They told me that Delhi in mid-May would be “really rather hot”. Turns out they understated that one, by a couple of reallies and at least one unpleasantly rude word (take your pick). I’ve never been anywhere this hot: it’s about 43 degrees, I’m told.
It feels like a giant, who’s really into ceramics (as a lot of giants are), decided to construct a colossal kiln about ten miles wide. The old cliché about walking into an oven is spot on: occasionally a strong breeze gets up, right in your eyes, which is like a fan-assisted oven I suppose. When I’m accidentally outside for more than about five minutes I start to feel like a cheap, slowly browning chicken. And 15 million people live here?
Luckily I’m staying somewhere that’s posh enough to have air conditioning. It’s also posh enough to have a grand piano in the lobby, although not quite posh enough to have someone actually playing it. Instead, they have a computer programme that somehow knows how to press all the piano keys to Chopin’s greatest hits and bingo! – you’ve got yourself some cheesy hotel lobby music. You can wander right up to the piano and the keys are going up and down but there’s nobody there, like the bastard child of Knight Rider and Liberace.
(PS I was just thinking: there’s a great children’s story waiting to be written about this. Imagine – a magic piano! What fun! I’ll get right on to it and make my fortune! Then I remembered Sparky. Gah!)
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