As Jet Airways Flight 262 from Kathmandu was landing in Delhi, I looked out of the right window in search of familiar landmarks: first the Jamuna barrage, then the sewage-treatment pond and finally the concrete petals of the Baha'i temple. But this time, I was staring down at an unfamiliar landscape – the only recognisable feature was ruined fortifications, which had to be the Purana Quila. The confusion was cleared up after touchdown. The fancy new international terminal at the Indira Gandhi International Airport is not yet ready, but the new runaway has been put to use. As a result, the approach now requires aircrafts to fly further south, and hence the view of the old fort ruins.
Travel to Delhi, whether there is a view or not, always introduces a momentary panic in my mind, a programming that goes back to the summer of 1975. A law student venturing out from Patna, en route from Kathmandu to the great Indian metropolis, detrains in the Old Delhi Railroad Station, is fleeced by three-wheeler autorickshaws, and finally arrives at Delhi University's Jubilee Hall hostel to learn that there is no accommodation. Then there is the search for a chattri in nearby Timarpur Township, across Mall Road, which is also the Grand Trunk Road. A small-town boy lost in the big city, like so many others. And the first-time experience of the bone-bleaching heat of the plains, and no one tell about it.
Dilli must be similarly alien to many Indians as well, outsiders in this powerful metropolis. The most powerful politicians and bureaucrats in the land reside here, and they have in turn attracted the scholars, the business folk, the artists, the activists and the labour force to service everyone. Today, Old Delhi and New Delhi still bear an outward resemblance to their old selves, but the power of the city has scaled unimaginable heights in tandem with the economic might of the shining half of India. In the old days, the rides on the Delhi Transport Corporation's Ring Road service, known as Mudrika, used to take one through large stretches of darkness. Today, all of it has filled up with light and sound, and Delhi has reached out to Noida in Uttar Pradesh and Gurgaon in Haryana. From the air, you can see the network of the new Metro, which promises to make this an efficient metropolis. With the underground aquifers exploited mercilessly, however, Delhi's thirst will also see the Jamuna eventually run dry. But no matter: with so much power in its hands, Delhi will get its aqua one way or another, even if it means desalinating seawater and piping it over from the Gujarat coast (methinks).
Then again, Karim's, an eatery with a lineage going back to the time of Akbar, or so they say, still carries on. But I wonder if Peshwari still exists, a flight up, next to Moti Mahal, where one could gorge on the best fruit cream dessert available. Back then, Golden Eagle was the beer of choice for students, and Kalyani Black Label for an extra kick. They used to say that Golden Eagle had too much glycerine. In this last trip, at the India International Centre Bar, I heard the complaint that Kingfisher had too much glycerine. What's with these Indian beers?!