My resident chai wallah

A chai wallah has set up shop outside my house. This fact warms my heart like it warms the bellies of the labourers on my block. Everyday when I leave and when I came home, people are gathered around his chai trolly for milky sweet tea and conversation. I love the way people stand behind the hotplate with him, watching as he tosses tea and sugar in an arc from their containers into the boiling pot of milk. It's an elaborate and flambouyant process, transforming the mundane to something quite sophisticated - so sophistacated that his clients have a choice of drinking from a glass or taking their tea away in a plastic bag. I think he fears I might object to his presence so he stands up every time my car passes by. So not only does he add awesome street texture but he provides a daily boost to my ego. I don't recall being quite so polite when I was a coffee making student.

The importance of hills and oceans

It may be because I grew up on a hill, and have holidayed near an ocean every year, but I’m finding my psycho-topographical needs are not being met by the flat inland expanse of Delhi. A recent visit to Mumbai, which is blessed with both hills and ocean, reminded me of these invisible but visceral wants.

The Delhi of many kingdoms sits grandly in the middle of a vast plain, dissected by ancient rivers that have seen better days. But modern Delhi has succumbed to the bloating of the middle aged. Unconstrained by geography it has eaten all the pies, sprawled out into adjoining states, low density for the most, cars essential, and Delhites undertaking massive daily treks to get from A to B.

And because it is so big, and so flat and so low rise, there is nowhere in the city where you can get a decent view of the path ahead as you trundle around town. There are a few vantage points atop five star hotels. And the minaret in Jama Masjid has an amazing view over the rooftops of the old city. But most days are spent focusing on the immediate action at street level. There are charms to this, but for the most, it feels like a train ride in the dark – you can’t see where you’re going, or measure how far you’ve come. You’re just moving from one busy flat space to another.

Where Delhi has let itself go, Mumbai has been forced, by a chronic shortage of land, to build up. Mumbai is blessed with ocean (to gaze at) and hills (to gaze from). I know nobody would ever accuse Mumbai of being well planned, but the incidental views make it a much easy city to digest. And the higher density gives Mumbai a humanity (perhaps too much humanity) which the vastness of Delhi sometimes misses.

I have a controversial plan for Delhi, which is yet to find a seconder, and will require some fine tuning before I take out full page newspaper ads. Suffice to say it would ameliorate the topography issue by building up where previous generations built out (and perhaps importing a few hillocks). Those who know my views on Canberra will be utterly unsurprised by my ideas on what makes a city liveable.

Until I bring this plan to fruition (and given it involves the removal of politician housing on quarter acre blocks in the heritage sector of town, this is not so likely), I will just have to get my hill and ocean needs on weekend trips away.

The pigeon man of shahjahanabad

On a recent late summer evening, we were taken to meet one of old Delhi's (allegedly) famous pigeon racers. I've not really a pigeon person, but rising out of the clamour of old delhi to Mr Pigeon's quiet rooftop, as the sun dipped lazily over the horizon, was quite a nice moment. We climbed from the rear of a packaging shop, pungent with glues, up a dark spiralling staircase and emerged just as a flock of Iranian racing pigeons landed in synchronised formation. These were not your standard flying-rat pigeons, we were told, these were prestige pigeons! They had each been named after a different bollywood star, and of course Mr Bachchan was the biggest and pluckiest of the lot - demanding to dig his head into the scattered seeds before the rest. Mr Pigeon's son had learnt to speak pigeon and with clicks and whistles instructed the birds to rise into the air, to circle the platform a few times and then to return. Set against the pink sky, with the call to prayer echoing across the rooftops from Jama Masjid (the city mosque), this was a sight of delhi I won't forget in a hurry.

Sachin rules the dusk

Cricket: Everyone knows Indians love it. But I had a moment this week when it really, truly sunk in. I was walking home from my local shops, around dusk, in the latter stages of an Australia-India one day match. As I passed house after house, the guards were outside crouched around small radios in clusters, hanging on every word of the Hindi commentary. Cars drove by and spilled snatches of cricket out their windows. And in the shops people stood before televisions, halting work to take in the developments – passers-by peered inside for a score. On the field of battle itself, Sachin Tendulkar was tearing apart the Australian bowling attack and the whole country was hanging on every flash of his willow. It reminded me a little of Kathy Freeman’s run in the 2000 Olympics when the whole of Australia just stopped and watched and joined the moment. Magic.

