PS: Delhi Revisited

Dinesh is Our Man in Delhi. His eyes aren’t quite interested in the same thing, behind his pebble-glasses, and he comes up to about Mr Roland’s third rib. Within a heartbeat of his whipping into the front seat of our Tourist Innova, we learn that he has two sons and a daughter, 18, 16 and 11, that he used to be a jeweller, in Bandra, Mumbai, that he speaks Japanese, and that he’s lived in Delhi for twelve years. We’re well out of the diplomatic area, with its spacious embassies and copiously-sprinkled lawns, and into the Mumbai-familiar scurry and scramble of Old Delhi, when Dinesh sees fit to mention his wife, before segueing smoothly back to his tourist patter. It seems the Presidential Palace of Delhi was home to the last Viceroy of India, Lord Mountbatten, who employed more than four hundred gardeners, to service its grounds, and fifty soldiers, as human scarecrows....

At the Jama Mashid Mosque, we feed single file through the bomb-detecting door-frame, and up the wall of stepped slabs beyond. The threat of terrorism's never far from anyone's mind, here, so it's not surprising, that they're so hot on national security. What is surprising, though, is that the bomb-dectecting door-frame's not wired up to anything other than fresh air. Indian security's so... Indian.

We’re just kicking off our shoes, breathless, before entering the central courtyard, when we’re shooed away by sentries – it’s four o’clock, and the muezzin’s revving up for the evening call to prayer. As we’re littering the doorway, with our mouths hanging open like bumpkins fresh in from the west, a posse of youths clatters up the stone stairs, three at a time. They flick their shoes to the chappal-wallah without breaking their stride, pulling their lacy skull-caps straight: they’re late.

Dinesh, apologetic, offers to bring us back in half an hour, when prayers are said, and the faithful no longer need protecting from the taint of prying observers, but I point to the schedule of house rules, by the entrance archway. “Number Eight: Women are not permitted to enter after the evening prayer.” I am the only female fly in this particular ointment, so I consider offering to wait outside, while they go in and fulfil themselves touristically, but I think better of it, before my kindness gets past my teeth. So, we peek in at the gateway, and that’s as much mosque as we see today.

At the foot of the steps, a whole Muslim community springs up on every side. If you don’t spot the crocheted cap stalls, the butchers are a dead giveaway, their counters curtained with grim carcasses, and laid with strings of dark meat. I turn away quickly, but not quickly enough, I’ve already seen the basket of goat-heads on the floor. Dinesh says, “Very danger area,” and flips the central lock. (Does that remind you of anyone you know? Anyone from Lucknow, for example?) At night, here, our man from Delhi says, only Muslims walk abroad.

We crawl through the maze of packed streets, happy to drink in local colour now we’re locked in - small shops, wooden stalls, or even bits of rag, spread on the bare pavement, then arranged with fragrant piles of garlic or heaps of toasted nuts for sale. There’s a whole unglamorous row specializing in car parts. “We keep the car moving,” says Dinesh, sagely, “We stay still, ten minutes, all car gone.” Just like Liverpool, I think... “Then, we come here, buy car back again, one piece this shop, one piece next shop...”

We drive to the Gandhi Memorial, and our afternoon of untourism is complete. It’s closed. The guard slouches on his plastic chair, his rifle leaning cosily against his khaki knees, but he wakes up for a consultation with Dinesh. Thus we learn that tomorrow’s the anniversary of the assassination of Indira Gandhi – 31 October – so the park’s secured twenty-four hours in advance: you can’t get in to mooch round the mausoleum, in case you’ve got a bomb stuffed down your salwar. Fair enough. “Is just square of black marble,” Dinesh says dismissively, as we do another U-turn, “... and eternal flame.” I wonder, why we were going to see it in the first place, since it’s such a non-starter, but I don’t say...

Plan C’s Birla’s Temple, and – desperate for some sights to see – we agree before Dinesh reaches the question-mark. We screech away from the lights, as soon as they turn green: dust and exhaust-fumes shroud the motley crew of somersaulting beggars, lady-boys, and coconut vendors, plying their various trades. An occupational hazard, if you live at the cross-roads.

