Monday 13th October

“The thing about India is…” It was about the fourth time in the last two minutes our host had said it. We are sitting in a restaurant in Connaught Place, a plaza area which can best be described as the Oxford Circus of New Delhi, but with better food. Some family friends of a friend had taken us out for a sumptuous dinner. When you are ex-pats, the most tenuous of links become your comrades, such is the common bond of alienness shared, and the pool of likely acquaintances shrunk. And now we were the honoured recipients of one of the best meals we’d ever had: lamb, tandoori chicken, spicy paneer, perfectly cooked lentils, naan glazed with creamy butter, parathas sprinkled with gentle spices. A restaurant, I find, can always be rated by the standards of its toilet facilities. Here, before you can reach the top of the stairs, an old man smiles and greets you, before dashing into the cubicle before you with a handful of paper towels to wipe down every possible surface.

Back at the table, I sit across from our host again. He begins, “the thing about India is…” and launches into a conversation about India’s pre-colonial history. He regales us with tales of pre-colonial kings and queens and princes, of the triumphs of Jawaharlal Nehru, and the Nehru-Gandhi dynasty. Indian national pride is one of the country’s strongest assets. It comes partly from an economic rivalry with China, and partly from a deservedly-held self-congratulation in being an emerging, billion-strong democracy despite it’s size, poverty, and the fact that it has only had 50 years to do so.

“Look outside at the people here begging,” our host says, pointing to the door. On our way in, one of the beggars who swarm Connaught Place in the evening had crept around the group, before being severely scolded by our host and sent away. He continues, “no one out there is insane, though. They are poor, but they are not insane like back in your country.”

The average beggar on the street may not be as crazy as most New York bums, or soaked in Special Brew like the bearded men living below Waterloo Bridge. But mental illness as a whole is a big problem in India. And the country is struggling to keep up with demand. A recent report by the National Human Rights Commission of India found that around 3 million people suffered from some kind of mental illness nationwide. By 2010, it is set to overtake heart disease as the biggest killer in the country. Every day the Times of India reports details of at least two or three suicides in Delhi. This is a city obsessed. In India, if it can be proven that someone drove the deceased to their death, the charge is murder.

The same report also found that there were only 29,000 beds nationally to treat mental illness, meaning that roughly 90% of people are not getting the medical attention they need. The fallout between people needing, and people receiving treatment, especially for disorders such as depression and schizophrenia, was seriously lacking; that is, among the poorest classes that is, and not the wealthier who could afford their own personal shrink.

There is a view in the West that Indians are spiritual, centred beings who do yoga every morning, ayurveda in the afternoons, and visit their guru’s ashrams regularly for guidance. In fact, Indians are the same as any of us. They suffer from the same biological imbalances, the same reactions to trauma, and the same work and family pressures. And there is an increasing interest in mental health too. In the city, people attribute disorders to the breakdown of traditional family ties, to the increasing speed of life, and to the pressures of work, not least in the current economic climate. But these are common scapegoats. Doctors are taking mental illness increasingly seriously, not just for the average commuter but for the poorest, most downtrodden village people.

Back at our table in Connaught Place, we are far from any village, and cordoned off from the threat of any beggars, mentally stable or otherwise. We drain our wine glasses and shift our full bellies to the waiting cars, and roll into the back seat. I sit next to our host’s wife, who engages me in conversation about her recently-started career: turns out she is a hypnotherapist.