Diwali flower market

Old Delhi naan shop

I wonder if I would be as friendly as the shopkeepers of old Delhi were camera-wielding farangis to poke their heads through my door for a quick geezer. This naan shop, like so many in old Delhi, opened entirely onto the street, an extension of it. In the post-dusk light it shone like a beacon as we weaved through the tight lanes.

Mother and child in a crowd

Sexology's star couple

For a country quite adept at breeding, India is very shy about the concept of S**. It's the invisible and unspoken element. Most advertising that references s** uses western models - as though western women have s** but Indian women are born as doting mothers. But for all the silence, there are a lot of self-appointed 's**ologists' who ply their trade in the markets and main streets. I wonder whether the couple pictured here volunteered to be the manifestation of successful s**ology, or whether their image was just nicked from the web. Either way, the Tom-Cruise-and-Katy-Holmes of Sexology say to me: "after three consultations, you, Mister, are guaranteed bad hair and male lipstick."

Ways to beat the rain and look vaguely spiritual...

The Jama Masjid playground

Waiting for the sun to set and the eating to begin - Jama Masjid

The balloon man of Shahjahanabad

Not a big demand for balloons last night. We saw him again a few hours later and his glumness - unsuited to his profession - had not lifted.

Dear leader

A senior politician from Andhra Pradesh died tragically in a helicopter crash last week. In the feverish aftermath media reported (insert bucket of salt) that more than fifty people had been so grief sticken that they committed suicide. More still reportedly died of grief related heart-attacks. The politician in question was - by most accounts - a good fella, but this demonstrates the seriousness with which some people take politics here. Eish.

The roads in Delhi....

.... are made by hand. The use of mechanical road making devices is banned to protect jobs. But they're not bad roads. And if you look closely you can see fingerprints of human toil all over them.

Glorious puddles outside my house when it rains....

This man has balls

If game theory were a mandatory part of driver training

Driving home tonight, the traffic ground to a halt (again) near the ringroad intersection where all the muth*$&$^&*# drivers try to push in front of eachother - another traffic mess of rubics-cube-esque complexity. The lights were out because it had been raining all day, and the cops were off taking care of more lucrative problems, and so we all just sat there and waited for the mess to sort itself out for an hour. Imagine a hundred children in a playground being given a single knotted piece of string and being told that the one to undo the knot got a lifetime of lollies. Well such was the approach to undoing the traffic knot - a car melee.

I wonder sometimes if the mandatory teaching of game theory in Indian driving schools might help. Everyone would identify this as a collective action problem. All drivers are seeking the payoff of a quick ride home. But they also know that if they can successfully circumvent the traffic order, their payoff will be bigger - they'll get home even earlier. The bit they miss is that if everybody tries to circumvent, everybody loses! No payoff! We all get home later than if everyone patiently let things flow. So, a collective action problem solvable only by the creation of a higher order authority (the absent traffic cop) and enforcable penalties for circumventers (a whack with the long stick some cops carry around).

But I digress. For the time being, the ringroad disaster is my chance to ringfriends.

Dancing, head-banging and santooring in Delhi

I love this big city. Tonight it dished up a heavy metal concert in aid of the environment (bogans for climate change?) and a stunning display of contemporary dance by young Indian choreographers.

I had wondered whether there was room for boundary-pushing forms of dance in a country with such a rich traditional dance heritage and ubiquitous bollywood. But there were no light bulb changing moves tonight. In their place, three contemporary dance pieces which hinted at tradition but were freed from it as well. The soundtracks were sparse, and for long periods silence was the only companion. The dancers were brilliant. Some detail on the performance is at www.gatidance.com.

And as for the metal concert, well that too spoke to an India moving way ahead of the world's perception of it. India, the cultural superpower is coming to a city near you.

Earlier in the week I went to a performance by Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, the legendary player of the Santoor, a folk instrument from Kashmir. Words can't describe how beautiful his music was, accompanied by tabla. And the rapturous applause from a large and surprisingly youthful audience spoke to the ongoing popularity of Indian classical music. But I think that nomenclature is somewhat misleading - it's more like jazz than western classical, free and dynamic and full of improvisation. Magic.

