The Wonder That Was India

By that time I was just a little tired in Dubai having no qualms about my last and relatively recent shower 13 hours ago and having no clue I will be praying that schistosomes would refrain from killing me in the solar waters of Hindustan. Now I was mesmerised by the Airport of Dubai, a huge structure of glass and metal with fairytale-like flickering neon in the nocturnal languid air of the Arabian Peninsula. That was a playground of incredible magnitude, where you can happen to come into the presence of aloof Krishnaits wearing their sober attires made of luffa sponge, majestic sheiks staring in a sly fashion from behind their sunglasses, their wives wrapped in black rippling veils, frantic Korean businessmen, westernised Asians and easternised Europeans , flocks of francophones and lusophones, English speaking and Spanish shouting… all roaming amidst the countless luxury shops scattered for kilometres around.The air, torrid and dry: the first breath-in, while edging your way down the air-stairs, knocks you down. People around are swallowing open-mouthedly the dehydrated oxygen of Mohammed’s native land. Having exchanged some moon-shiny dirhams for blurred rupee coins we flew to Delhi.Landing to the Indira Gandhi Airport we were forcing our way through the thick veil of impenetrable smog, as it turned out, this fog - a local manifestation of the rainy season - is the water slurry that hovers in the air, and creates the poor visibility even on the ground.
In the street I realised that the air that I breathed in Dubai was nothing less but the celestial feast for a king of my lungs. That "aroma", to which I was soon got used to, was the Delhi mixture of gases consisting of humid impurities of all possible odours typical of medieval eastern city. Immediately all the clothes become wet through; sweat was obscuring the vision of the delusional city. Six of us crammed into one car. And so we went, tearing the inside walls of the left-hand drive car. We were manoeuvring between the cars, pedicabs, cows, the school-kids and the poor for about forty minutes. The sheer ultrasound of Indian pop music went mercilessly unleashed on us. We were brought into the lush area of Old Delhi, the Heart of Asia with its eternal heartbeat of the slums, filth and ruins, the lysergic-coloured surreal buildings piling on each other, the kaleidoscope of gazes belonged to vendors, dalits, mendicant dervishes, fakirs, street performers and staunch devotees of the Hindu-dharm.