Cattle class

I woke at seven a.m. yesterday morning, somewhere in northern Maharashtra (or possibly southern Gujarat – it’s difficult to tell), 14½ hours into my 16 hour journey on the Rajdhani Express from Delhi to Mumbai. It’s one of India’s fastest trains, shooting across the country at an average speed of over fifty miles an hour. (FIFTY! Eat my shorts, TGV).

Before the sun went down the previous evening, we had a lovely view of the countryside south of Delhi: it’s mostly flat, farming country, with straw huts dotting the landscape and the odd bored-looking cow to keep us on our toes. Occasionally we’d pass slowly through a small town, where at least half the buildings look unfinished, the bicycle rickshaws skilfully avoid the piles of rubbish, and a handsome temple rises above the throng. And there’s still a cow, only this time it’s wandering along the track, right next to my window, giving me a quizzical, slightly disdainful look like I’ve committed some dreadful faux pas at a cocktail party.

All in all, it’s a much more civilised way to get around than all these ghastly aeroplanes. Where else can you get an 800-mile journey, a comfortable bed for the night, a good supper (mateer paneer, cumin dal, cardamom rice and chapathi, with chutney to spice it up and dahi to cool it down), a well-meaning if slightly mysterious breakfast (a sort of fillet-o-veg with peas and tomato ketchup), lashings of tea and biscuits and a morning newspaper delivered to your bedside… and still get change from forty quid?

Human pyrex

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!)

Election update - news just in...

Ok, I do love the Indian elections after all. Sounds like English Country Walks have some competition...

Shiny shiny, shiny boots of leather

I'm normally a cheerfully grubby shoes kinda guy. But earlier this evening I passed a shoe-shine maestro on the street, looked down at my feet and said 'aw, go on then, you've talked me into it'. In fluent Marathi, obviously.

So for the next ten minutes I get to watch a real professional at work. I can't help thinking that he's far better as his job than I am at mine, but then he's not alone in that... When he's nearly done, a little kid wanders along from nowhere, grabs my shoes and the man's brush, throws on a little more polish, and attacks them with gusto. Gives them some real humpty, too, no messing about. Two shoe-shiners for the price of one! Bargain. (Although in size terms, it was really only one and a half shoe shiners.)

Any allegations that my newfound interest in shiny shoes is prompted by a desire to use them as a mirror to look up girls' skirts will be firmly denied.