Monsoon II - a colonial construct

A newspaper this week carried an opinion piece arguing that India's famous monsoon was a colonial construct designed by the British to instill a sense of nationhood amongst restive Indians. The notion of a single, benevolent and nation-nourishing cloud was at odds with the reality of India's patchy and inconsistent rainfall - or so he argued. The storm last week in Delhi fitted my mental image of 'the monsoon.' And colonial constructs aside I'd like to maintain that name because it sounds so much more exotic . . . . A bit like 'the outback' or 'the far east' or 'El nino.'

Ethical fashion sans bono

On Thursday I lined a catwalk in a swanky nightclub to watch India's "First Ever Ethical Fashion Show." Spotlights swirled, cameras flashed, ladies strutted and pouted, and some very serious looking lads with high cheekbones walked in a straight line. Sadly, Bono did not make a live video cross, and there was no mention of whales or rainforests, but the room was chock full of very glamorous and, no doubt, very ethical people. I'm not clear on the technicalities of how quite the garments were ethical, but the peasant farmers/ garment workers in the accompanying video did look unusually cheery. And there was no polyester in sight. Everybody left feeling lighter and more virtuous as their late model Bentleys weaved into the late night Delhi traffic.

Monsoon

It's mid afternoon in monsoonal delhi, and the air is alive. The sky is darkening as the wind gusts teasingly at dust covered trees. Birds of prey ride the wild currents as though they were rollercoasters, soaring high then plumetting to earth. And then it strikes, first as ominously big dollops of water, then as a fountain. Trees bend double and shake with the fury of childish tantrums. The wind and the rain become one as they send unsuspecting shoppers scurrying for cover. Everything and everyone stops and admires the unhinged power of nature. Later, the sky turns grey-green, the rain becomes less penetrating, and to the unaccustomed eye it is as if winter has descended. All is still and magic. The traffic consequences are another story!

Khan Market

Independence Day

India celebrated it's sixty third independence day yesterday. It seems such a small number for such an ancient and strong country. As the years drift, the british era is joining the many rulers and conquerers who once tried to control the uncontrollable, now mere footnotes in history books. This country is independent to its core.

All through the night the drone of planes taking off and landing at the nearby airport filled my house. It made me think about India's place at the centre of the world, as the hub for India's vast diaspora, as a magnet for tourists who flock here to be spiritualised and to immerse themselves in smells and cultures foreign, as home to one sixth of humanity and half its religions. The drone in the night made me think of all the family reunions and weddings and funerals and festivals that form the core of Indian life, that binds the diaspora together, drawing them back.

And it made me think about the brittle pride people have for their country, their hopes that it will be respected and not typecaste, that it will shape world decisions, not be dictated to. The legacy of foreign rule is a deep sensitivity to anything that might encroach on India's independence or pride. But they need not worry - Independent India is here to stay. Viva.

Life made easy - Rs50

Work in progress

I've been trying for a week to write an update for friends on my life in Delhi. Six months ago when I landed, Indira Gandhi International Airport was shrouded in a thick mist, and now my thoughts are afflicted by the same. The things I know are these:

1)Living in India is deeply humbling. I feel small amidst its people and culture. That which I've learned before coming here feels abstract and foreign. I've crossed over to another world and my old one will never be the same.

2)There is a teeming energy everywhere that defies description, in peoples conversations, in the traffic, in the air. Life is in perpetual motion here, nothing is still.

3)Ancient India and modern India are inseparable. They pull away from eachother but one is nothing without the other - where they meet is a faultline. New forms of creativity are emerging as the ancient morphs into the modern. But there's baggage too.

4)This is a ruthless place, and life is tough for so many. But people don't complain. They just get on with living. I don't want to become immune to the reality of people's lives. I don't want to glorify their struggle either, just admire it, and be thankful for what I have been given.

5)The expat bubble is an occasional comfort, but equally a curse. It must be escaped.

6)There is nowhere I'd rather be right now than India. I feel like I've just begun.

The buses of Delhi

The old buses are being phased out of Delhi's fleet, replaced by shiny green machines. This is pretty much universally welcomed as an improvement to the lives of commuters. And given the number of unsuspecting pedestrians and cyclists that the buses mow down, this is probably a win for safety too. But there is something about Delhi that will be gone forever with them - something aesethic about the buses that is both brutal and free. Perhaps it's the open windows that emanate a glow in the early evening traffic, or the steep staircases that challenge each boarding. Perhaps it's the scraped bumpers gesturing to road battles faught and won, or the wide-eyed mania of the men who drive them. I'm not sure how to say this without it sounding like development is a bad thing, but I fear a future where every city in the world has the same sort of perfect bus, and perfect commuters commute to perfect workplaces and perfectly execute their jobs so they can afford the perfect education for their perfect children who repeat the pattern for eternity. Something is lost. Something of character.

