Deepawali

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It turns out heading back north was for the best, for Divali in any case. Delhi is a very lively city albeit that everyone drives as if they were fleeing an alien invasion. Day was as hot and dry as every other so far, and spent the day at famous Connaught Place, famous because it was built by the British in the form of a huge circus with concentric rings of buildings with up-market shops, but the Indians were not allowed into. It is still up-market with shops that wouldn't be out of place in London or Paris but the actual infrastructure has been seriously neglected and it ain't no Champs Elysee. Being white and European is like honey to the touting bees and I am forced to take refuge in coffee shops, a policed park and even a KFC. The young tout that asks me (the twentieth time in an hour) where I am from gets the rough edge of my tongue, and seems a bit miffed that I should not be delighted to speak to him, it is Divali after all! Evening falls and the streets are transformed. I eat at a local diner which is open because they are catholic, and a chicken byriani, three roti, a large sweet coconut lassi, and a litre of mineral water is 210 rupees (3 pounds), and I leave about half as it is so large. I wobble out into the hot but pleasant night air and along to the Bazaar, where fireworks are being set off everywhere on roads and paths. One is a bit too close to a parked car and someone almost says ta-ta to their TATA. The main Bazaar is about a mile long with alleyways full of traders branching off every fifty yards or so. The main street is covered by a mantle of white fairy lights stretching out of sight in both directions, and in the same way that snow cover makes everything look pristine so the the lights excuse the faults in this scene. Combined with Hindu hymns playing from loud speakers on telegraph poles, the smell of spicy foods coming from open fronted restaurants the night feels quite "festive". That's not too say it's not also frenzied, think Christmas shopping ON Christmas day then having dinner at 8! Everyone is trying to sell something-one enterprising sole has covered the rear of his hatchback in silver foil and is selling kebabs out of his boot, another street trader has a huge pan of boiling oil perched on the remains of a steel chair at the side of the road among brick and plaster rubble, cooking what appear to be donuts. The fireworks are a bind however, and become more and more regular until it is one constant round of bangs and explosions, which lasts for over three hours. Later in my room I feel like I am under attack at hotel Rwandivali. Seem to have lost the short and interesting theme, so will sign off. K

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