Delhi and doubts

A view from my hotel. Delhi.

Lying on the hard, wooden bed I wondered if I had done the right thing. Despite India still being that one bit of abroad that always lures me back, it has to be (in my experience so far) the most irritating country anywhere.

I think I say that with affection…

I was in good humour from the airport. My driver, who charmingly introduced himself as Raj, wanted me to sit next to him, patting the passenger seat with what he probably thought was irresistible allure. But I know my place and as a female travelling alone with a male driver, it is definitely not next to him! Ignoring his disappointment I hurled my backpack into the back, but then the nagging began. Of course there were the usual questions of profession and personal life, and I almost slipped up by not pretending to be married, catching myself in time and inventing a manly yet intellectual husband (my husband of choice this time was an army officer until I went off the idea and made him a college professor instead - thankfully Raj didn’t seem to notice the switch). But travelling alone without my husband was very bad, he told me. Not having children was very bad too. Did I drink alcohol and smoke? he asked. At this point I realised he was checking to see how loose my morals were and so feigned horror at the very thought, after which point the conversation suddenly died.

I was grateful for the silence because with Raj’s nagging and the late hour, I was tired. Relaxing, I stretched my arm along the back seat only to retract it quickly. As I felt a string of little bites I realised that something was living in the upholstery so for the rest of the journey sat away from the seat, imagining being taken over by fleas.

So I was glad to see Wongden House in Delhi’s Tibetan Colony, where I had reserved a single deluxe room. It only took a few minutes of ringing the bell and knocking on the door to rouse the hotel boy who was clearly off kipping in a room rather than at his designated spot on the floor in reception. He gave me the room key and asked for my passport. The desk clerk wasn’t going to be in for a few hours, he explained, so he’d keep it and return it later in the day.

Yet ever since a bank clerk once wandered off with my passport for more than an hour and scared the living daylights out of me, I have developed a strong, protective instinct over my passport. “No, I said.” I would keep it and come down to register in the morning. The hotel boy produced a pile of highly valuable passports that were sitting unguarded on the counter as proof that I had nothing to worry about. Hmm. Somehow, that just didn’t make me feel any better about the situation. Yet my refusal had thrown him, as he insisted and insisted, looking quite distressed when I put my passport away in my bag. I knew that I could trust him, yet I also knew that I would not get one wink of sleep if I handed it over. Also I wasn’t in the mood to play ‘shanti shanti’ with something so important.

Finally after lugging my backpack up four flights of stairs, stopping to claw my way back from the brink of a heart attack every few steps, I found myself in an ordinary room. “I booked a single deluxe,” I told the boy, who began mumbling and poking around the tiny room, looking under the beds and prodding the mattresses. This, the mumbling and the poking, carried on for a little while and even though the sensible and experienced part of my brain knew I was onto a losing battle, that I would not get my single deluxe, the tired, grumpy part of me just wanted to shower and do whatever I needed to do in a private bathroom. “Where is my bathroom then?” I asked, as he carried on looking under the beds, thinking you‘re not going to find one under there.

But there was no point to the conversation. “I will go downstairs…mumble mumble mumble… and come back… mumble mumble,” the hotel boy lied.

Of course I knew that he wasn’t going to check anything and no way was he coming back. This was just his way of saying, “You are scaring me now so I am running away to go and hide.”

Defeated, I locked the door, deciding that my need to sleep was more overpowering than my need to be clean. And as I lay on the bed, exhausted, I wondered what the hell I was doing in India.

An hour later I was suddenly awakened by an urgent banging on my door. I called out ‘just a minute’ but the banging continued. Could there be a problem? I opened the door to a young man who was pointing down the corridor and saying one word to me. I thought he was saying ‘sheet’, and wondered why I would need clean sheets now. But he was saying ‘shift’, instructing me to change rooms. “No thanks,” I said, and stomped back to my hard, wooden bed for some more disturbed sleep.

But since then things have improved, mainly with the onset of sleep. The desk clerk, when I finally checked in, was very apologetic about the room mix-up. Having rested, I was more rational and knew that it wasn’t a big deal. My friend Simita, who has been in Delhi for two days, then met me at midday for a long lunch to catch up on the gossip. “I’ll have a banana pancake,” Sim told the waiter.

“No, no pancakes now,” the waiter informed her. Breakfast was over. “Not possible,” he said apologetically.

Unsure of what to order, Sim studied the menu again and found banana pancakes listed under the desserts. Could she have a banana pancake as it was also listed as a dessert? “Oh yes,” the waiter said. “No problem.”

And so despite the irritation, I think that is why I always come back. Because to use an American expression that says it all, India just makes you need to go figure. At least it is never dull.