Division of labour

This amused me - quite clearly there are proscribed limits to the job description of tractor drivers. Drive tractor. Rest.

White Tiger - The Musical

I tipped my toe into the White Tiger side of Delhi last night. A friend of a friend knew a guy who was having a party at a water park near Delhi airport's perimeter. We drove past parked interstate trucks down dimly lit streets. Rising from the 1am darkness, the spotlit waterslides looked tired, as though they had seen better times. A line-up of late-model imported cars spoke to the clientele inside.

We headed for the open air dancefloor where a motley crew were swaying unconvincingly. Bangra mixed with house music blared out at a volume fit for Wembly stadium, dwarfing the small crowd. We were introduced to a strikingly tall Ukranian woman who said the word 'model' with a thick east european accent. She was smiling at everyone, pulling business cards from her gold handbag as though at an Amway convention.

Under the faux-Hawaii huts, Indian men sipped drinks and slapped eachothers backs. Tired looking white women mingled in their midst, occasionally laughing. There was not a single Indian woman there.

We danced for a while, and talked to some NRI-types from London. One mixed a surprisingly tasty cocktail of beer, pear juice, orange juice and white wine - he swore by it - and so a hangover was born. We ran though fountains and got drenched and then danced some more. And then we left.

It was the wierdest party vibe I can recall. On the way home my driver (whose antenna is clearly more attuned than mine) told me it was a Rs2000 a head function, with the promise of free booze and lots of loose white women. Not pretty. If they ever make a 'White Tiger' musical, they'd do well to include a scene from the water park.

The rock garden of Chandigarh

In Chandigarh there is a place called 'the Rock Garden' which in fact is constructed almost entirely of industrial and household waste. It was created by a glorious eccentric called Nek Chand in the years after partition. According to wikipedia, it was not discovered by authorities until 1975 (which I find a little hard to believe given it is right next to the Supreme Court and by 1975 sprawled over 12 acres!). Anyway, it's a pretty amazing place, and it draws as many visitors to Chandigarh as Le Corbussier's modernist buildings beside it. This wall is made of discarded computer parts (not bones I promise). The maze of interlocking nooks and crannies seems to attract young Chandigarhis who sheepishly explore the same in its quieter corners.

To be frisked or not to be frisked

There are two types of people in India - those who get frisked and those who don't. The rules of the game are very clear and displayed for all to see - exhibit A. It is judged that the dignity of those listed would be undermined by the act of passing through airport security. This made national Indian news on the weekend - not as you might expect because it is horribly elitist, but because an ex-President was frisked as he boarded a Continental Airlines flight to the US. This, cried some media, was nothing less than an insult to him, and to India. Slow news day? I asked my driver and he thought the concept of two rules for frisking quite silly - let them all be frisked he said. Couldn't agree more.

Kolkata street at night

Mumbai taxi

I'm not sure if it's got to do with the relative size of bottoms in Maharastra and Delhi, but the back seats of taxis in Mumbai are pretty tight. Yet they're zippy little things - this one blurred past us late at night during a break in the Mumbai summer mist.

Clouds over Bihar

Last week I flew into the sunset from Kolkata to Delhi as the clouds attempted to bring the Monsoon north. I'd started to think this monsoon thing to be a tad overhyped - and then it hit and the streets of Delhi became flowing rivers. Steadfast into the torrent, an old man rode his pushbike home, clothes soaked and hair streaked across his face, but a flash of childish glee on his face at the outrageous amount of water everywhere.

Bangalore Races

I picked the winner of the Kingfisher Derby - or rather a very pissed bloke told me if I didn't bet my house on the horse I was nuts. So I did and it led from start to finish and I pocketed Rs1600. A storm was brewing in the sky and amongst the less successful punters.

Jantar Mantar

Be warned - I think this place is supercool. My pals in Delhi think I'm too into Jantar Mantar, but it's such a novelty I'll be dragging all unsuspecting visitors there. It's an astrological site from the 1700s, built in the days before rulers were accountable for the use of public money. Further explanation during your respective visits..... intrigued I am sure.

