Sunday 5th October 2008

“Shuutiyaa,” Rubin shouts above the cacophany of laughter, “means to have a thousand vaginas.” It was 4 a.m. and we are sitting in the foyer of the Taj Mahal Hotel. Rubin is leaning back in a red antique chair, while beside him three girls recline on a sofa, bursting with giggles. Above our heads are several domes, adorned with gold, and a fountain tinkles in the centre of the marble hall. There are fresh flowers on the receptionist’s desk and around the room; not the lurid orange marigolds that women on the street sew into garlands, but lilies and orchids, and shiny green foliage.

We’ve just come from a sweaty four hours in the hotel bar, ordering mojitos and dancing to everything from ABBA to the Chemical brothers. Not a hint of a raga. Among the white faces, young and hip Delhiites clinked glasses, dressed in tight T-shirts, designer jeans and heels. Some leaned up against corners with each other, kissing: unimaginable in any other public place. Here, a double whiskey costs 6,000 rupees. Neilesh winced at the idea of paying $12 a pop as he pocketed his reciept.

Now, we are exhausted, though our local found companions are still more than merry. Ruben is still regaling his companions with blasphemy. He explains that he’s just come back from doing a PhD at Columbia University in New York, which he said was basically “time wasting for a year.”

I excuse myself and visit the ladies’. There, a small, dark-faced Indian women bows to greet me. She touched my arm to stop me reaching for a paper hand towel and bends forward to place a large basket of freshly laundered towels. When I’m finished I have nothing more to do than to throw it in the bin in front of me. Somehow it feels different from the black women who sit in the toilets of bars and clubs in London, amongst an array of perfume bottles and face creams. Inevitably they are slumped in their chairs and they don’t really care who enters or leaves and by the end of the night, they have stopped their lacklustre distribution of ragged hand towels. In the marble bathroom, I turn around to the uniformed woman who is wiping the handtowel and think of the man who brings us steaming hot chai every time we return to the house, and cooks our meals on demand. Indian politician Pherozeshah Mehta once said that in India “your sahib [master] remains your sahib whether in office or not.”

Ruben is still creating screeches of laughter across the inebriated group. “How do you know that Jesus was Bengali?” he asks, choking with laughter at his own joke. “He lived at home until he was thirty, he believed his mother was a virgin, and she believed he was God.” More laughter. Neilesh explains to him that in New York that’s a Jewish joke. It doesn’t matter to Ruben, who proceeds to explain that in his teaching days, he’d gather his students around, open a bottle of tequila, and interpret the Koran. Together, he said, they even started the Wikipedia entry for the Indian head wobble (it doesn’t exist).

I go outside for a cigarette. There, three young men who were also in the bar stand and smoke on the steps, even though it has been illegal to smoke in public for 3 days now – since Gandhi’s birthday. The doormen don’t bat an eyelid. They come and ask for a light, and invite me to a polo match. “It’s on us,” one of them says, flicking back his coiffed fringe as he places his sunglasses on his head. “You’re our guests.” He winks, and climbs into the BMW that has just been driven onto the red carpet by the valet boy.

There are more millionaires in Delhi than there are in New York, whilst over one third of the country - 350 million people – live below the poverty line. Thirty five to forty per cent of the population live on less than 45 rupees ($1) a day. The glass of wine I drank tonight would be around two weeks’ wages. Delhi’s middle classes are rising in population, but not as fast as the rural poor, who are growing at a rate far exceeding the rate of economic growth. Delhi is both surrounded by, and dotted with hopelessly crowded urban slums. At night, the smell of burning dung rises from them, though they are hidden from our house. Similarly, there is no sign of a beggar here in the hotel forecourt. Here, even every car is searched upon entry, James Bond-style, as gatekeepers open the boot and checked underneath with mirrors. With security like this for the guests, unwelcome ones don’t have a chance.

Begging is a daily occurrence in Delhi At traffic lights, outside shops: anywhere in the streets. Many will walk beside you to wherever you are going, imploring. Often, mothers gesture to their children who reach out with dirty, chapped hands. A few have amputated their own limbs in the hope that they might raise a few extra pity-rupees. Some are under the influence of mafia groups. Some are simply starving.

Back in the hotel, Ruben is sharing his tequila-inspired interpretation of the Koran. When it is time to go, and the sun is beginning to rise, he calls for his silver Saab and we all bundle in, giggling and sitting on each others’ laps. Ruben at the wheel sways the car from side to side on the empty road. One of our friends has already lost his license for drunk driving, he laughs, but his driver at home will take him anywhere. Besides, Ruben laughs, in Bangalore at least, the breath test for drivers consists of breathing into the policeman’s face as they sniff your breath. He’s passed that one many a time.

There are plans made for dim sum tomorrow; for cricket some time this week. We drive past one of the settlements from where the burning dung smell is rising. It’s at the end of our road. We fall out of the car into the semi-darkness, still giggling, and roll towards the gate. The watchman, who has already been working for the majority of the day, is ready with smiles to open it for us, before we can even touch the latch.