I present, after much research, the cleanest back-end of a bus in all of Delhi.

The midnight balcony

First line of an unwritten novel: "She left me with a lettuce spinner and a two jars of pickled onions."

Last line of an unwritten opera: "love like a bird flies away."

It's late. I'm sitting on the balcony of my delhi apartment listening to the sounds of the night. A radio plays shrill hindi songs in a guard house down the street. The suburb hums softly with the baratone of a generator and the tenor of planes in thrust taking off from the airport nearby - machine harmony. The monsoon is here and the air is juicy and hot. And so still. Delhi is sleeping behind its walls. A dog barks. Another plane roars overhead. Another dog barks. Another silence. The manic city rests, waiting for a new day. Dust settles.

Ways to make a buck

This bloke, the picture of melancholy, made his living wrapping and unwrapping his head scarf for the entertainment of foreigners. As magic tricks go it was completely crap. But as acts of sheer desparation go, it had a fading scent of creativity. We gave him ten rupees. Geez this place can be tough.

blinking or dreaming?

Sure, I got the guy blinking, but I reckon this captures the sleeplike state required to handle manual labour in delhi's heat. He looks very zen. There's a book in it Mr Rickshaw wallah - "what i think about when I think about rickshawing" Or "zen and the art of rickshaw maintenance"...

I toyed with buying one of these babies today and getting down and dirty with the delhi traffic. Wonder what the locals would make of a honky on wheels.... "farangi's a nut job" or something like that I'm guessing. I'm definitely going to buy one before I leave.... those springs and old skool seat will turn heads on Melbourne streets. But I want a black one with a lightning bolt. If it says 'super' on it as well, then so be it.

Dear Delhi, I know you’ve always been a bit confused about who you are. But this is taking the piss. Last night you pretended you were Paris and rolled out French wines and quiche Lorraine. This morning you were dressed up as Singapore, all steam and sweat and rumbling thunder on the horizon. And now, at 2:17pm on a Sunday afternoon, you’re trying to pass yourself off as Dubai, hot baked and boring. What’s with that. Would the real Delhi please stand up. Thanks.

The award for astronomical observatory most likely to become a skatepark goes to....

Jantar Mantar, Delhi (chance of seeing stars through the smog: zip)

Hero or villain?

So I'm stumped whether the artist behind this portrait is trying to paint the subject as hero or villain. Clearly the bloke is significant, and the portrait captures his gravitas. But the bursting red veins and steely eyes hint at danger. Should we respect him or be scared of him. Should we vote for him or watch his movie? Wish I could read Tamil.

Goddessfone

Two small piles

Who has right of way?

Looking out my window right now, traffic on my suburban street is stuck. Coming from the left: one black sedan, one three-wheeled rickshaw, two bicycles and a long-horned brown cow. In the right corner: one white sedan, one motorbike and one cyclist. In the middle, standing still, one high-humped white cow, not quite sure which way it is headed. All the protagonists are frozen trying to figure out who has right of way: does biggest vehicle win or are the cows - the jokers in the pack - free to flaunt their superior road rights? Answer: everybody goes at the same time, and like a sofa through a doorway, inch by inch, progress is made and 20 seconds later the street is clear. Nobody has blinked.

India: endlessly and incredibly India.

Poser?

A case of explosively tasty mangoes

My mate told me I was crazy when I said the mangoes from Mumbai were the best in India. I was spouting conventional wisdom and thought this was safe ground. But mangoes are a controversial topic in India, particularly in the flush of the mango season. To prove his point he promised me a special delivery of mangoes, freshly picked from the tree in the courtyard of his family home in Bihar. And sure enough, this magically rustic box arrived today (and freaked out the security guys at work). Only in India could a package of fresh fruit, wrapped like this, and placed on a train 1000km from Delhi arrive in one piece and on my doorstep... a love India moment. And for the record they taste absolutely amazing! No more the sweet superficial Mumbai mango for me... henceforth I'm a Bihar man.

This shop sells exclusive ribbons, all kinds...

A bucket, a P and two hands

India tends to throw up more questions than it answers. Take this for example: a small unadorned doorway in a quiet corner of old delhi. The scene is utterly unremarkable and yet so many questions leap out... like 'why the red P?' and 'what's with the blue hand prints?' and 'who left their bucket behind?' Of course there is danger in searching for meaning, and even constructing meaning, where there is in fact none. Either way I'm intrigued by the P. Answers/ guesses welcomed.

Man and wall - old delhi

Three doors

A little part of me wishes I was an architect. But I'd have two massive crutches - computers to do all the sums, and a bias for symmetry. Which is why this picture grates a little. Three doors, not the same, not happy maharajah. I bet it pissed him off too.... flog the architect.

Two ladies

Their home overlooks the Ganges near a temple in Rishikesh.