Old New Delhi

I took a long walk around Connaught Place a few weeks back. Weaving between newspaper-wallahs and touts, I stumbled across this old gem - the Madras Coffee House. The austere space has long been superseded by shinier coffee shops with flat screen tvs and young waiters who serve with verve. It is a relic of the state owned coffee houses of the 1930s and 40s. It was apparently the first coffee shop in Connaught Place when CP opened as the shopping heart of New Delhi in 1935. The day I visited, this Sikh gentleman and I were the only customers. The click of my camera reverberated across the silent room, muffled only by the whir of the ceiling fans overhead. The coffee was ..... unpretentious, but effective.

Lake: Mountains - Pretty

Mountains rising steeply from Dal Lake: Despite the warmth of Srinagar, a glacier could be seen at the top of the valley. The boats on the water are clearing weed from the lake.

Dal Lake

Kashmir

This week I visited Srinagar in Kashmir which is just as beautiful as the odes suggest. The Dal Lake does shimmer peacefully in reflected sunset, and the mountains do stand by as guardians. It reminded me more of east asia than the parts of India I have seen so far. Pitched rooftops point to snowy winters, but at the height of summer the air was beautiful, warm and still. I heard the non-sound of silence for the first time in months.

I was fortunate to meet many interesting people who spoke passionately about their respective causes. One friend told me that people had fought over Kashmir for centuries only because it was so beautiful - beauty as a mixed blessing. He hoped his son might see a peaceful Kashmir. Another lamented that some young Kashmiris were despairing, leaving formal education for more militant approaches.

All through town, heavily armed police manned checkpoints and patrolled the streets. Fighter jets flew high over the valley (just as falcons soared on thermals rising from the forested slopes). The infrastructure of watch towers and barbed wire reminded me of the left-over shell of apartheid South Africa. But that gave me hope - that where conflict and confrontation were once the norm, a more sustainable peace was eventually achieved. Watch towers were abandoned, and barbed wire was rolled back from township checkpoints.

The Kashmiris I spoke to shared a strong sense of identity as Kashmiris, and a longing for self determination, however that might be shaped. A number said they were seeking 'freedom' in lieu of independence. Most were realistic about the challenge of bringing such an aspiration to fruition. They were frustrated that their wellbeing was part of a larger game.

I came across a few culinary delights - and look away those who are skeptical about my vegetarian credentials. We were given beautifully spiced lamb kebabs in one meeting - hints of cardamon and mint. This was washed down by 'Kava', a mixture of saffron, cardamon pods, chopped almonds and sugar - delicious and worth emulating. And to top this, our hotel had fresh Kashmiri trout cooked in the tandoor - I had this for dinner on successive nights. Be assured that I am returning to a strict diet of lentils, chappattis and vegetarianism now that I'm back in Delhi!

In preparing for the trip, I googled the lyrics to 'Kashmir' by Led Zeppelin. Putting aside the stirring arrangement, the lyrics rang true. "My shangri-la beneath the summer moon, I will return again; Sure as the dust that floats high and true, when movin through kashmir." And so, I hope, will I, perhaps in the winter to try out the ski slopes.

Further to....

A friendly soul sent me this in response to my rant a few days back

“I understand how it feels to be called a racist, when you know that you are anything but that. Our cricketers were subjected to the same humiliation in Australia sometime back and we didn't take that very lightly either. So your anger is justified. But I can't stop myself from saying this - By getting 'pissed off' with India, aren't you doing the same mistake as the Indian media is - blaming an entire country for the foolishness of a few people? Something to ponder about...”

I take that on the chin… sloppy writing on my part. I’ve re-framed the issue for myself and feel a little less like getting on the plane. In branding ‘Australia’ racist, the media are not specifically aiming at me – though that is how it felt in the face of a broken fire-hydrant of cable television opinion. National stereotypes are universally unhelpful, and it’s never wise to judge a people by their delinquent youth or their media, (or their governments for that matter). That said, if ‘Australia’ was an individual, not a country, she’d have fairly strong grounds for a defamation case.

I remain sad that has not been space for more measured Indians to say their bit – particularly those who know Australia and Australians to be on the whole a welcoming, multicultural place and people. My country has a lot of work to do to change perceptions here, and it needs its friends in India to speak up – I see a few are doing so. I wish more of those who spent the last week re-branding my country as racist (a word that sticks like mud) could visit Australia and get some context for their comments.