Happily for us – and even more happily for Dinesh - Birla’s Temple’s a winner. Mr Birla’s big in construction, second only to Mr Tata, here in India, so the temple’s by him, rather than to him. It’s also known as the Lakshmi Ganesha Temple, but you could guess that from the statuary at the gate. Mr Birla has a statue of his own, but it’s in the back garden, to eliminate any possible misunderstanding.

Indian enterprise is ever alert to a retail opportunity. Before being overwhelmed by spirituality at this place of worship, they slip in a tourist shop by the front entrance. It doesn’t say “Tourist Shop,” obviously, it says, “Foreigners this way!” and by the time you realise it’s actually a shop, they’ve got your shoes. And, in our case, your mobile phones and your camera, too... There are elephants-in-elephants on sale, and pashminas, and sandalwood Buddhas, but there’s no obligation to buy. Not unless you want your phone back, that is. The temple’s dedicated to Ganesh, the God of Business, and to Lakshmi, the Goddess of Money, so how could there not be a shop on the way in?

Dinesh kisses the steps, and makes for Ganesh’s shrine, for a private word. With the ring-finger on his right hand, he presses a red kum-kum bindi, first on his own forehead, then on each of ours. His wife must know where he’s been, I say, when he gets home, of an evening.

The bell above the central arch, on the way into the main temple, is suspended out of reach, so you have to jump, to hit the clapper and make it ring. A French lady asks Owen to pick up her friend, to help him sound the bell, so he does. The Frenchman’s fairly substantial, and I’m just wondering why he needs a lift, when I notice, he’s blind.

On the way out, I buy a lacquered elephant, to redeem our shoes. In my own defence, it’s very small and blue, and therefore inevitable. Or, that’s what I tell Mr Roland.

We’re staying at the Taj Palace Hotel, in Delhi. So are the Australian and Indian cricket teams. We draw up at the grand entrance, and are swept out of the car and into the hotel, by Maharajah doormen in cockaded turbans and curly moustaches. The marble steps are flooded with reporters and random passers-by, brandishing cameras and mobiles, but I don’t twitch my kurta straight, or even pat my mad hair. Dinesh jostles importantly past the liveried flunkies. “So, tomorrow,” he says, avoiding the chief doorman’s eye, “we meet here in the foyer, nine-thirty, right?” I’m almost sure that’s right, because it’s what we agreed in the car, less than fifteen seconds ago. Dinesh needs a passport beyond the plate-glass doors, though, and we’re it. He abandons us instantly, and scuttles off to harass cricketing legends, and to be swatted out of the way by their minders. I’m thinking, it’d be nice to take some photos, too, for our cricketing boy, back in Mumbai, but there’s a small snag. I wouldn’t recognise Sachin Tendulkar if he served me my breakfast egg, unless he was labelled. Mr Roland contrives to catch Australia between floors, though, without getting punched, so our happy conjunction is not lost to posterity, after all.

But is it cricket?

If cricket’s your thing, look away now. No, I mean it. This is only going to annoy you. Go and make yourself a cheese doorstep, and get a beer. Watch Scrubs for a bit, go on.

So. IPL match, Mr Roland says, do I want to go? If you’re still here, I’m assuming you don’t know – or indeed, care - that this is Indian Premier League cricket. As it happens, I don’t want to go, I’d rather watch the shoe-shine man shine shoes for three hours. In all my life, I’ve only seen one notable over of cricket, when Gary Sobers hit six sixes, about three centuries ago, and I thought things were looking up. There’s been little follow-through, as far as I know. I say yes, anyway, in the interests of sociability, but I’m not deeply hopeful.

Monu’s a big cricket-wallah. “One team, twenty over,” he explains. “All match, forty over.” I tell him off, because even I know there aren’t three teams, and I can cope with the maths. He only laughs. The whole match will last “three and four hour,” so I offer to look after the car for him, while he spectates, but it’s not to be. Rear offside tyre pops, within tooting distance of D Y Patil Stadium, Navi Mumbai, so we abandon our lovely boy, in a dead car, in seven lanes of honking traffic. As soon as we touch tarmac, we’re sucked, helplessly, into the slipstream of cricketing aficionados, like salmon going to spawn.

Street artists offer to paint my face with tiny flags, orange, green and white, but I’m already conspicuous enough in my select female pasty-face subset. At the D Y Patil Marg Entry gate, there are six channels for men, and one for Ladies. I have to surrender my bottle of water, but the contraband banana in my bag escapes notice. Twenty seconds later, we buy more water at the drinks stand.

