The Delhi train left at 7, so we were up very early in order to make sure we were out to the stn in time. Encountered an unexpected difficulty when we discovered we were locked in the hotel. Val hammered on the door behind which she thought the staff were sleeping. It turned out to be just another guest she’d awoken, but that turned out to be a help, for he was helpful + friendly + spoke Hindi, so was able to raise the right man. Problem no 2 was finding a rickshaw, no 3 finding a rickshaw that would take us. When we know the price of a particular route, we generally just get in + pay at the other end, but these guys were too wise for that, + would quote a price, generally a ridiculous price, before we got in. Then we would say the right price, + they would say no, so we would walk off, until we came to another one. Eventually, we came upon one a little less knowing than the others. “Railway station,” we said, + climbed on. “Yes,” he replied, + away we pedalled. Naturally, he was somewhat upset when he arrived, + only got R4 instead of the 10 he’d been dreaming of, but I suffered no qualms. He had returned a fair return for his labour, + a job is a job.
The train arrived more or less on time, but altho’ it wasn’t really all that crowded, the people had spread out inside to fill the available space, + were really rather unpleasant about squeezing up. One lady was lying down across 2 seats, + we both became angry with each other. The result was a draw – she remained lying down, but I squeezed in further along the bench. It was not a pleasant ride. I hope I am not becoming a racist, but I have not enjoyed travelling with Indians on Indian trains. The only way I can bear the journey is when I’m asleep – otherwise, it’s hateful. To make a bad trip worse, the train didn’t go direct to New Delhi, but dumped us at some suburban station. It wasn’t, in fact, a great problem, we simply had to cross over to another platform. Luckily, we’d been forewarned of this + waited for the next train to pull in, but Val was particularly peeved by this delay.
New Delhi stn is situated conveniently close to the main city centre, so we were able to ignore the various touts + drivers, + walk right into the heart, a circular complex of shops – 2 concentric rings in fact – surrounding a large green roundabout the size of a small park. The whole is called Connaught Circus, + contained, of special interest to us, the American Express office, where we hoped to find mail waiting for us. And once again, following the pattern of the past couple of months, we were not to be disappointed, for we were handed a sizeable stack of around about 15 letters, counting the mail contained within mail, if you see what I mean.
From Amex we walked direct to a guest-house we had been recommended, Ringo’s. It was alright (but only alright) but wickedly expensive, at Rs 60 for a double room – we decided we didn’t want dormitory. Luckily we’d been forewarned of the appallingly high prices in Delhi. As it was lunchtime + we hadn’t yet eaten, we sat out in the forecourt, ordered some food, + read our mail. We heard from our mums, of course, including a couple from mine that had been chasing back + forth across the world for months: an immediate reply to my latest letter to Maggie; similar from Kev; letters from Pat Corless, Steve Blakesley + June Lucas that have taken ages to reach us; one from Bruce; one from the captain of the Jiwa Sabar (tremendous); + 2 from Yopi (gloom + despair). We read them all except the one from Pete. This was the usual thickness (hefty) + partly because we wanted to save something for later, + partly because we felt guilty about not getting on with some necessary chores, we left it intact. I should comment upon the news, I suppose, except there is little to say. From our mums, only that Val’s is off to Agadir in Morocco for a holiday in Nov. Maggie’s letter was scatty, + included a superb photo. June too sent photos, from our New Guinea trek. Kev was back on top form, + included some recent football results (little does he know); + saddest of all, Yopi is as mad as ever.
Our principal chore for the day was to price our air tickets to Pakistan by the cheapest possible route. Happily, all the offices etc in Delhi are centrally located, so it was not a problem. PIA themselves offered the best, Rs 482, or just about $40 each; even better than we’d hoped. That done, it was back to read Pete’s letter. It was indeed a mammoth work, of 48 sides, tho’ admittedly on tiny scraps of notepaper. The vast majority of it dated from June, of around the time of Pete’s (+ Sheina’s) exams. As such, it was a little disappointing, for right now, especially after the recent glut of mail, we hunger most for new news. It was, as usual however, well-written, with some more serious stuff included along with the flippancy. There were included 2 short interpolated sections from Sheina, which were great. They showed she had intelligence, a temper, + (over + above all else) a sense of humour. But then, + with a very sudden jolt, we were brought right bang up to date. The time jumped three and a half months, + Pete announced he had some good + bad news, both of which being that he had left university. Or rather , that he had been kicked out, for refusing the complete the written assignments. He had also just seen Sheina off at the station (she is off to Belfast to start a PhD, I think) so was suitably morose. And not a little stoned, which was probably just as well in the combined circumstances. I was pole-axed by the news (as was Val), + not a little depressed, both for Pete’s sake +, selfishly, my own. The last section was short, + contained no news of Pete’s recent activities, or comments upon our own recent communication. We had no way of discovering whether he’d even received them. Dreadfully disquieting + depressing it was, + not at all the fillip we had hoped for. His brightest note was the inclusion of 2 photos, one a booth photo of Sheina, the other a splendid one of Pete + Sheina on holiday in France. She was not at all as I had imagined her from her voice, I can’t go into details on that, other than to say she is much prettier. But that, I suppose, is a sexist comment.
After several attempts, we were able to get in touch with Shamshand, a friend of Nema’s who lives in Delhi. That was indeed a relief, for altho’ Val (who made the eventual successful call) was not happy with the way she had introduced us, at least contact had been made. He promised to call round for us at noon tomorrow.
We walked into the centre to find something to eat, + after a good meal, ran into Paul the American. He did us a favour by pointing us in the direction of a small café which serves a wonderful + wonderfully cheap dessert – fresh fruit cream. It was superb. And perhaps it was that which put me in such a good mood that, when approached by a Scots couple on the street with an unlikely tale of having lost their bags + a plea for a loan of Rs20, I agreed. I don’t expect to see it back, but it doesn’t really matter. I remember being given a helping hand by someone in Paris airport, when I returned from America with almost no money. I appreciated being helped then.
From this perspective – forty years on, and rather more comfortable, from a financial point of view, my attitude to the rickshaw drivers seems desperately unfeeling and mean-spirited, but at the time it was just a particularly unpleasant aspect of our life then, constantly having to negotiate (after we returned, it took us quite a time to shed the habit of asking how much things cost in advance of making a purchase.)
Otherwise, into the city, and apparently a most expensive one, particularly unfortunate as we are starting to run out of money. But good news about the correspondence, the flight, making contact with Nema’s friend…