Meanwhile, the whole episode has baptised me into the ways of public debate in India, and some of the sensitivities here about perceived racism. A learning experience……

The issue of the week is...

So I’m sitting here watching a panel discussion on the highest rating Indian television channel. The topic is ‘Is Australia stuck in a white’s only mindset.’ It has now been 5 days and 5 nights of CONSTANT fever-pitch coverage of the three horrid attacks on Indian students in Melbourne and Sydney. Words cannot describe how damaging it has been for my country’s reputation here.

Last Wednesday I was so sad that these visitors to my country had been treated so shabbily. I wished the numbskull 17 year old schmucks, who wander Melbourne’s train system making nuisances of themselves, would understand that robbing and beating people is unacceptable. I felt for the families in India who had sent their children so far away in pursuit of education - and their worries. I felt for the students who arrived in a foreign country and found the adjustment hard. I was glad that my people were appalled, that governments were promising action, and that Indian students were making their voices heard. That was 5 days ago.

The media here seized on the racism angle – and with reason, after all three Indian kids lay in hospital, hit by separate attacks in separate parts of Melbourne and Sydney. But since then, Wednesday last week, there has barely been a new fact to discuss. Instead the media has wallowed in the racism story. The pursuit of fact has been abandoned for the endless recitation of opinion. I have never seen such a self-indulgent display of group-think in my life. There are NO dissenting voices.

The presenter asks “Is Australia, a country of convicts, trying to overcompensate for its geography by being whiter than white.” A pompous man responds with “yes” and starts rabitting on like an encyclopaedia about a policy scrapped three years before my birth 32 years ago. This is trash journalism. I wish I could call up and tell them how much the accusation of racism hurts. “Racist” is not a word to be thrown around lightly.

So, tonight I’ve had enough – India is pissing me off. I want to go home to my city, Melbourne, and be reassured that it remains one of the most multicultural places on earth, richer for it, challenged by it, but a snapshot of our global future. I pray that tomorrow the sun will rise and India’s media will find something more important to talk to itself about.

One-liners

- A man walks down the street with a white parrot on his linen-shirted shoulder and a poodle-on-a-leash in his right hand.
- A woman steps up to the counter of a bagel shop and says - as though rapping - "I'll take a plain toasted bagel with bacon, egg, tomaytoe and scallion."
- A west African musician raises a room to fever pitch with his kora while west African ladies shake their ample behinds in a duel with the drummer.
- In the same room people dance towards the stage and throw dollar bills at the musicians.
- A man walks down the subway platform in a pink and rainbow lycra jump suit sporting a small tutu and mangy pig tails.
- The daily tabloid runs with the price of beer at baseball games and a global stocktake of vacuous bad-girls inspired by Paris Hilton.
- At a false alarm, firemen stand still on street corners and lean laconically against their truck as if they were an art installation.
- This is New York and it is fabulous.

Roll up, roll up

It would be remiss of me not to mention the “spectacular spectacular” that is national elections in the world’s largest democracy. The feverish campaigning is giving airtime to so many voices and so many parties that I, for one, am a trifle lost. Ninety per cent of my morning papers are devoted to a
kaleidoscope of regional parties and leaders, ex-cricketers and film stars, sons and daughters of the sons and daughters of famous people, and even a few comedians thrown in for good measure. The use of acronyms is totally OOC, out-of-control. And as with elections everywhere, rhetoric, high indignation, one-liners and counter-oneliners rule the debate. Party manifestos were duly released and ignored. In the latest bout, a BJP leader called the Congress Party "an old woman who burdens the nation". Young congress princess, Priyanka Gandhi Vadra responded that she was not so old (36). Congress demanded an apology from the BJP on behalf of the old women of India - and so on and so forth.

So the big questions: Will Congress (or ‘Cong’ as the papers keep calling the 90-pound gorilla of a party) manage to win enough seats to form the core of a new coalition government, or will the BJP succeed with the same. Or will an out-of-the-box third option coalesce around ‘Dalit’ leader Mayawati – whose new house in Delhi, resplendent with a life-size stone elephant in the driveway, belies her humbler roots? With such weighty questions the talk of the town, and few Delhiwallahs able to channel 'the mind of the masses', the race has taken on all the predictability of a Melbourne Cup. So place your trifecta, swill some champas and hold on for the ride.

