India | New Delhi

"Don't worry, I'm not selling anything. Just want to help. Which your country? How long you stay? You want rickshaw, local price?"

 For anyone writing about New Delhi, there tends to be a feeling in the pit of your stomach that you're not giving it a worthy even description. This is because there are so many ways to cut the cake. 

Streets of New Delhi in the early morning

 Imagine New York in the 1890s, but if a giant had tipped all of his rubbish over the city. The same giant then did big shits anywhere he wanted but mainly on the road and pavement. There was so much mess and litter that I was convinced it couldn't just be accidental. It must have been someone who was in a rush looking for something ,very precious and small.

Imagine one gangster dog, fucked most of the other dogs, and now only one breed of stray dog dominated the city, policing their delicate but defined boundaries.

 Imagine the Sims, expect an idiot was playing and  kept clicking 'add vehicle' but the same idiot didn't download Theme Hospital, or have any concept of overpopulation. 

 Imagine a noise that even people who listen to Trance would hate, except it's playing all day at the highest volume. The song is the same, loud beeping, but covered by different artists who all perform at the same time. 

 There is a traffic jam everywhere all the time, which is barely remedied the single traffic warden on each street corner, blowing into a whistle whilst staring mid distance. 

 I don't feel that I am over exaggerating. Many parts of Delhi are what a migraine must feel and look like. Dense tributaries of warm blood, bursting and pounding, in a rush and under the pressure of an uncontrollable flow. I did however, in a strange way feel really connected to the city as it was was a reflection, and antecedent, of my state mind. Despite all of this, Delhi had a catchy rhythm - a Bollywood inspired metropolis.

 Delhi can provide a glimpse into what it might be like to be a celebrity. Everyone is interested in you. Regardless of if they want your rupees, you can feel their eyes stick to your sweat. You often find yourself in the difficult situation of wanting to be left alone, without losing your British way of being extremely polite.  

 Imagine a twatty Instagram feed featuring photographs of urban and developing cities. #filtered #oldmeetsnew #findingmyself. The bright pink of a Saree against the disgusting brown of earthy floor. My white skinned friends would always remark on how colourful India was, but now I get it. Colours which I was only used to seeing coupled on the pallet now roamed free. 

 Street food is tempting mainly because of the smell of fried pastries and sugar dense Jalabis are irresistible to any mammal but also because it is a legitimate opportunity to eat exactly as the locals do, which is to say, unapologetically and unhygienically. 

 Old Delhi's pulse was to be found in the heart of Chandni Chowk. A wide arterial street, giving life to its clogged and atherosclerosised side streets. Growing up, in each of my grandparent's homes there was a medium sized drawer, usually hidden away, full of things which can only he described as 'useful not rubbish'. Bangles, pens which only half worked, paper clips, loose change of foreign denomination, colourful threads and broken pencil head leads. Chandni Chowk was where people bought these things, in bulk and in one go. 

Bazaars in Chandni Chowk, New Delhi

 5 miles away, the flashy Connaught Circle which is a massive mitochondrial structure of shops, bazaars and restaurants. It has a different feel to the real Delhi, and leaves an inauthentic taste in your mouth (I'm thinking a strawberry flavoured condom). The area is replete with teenagers verging onto adulthood who, for a couple of hours, can become the people that they see on their American television channels. The boys wear their trendy hairstyles saturated with high gloss gel, and shirts which hug the major muscle groups, donning sunglasses whatever the weather.  The girls, with hair black and straight, pencil thin eyebrows and unnecessary facial paint, follow the scent of the boy's strong cologne. You can hear the phrases, 'perfect', 'crazy' and 'cool' more often than necessary, often to describe things which are exactly the opposite. Despite this, I found delight in knowing that the gap between my people and myself had become narrower. I didn't feel like so much of a privileged sell out who left the others behind. I still have cousins in India who carry stuff on their head, and sell things that nobody wants to buy in a market which no one really goes to. When I saw them last, I asked for their email address so we could keep in touch. They didn't own a computer. What words can I say to close that conversation sensitively? 

 A trio of well-known fast food chains stand dominant, punctuated by the odd Starbucks rip off. The outer membrane of the pavement features market stalls selling everything from sunglasses to wooden carvings of elephants. As the night draws, familiar bass lines leak from the many bars along with tipsy and flirtatious teenagers. In the distance, the smog obscures the view of rickshaws darting around the traffic, and the dense clouds of flies can be found dune each street lamp. 

 Further afield there is Khan Market, a medium sized up-market square. The perimeter is made up of restaurants which resemble the love child of Ottolenghi and Carluccios' poorer but more modest cousins. Imagine if Shoreditch suffered from an allergy but still had the decency and grit to put on a good show. I enjoyed this part of town but become worried that eventually the whole world would be almost the same. Pretentious twats, drinking weird coffees with extras like flavoured syrups, enjoying the 'Quirky' vibes, whatever the fuck that means. Did I want to live in this world? Probably. One that had AC and password-free Wi-Fi as a basic? Where outside every cafe you would find a board chalked with a terrible coffee related pun? Where for some reason 'homemade' and 'local' jams were superior to those mass produced in factories? Things and foods should be made in factories. It's only a matter of time before we become excited about homemade computers and local Wi-Fi. 

 Khan Market, yes it's a perfect way to end a trip to Delhi, a temporary cure from the madness and a break from having to decline offers for rickshaws. Anyway, back to my Cortado and listening to the last few seconds of whatever Norah Jones song that they have playing in the background. 

 Moments from our hotel, under the bridge that led to the railway, the bright white street lights would shine on what it meant to have been dealt a terrible hand. Beggars with no hands. Young children, so apathetic and used to their poverty that they don't bother to shake the flies off of their naked bodies. Making eye contact with their mothers was distressing. I was the Westerner that could have helped but didn't, and as I continued past them that is how I will probably always be remembered.