order, I feel. For our flat, for us, and as an excuse to binge – natch.
I have given myself until New Year to get settled, and then plan to start looking for work. In the meantime, I have offered my services as a volunteer to teach painting to children. I’ve also decided to join the Delhi Seven Cities Club, which is a very cool thing, actually. The group is divided into seven groups and each group (usually just two people) research a certain period of Delhi’s history then take the group to relevant architectural spots and give a presentation.
I’m also still running regularly, and intend to join a yoga class in the New Year. For now, time, space and good spirits are at a premium here.
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Move on to:
Lisa Macleod - Notes from Mud Island

Fixtures and fittings - Delhi Diary
On the domestic side of things, my obsessive shopping – let’s call it “exploring the city” – has paid off. We have lovely curtains and blinds, lovely couches and a magnificent coffee table. It all belongs to the company, of course, and will be left in a warehouse once we leave. This detail doesn’t really bother me, funnily enough. Mainly because we have also bought some things for us. For instance, I took myself off to Amar furniture market the other day (I saw the name in a magazine). It’s literally just a block of open land divided into strips where furniture dealers restore and sell furniture. So in the front there are three metre piles of chair, table and wardrobe carcasses, and in the back there are very glossy, dark pieces of furniture with shiny handles. The trick, I discovered, is to hang around where the sanding and staining is going on. I found a solid Burmese teak Art Deco bookcase for our lounge, a teak dresser for the spare room and a solid brass lamp stand for a table light. Cheap as chips, naturally, and they’re just sanding and waxing everything for me. This is the kind of stuff that will add weight to our shipment when we come home!
My latest project, which will require some research, is carpets. I’ve been told that the best woollen carpets come from Pakistan, but the best silk carpets are Indian. The carpets you see range from skreeulelik to I-love-the-design-but-is-it-good-quality. The dealers are a breed apart – ingratiating in the extreme, and very quick with the facts. One dealer I went to took down my details (I couldn’t be bothered to give him false ones) then called me at home to ask me if I’d decided to buy the carpets I’d liked in his shop. I told him not to bother me again, but the other day we came home and the guard gave us an invitation to an expo addressed to “Mr Joan Desy”. We were halfway to our front door before we realized it was intended for me.
Anyway, this shopping thing will not go on forever. We need some carpets because our floors are freezing. They’re marble – don’t worry, it’s very common – and are like cement with underfloor cooling.
Our domestic scene is slowing coming together. We have hired a lovely young woman called Sabitha Joshua to come in every day for a couple of hours to clean the floors and bathrooms. I’m delighted with the arrangement as Delhi is very dusty and home help is essential. Most people have full-time, live-in staff and casual work is very unusual. I was dreading having to have someone here eight hours a day – not least because it simply isn’t necessary – but was told there was no alternative. Sandie, bless her, found Sabitha through her (Sabitha’s) current employer.

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