I’m running a prize for the best caption to this photo – 81 year old BJP leader Advani getting down. Is it just me or is he dancing? There’s even a hint of some ‘air’ vinyl scratching... perhaps he had the beastie boys on while the photographer was snapping.... thoughts?

My new favourite cab driver

I've gotten to know a tall Punjabi taxi driver called Amarjit who drives a van more suited to a very short paneer-munching taxi driver than a man raised on the flesh of lambs and chickens. He crouches in the front and hugs the steering wheel as he weaves through traffic. His life story is unusual. Growing up in Punjab he lusted for adventure and ran away to Europe. For 15 years he was a baker in Amsterdam, learnt dutch and got married to a glamorous Moroccan woman. He talks wistfully about the happy times. Then it all went pear shaped - her family had issues with his religion (three years into the marriage), he refused to convert, the Dutch authorities cottoned-on to his long holiday in the Netherlands and he was sent home. Finding himself alone in a city that preferred naan to sour dough, he reverted to driving taxis. Now he's in the hunt for a nice Indian girl to marry - but not too young. She should be 30-35 - he'd prefer "good nature" to "good looking." Keep your eyes out. In the meantime, I'm trying to pursuade him there are breadeaters aplenty in this city who'd happily drive across town for his sour dour.

Art in a basement

Living in new city is an exersize in continual discovery. Outside of my flat-bubble is a massive metropolis through whose veins pumps 22 million different stories. Occasionally I feel smugly comfortable in my new city, content in new habits and repeatedly-trodden paths. I recognise the same beggars at the lights, and they recognise me. I know a few arterials and nod knowingly as the traffic crawls to a halt around 6 each night. I come across the same cab drivers, and waiters, and guards in my neighbourhood. And then occasionally, I step off my path and am reminded that it's a BIG city and I barely know it. Today was one of those days. I discovered some magic things. In the basement of a house near the zoo (which is something I had no idea Delhi had), I met a charming old man who had collected Indian art since the early 1960s, specialising in Indian minatures. He told me the tales behind the many pictures of Krishna and Radha, lovers of irresistable beauty, as interested in imparting his knowledge as selling art. We sipped tea, he showed me the brushes used by the artists in Jaipur. On his wall was a sign - "abstract art is a product of the untalented, sold by the unprincipled to the utterly bewildered." Not sure I agree, but there was no abstract art to be seen. Another sign read "Indian minatures are a magical world where all men are heroic, all women are beautiful and passionate and shy, beasts both wild and tame are the friends of men, and trees and flowers are conscious of the footsteps of the bridegroom as he passes by. This magic world is not unreal or fanciful, but a world of imagination and eternity, visible to all who do not refuse to see with the transfiguring eye of love." Pursuaded, I bought one... Radha and Krishna dancing in the rain. And I suspect this lovely gentleman will coax me back before long for more. Here is a segment of another beautiful picture hanging on his wall. There is so much beauty produced in this tough land.

Delhi from a minaret

Delhi is a difficult city to get your head around. It's flat, generally low rise and covers a vaste space. So it was quite exciting to climb the minaret of the Old city's spectacular mosque (Jama Masjid) and see Delhi laid out before us. In the foreground was the rabbit warren of Old Delhi, beyond that Connaught Place and the central commercial district, and then further still the power station and a glimpse of the new metropolis' of Gurgaon and Noida. At times in this city it's possible to wonder where the 22 million people of greater Delhi are hiding... This view helped.

Absailing the Taj

This has to be one of the more precarious jobs around - cleaning the dome of the Taj Mahal, a hundred yards up in the air with nothing but flat marble to break your fall. At least that's what I assume they were doing - either that or the Agra scout troop getting a little ahead of themselves.

Louis Kahn - IIM

Louis Khan - IIM

Louis Kahn in India

The monumental architecture of Louis Kahn serves as the campus of the Indian Institute of Management in Ahmedabad. Kahn is known for such grand buildings - and for having three seperate families with three women at the same time.... interesting chap. I saw a doco on him a few years back so it was a treat to visit one of his most notable creations. The campus was built in 1962.

Ahmedabad

After weaving through the crowds of old Ahmedabad, we came to this beautiful mosque (Jami Masjid), built in 1424. I'm always struck how peaceful such open air mosques are, particularly by contrast with their surrounds.