I feel I have the rudiments of cricket instilled, after endless Sundays of Hot Rice at Tatton Park – the ball’s your enemy, your only weapon’s the bat, the bowler’s merciless, and everyone out there’s against you. My real cricket experience, to date, comprises a half-day at Trent Bridge, last summer, England v India. “So, what’s a wicket?” I ask, as we find our seats. “Graham, I think you’d better sit next to Caroline,” says Tricia. In our quest for a bacon baguette, we meet David Gower, going the other way. I can’t work Graham’s smarty-pants binoculars. India’s already won, before we slap on the Factor 25. What more do I need to know?

So, here I am. Seat 33 D, South A Bay, Level 3. The cheer-leaders – a controversial innovation – strive to out-wiggle each other. The local ones, fettered in lycra, have nothing but their arms and feet on show, with racy tinsel at the hips. The imported ones – Eastern European - are in shorts and cropped tops. I’m sure cheer-leaders in America go to church in less, but in India, it creates reams of expostulating footage in the press, about family values and disrespecting women. Then again, you can be arrested here, for kissing on the street.

This is the Mumbai Indians’ home turf, and their supporters aren’t shy. I tell Kamal – event organiser - that I feel sorry for the Rajasthan Royals, with just a brave smattering of followers, with their tailed turbans and drums. He laughs. Rajasthan have five consecutive wins under their belt, and are Top Dogs. Mumbai win the toss, and let Rajasthan bat first.

The stadium seats fifty-five thousand. It’s a sell-out. The row in front of us - ten seats, eleven Indians - all sport turquoise “10 – Tendulkar” shirts. Mr T - I call him Sachin -is their star batsman. He’s injured, but his followers don’t care whether he’s playing or not, he’s only got to poke his nose onto the display-screens, for the crowd to boil with joy. He’s offering a personal gift, to the fan who catches Mumbai Indians’ first six. I’m jockeying for position, myself...

Play begins. A hail of paper aeroplanes from the tier above douses the light, for a moment. I think Rajasthan are playing their mascot, but it turns out to be Swapnil Asnodka, who’s the best and bravest of them all. When the first of the Royals is caught out, the entire stadium’s on its feet, roaring. The fielders mass ecstatically for a group hug. Cricket's more like football, than I had realised. What happened to the Stiff Upper Lip?

This whole new breed of cricket incites a new style of play. The tendency, with a 20s match, I’m reliably informed, is to “twonk it one.” (I instantly adopt this as my favourite verb, at least until Christmas, so long as it’s not rude.)

What’s Hindi for Mexican wave? It goes anti-clockwise, ten times. Can you believe, Hindi for “Whoaaa!” is “Whoaaa!” The waves and the paper planes proliferate, when play is dull, but as soon as someone twonks a six, all flights are cancelled.

Rajasthan are all out for 103, and haven’t even used up all their overs. It’s not going to be too tricky, to whup that. There’s talk of tactical play, as the Tendulkar fans buy MacDonalds burgers from the vendor, inching his way down the aisle. At some point, the gates have been opened to Joe Public, and every step and gangway’s crammed with non-paying guests. Fire regulations, I think, fleetingly, but dismiss the thought. Our tickets cost IRs 1000 each, as much as Monu earns in a week. By now, tyre fixed, he’s sitting on a stair, somewhere the other side of the stadium. Fire regulations don’t come into it. If you’ve seen an Indian train, dripping passengers, you wouldn’t think to notice the packed stadium.

Rajasthan captain, Shane Warne, whacks out a Mumbai Indian with his first ball. The row in front is silent and still, flags lowered. It’s not just a game, then. The play’s half-hearted, despite promise of twonks. Tellingly, the moat’s fetlock-deep in paper-planes.

After 27 overs, I say, “So, there’s a bowler at each end, then?” Mr Roland looks at me, incredulity flitting across his face, just in front of tolerant amusement. We only ever had one bowler, in Hot Rice. Now I think about it, with the runs and everything, it’s only logical...

Mumbai Indians grind away the score in singles, and win on a wide, with a whimper not a bang. Even so, the fifty-six thousand people, heading for the exit, are euphoric. Against all the odds, it’s an amazing night. I might take cricket up, after all. Graham, please note.