We avoid the "craps" bet get into jams

Friday 9 November
The date in the header is the date of posting. I can't find how to change it.
After breakfast, we sort our possessions into "stay" and "go" piles, opting to take most of the clothes to Dharamshala. We travel light by state of mind, not weight of luggage. Then by metro and auto-rickshaw to Hauz Khas in the leafy southern suburbs, the city's lungs. This was on my "faves" list from 2011. Hauz Khas was the capital of Sultan Feroz Shah, Muslim ruler of Delhi, and has substantial remains of his palace, mosque and madresa. His high domed and echoey tomb, in which he still lies, was built in 1350, some thirty years before his death. The site is a maze of secret passages, granite pillars, windows and doorways opening onto sheer drops towards a lake. It's a perfect set for a photo shoot, and we watch a glam model pose for a fragrance advert.

Not the model, just in case you were wondering

Hauz Khas Village, adjacent to the ruins, is an up-market "enclave" of designer boutiqes, art, antiques, and restaurants. Sara buys an old saree. We guess the Sky Restaurant may have rooftop seating and climb several flights of steep steps, emerging on a high veranda with a panormic view over the lake. It is a magical spot, a technicolour version of Salhouse Broad on a hot, still day, with iridescent blue winged birds swooping between trees, white geese honking on the further shore, pea green water, and a couple of boys swimming out for an adventure on a wooded Arthur Ransome island. More prosaically, it's actually a man-made reservoir, dug in 1304. About the same age as the Broads, then. We drink beers (from glasses this time) and lunch, European style. Heading the dessert list on the menu is "craps". Someone has helpfully written in "(shits)", but the waiter doesn't understand the joke. "Craps" comprises various fruits, Nutella, and, to add to the illusion, "wiped cream". Worth a mention in my next talk.

Feeding Faun

Then to Hauz Khas deer park. I note the updated sign advertising the park's "salient featurs" at the entrance. Along with 4317 trees, the park boasts 274 rabbits, updated from 61 last year. Glad they're enjoying themselves in the way rabbits do, though we don't spot any at it. Most of the 210 beautful spotted Bambi deer are feeding just the other side of the fence. They are in fine condition, quite tame, with soft doughy eyes and a few with impressive antlers. Some brilliant peacocks are also pecking at the food, though they have lost most of their tail feathers, we know not how. In need of a loo, we find the posh Balluchi Restaurant, where a sign on the door warns "Arms and ammunition is not allowed inside the restaurant by order Delhi Police." Glad we left ours at home.

It's rush hour again on the metro. Standing room as we enter, but with each station more and more people pile in and we are pushed further into the body of the carriage. When positively the last body is squeezed in, and intending passengers must be left on the platform, the carriage is a near solid mass of humankind. Personal space is not an Indian concept, though you need to be careful where you put your hands for fear of arousing suspicion. You might think that so much compacted mainly male human flesh would be, well, smelly. Not so. The air is surpringly cool and sweet-smelling and the train is shiny and spotless. But how to disembark? A notice forbids pushing on entry and exit, so we ask a young female commuter. "Oh, you must ignore the notice," she giggles, "Just push." Which we do and are finally disgorged onto the platform. Back in Paharganj, a boy is selling peacock-tail fans. So now we know.   

The Jammu Mail. We recover at the hotel, then find an auto rickshaw to convey us to Old Delhi station. We are warned it may take 45 minutes, so leave ourselves 11/2 hours. It will be good to arrive early for a change. But our initial jaunty pace soon slackens, and by the time we reach Old Dehi our rickshaw is wedged in a mass of stationary vehicles, just occasionally luching on by a yard or two then stopping. "Traffic jam," the driver explains, as if we hadn't noticed. The minutes tick by, and we start to grow a little anxious. S leans out and asks someone in another vehicle how far to the station. "Two minutes," he says, and we relax. But when two turns into twenty-two, then forty-two, we remember an observation in the Culture Shock book that well-mannered Indians prefer to tell people what they want to hear rather than the truth. So "yes" often means "no" and "two" can mean.... well, think of a number. Our train departs at 8.10. By 8.10 we are within sight of the station, and at 8.20 we draw into the forecourt and join the queue for the scanner. The Jammu Mail is still showing on the departures board, on platform 5. This, by amazing luck, is the platform opposite the entrance and, yes, the train is still there. We dash across and look for the first class carriage. The whistle has already blown, the doors are still open but the train starts to move. Sara all-but-leaps aboard, I throw the suitcase after her and just manage to heave myself in. Dharamshala here we come.