Ahmedabad

This beautiful window was carved from a single piece of stone in Ahmedabad's Sidi Saiyyed Mosque, built in 1573 and now a virtual traffic island between four busy streets.

Ahmedabad

This is the old town of Ahmedabad on market day. We walked through the sea of humanity and onward to the arches at the far end of the street. In that 200 metre stretch, my energy and affection for India was recharged - this place is just phenomenal.

Slumdog furore

A twist to the Slumdog story. Hot off the Oscar red carpet, the fabulous theme song to the Slumdog movie - "Jai Ho" - has been purchased by India's Congress Party as its campaign theme for the upcoming National elections. The exclusive rights allegedly cost them millions. A BJP politician, Narendra Modi, used the song at a recent rally in Gujerat. His political opponents in Congress have threatened to sue him for copywrite infringement. Only in India.

Gandhi going once, twice

James Otis is a collector. He is selling some items once owned by Mahatma Gandhi including his iconic glasses and sandals. Gandhi had given them to people he met during his international travels. The items were to go to auction today in New York. Hysteria has hit India at the prospect that items that once belonged to the ‘Father of the Nation’ might not reside in India for perpetuity. The Indian Government has been galvanised into action by the public outcry and is pushing for Otis to donate them, or sell them cheaply to the Government. Two hours from the auction Otis undertook to donate the items to India on condition that the Indian Government increase the proportion of GDP spent on health care for the poor. Indian cable channels are aghast that he could attach such sovereignty-challenging conditions to the gift. The Government is refusing to sign a contract to that effect. I can’t help but wonder what Mahatma Gandhi might make of all this – a possession shedding man’s possessions are fought over in a global tug of war, live on TV. All await the outcome of “THE GANDHI AUCTION.”

Cheese

My driver Leo has very broad taste in music. He particularly seems to like Oz rock and drum + bass. So it was a surprise today when I asked him what his all time favourite song was - and he said Glen Medeiros - Nothing's Going to Change My Love for You. I've downloaded it for his benefit - my itunes cred is forever in tatters.

If you should so wish to revisit the work of Seniore Medeiros, please click here

Random Sunday morning Delhi

The Sunday stupour in my street was shattered by this - ghetto blaster meets ancient hindi scripture (I'm guessing).

I live in a quiet street - the type of street Mr Whippy vans might visit on hot Sunday afternoons to taunt the neighbourhood children. Today, as I digested the sunday morning papers, a full brass band strolled past my house accompanied by women dancing and a man dressed as a hindu god riding atop a truck. They stopped across the road from my house and blasted my neighbour with hindi songs for 10 minutes. The man dressed as a god made a speech and then they all turned around and walked back down the street. So random!!!!! Anyone with tips on what it all means, please let me know.

On the N5

We were driving down the main highway through Orissa (which connects to Kolkata in the north and Chennai in the South) late one evening recently. Rounding a corner we came across the mother of all jams. More than two thousand trucks (and I'm not exaggerating) were lined up on the road - and judging by the card games underway between drivers they'd been there a while! We cheekily drove on the wrong side of the road for about 2km passing truck after truck - nothing coming the other way. In a small village we asked why the trucks were all stopped. A policeman told us a child had been hit by a truck that afternoon while walking home from school. The villagers, enraged, had blocked all traffic on the highway. They were unwilling to move until the District Collector (sort of a chief town bureaucrat) came down to negotiate compensation. It seemed the going price for a child's road death was Rs20,000. But the Collector was busy, and no subordinates were authorised to approve such an expenditure (about AUD600) so the trucks stood still, their loads sweltering in the heat. Eventually when the Collector rocked up, a compromise was agreed - Rs10,000 and a promise that the Government would erect speedhumps on the highway through the village. Leaving we passed another thousand trucks backed up in the other direction. All sat there patiently, filling the 5 hours of boredom with comradery and endless stares down the line of trucks.

Dalit village holy man - Orissa

Hard work in pink

Not to suggest this has national applicability, but in villages I visited recently it was hard to miss the amount of hard menial work being done by the women of the village. Here a woman is sorting the rice husks from the chaff. In the fields women were bending over to prepare the ground for the growing season ahead - waiting for the rains. Nearby other women were washing, caring for infants and cooking. All the while wearing spectacular hot pink saris. I suspect the men were mostly undertaking work further afield, but those present were doing quite a bit of 'important man' business.