First Impressions of India.

Sam Ferguson
Mar 4, 2015
3 min read

I strode from the airport, tipped my head back and took a first deep breath of Indian air. Free at last from the clinical claustrophobia of the foreigners desks in International Arrivals. Correct forms signed as stamped despite the best attempts of the BA cabin crew.

Scanning the milling pods of anxious tourists and keen eyed taxi drivers, I spotted what I was looking for. Tall, confidently blond and smiling; yes that was my step-sister. I smiled gratefully in return and surrendered myself and a daysack to her easy authority. Minutes later, we were relaxing in the back of an Ambassador, swapping stories and catching up in between furious half Dehli/half English (Dehlglish?) correctional gestures to the drivers. One driver detailed to transport us the arduous mile or so from the airport complex, where we were delivered safely to another driver, and left in his expert hands. Those who know me will be shocked to hear that I was technically awake at 05.00am, which might explain my recollection of the second driver pulling over onto the side of a busy highway. At first he seemed to be gazing wistfully into the distance, perhaps provoked to tears by the sight of the litter adorning this majestic concrete transport artery, the hung-over remains of a 68 year old party. But actually, after much prompting, and a sharp jab from my step-sister’s pointing finger, he confessed he had spotted his brother; a litter picker on the side of the road. A shouted greeting later, ignored by the far off relative, and we were back on track.

Rushed though it was, and seen through my jet lagged glasses, the drive from the airport to my step sisters’ flat didn’t match up to the India of my imagination. It was raining in bursts, and the air was heavy and grey. Driving through the busy highway underpasses, thronged with aimless crowds of New Delhi-ites presumably waiting for a ride to jobs that they may, or more probably, may not possess; I was reminded of the landscape in and around Cape Town, which I had visited years before. Empty, suspicious faces turned to us at every pause. The best defence to which turned out to be a smile and a friendly “hello”, “Namaste”, “How are you”.

Unpacked and showered, I was left to my own devices. Still fending off jet-lag, I marshalled my reserves and decided to walk to the nearby Humayan’s Tomb. I’d heard a lot about ‘the terrifying roads of India…’, but frankly, there’s too much traffic in New Delhi to squeeze in much erratic driving. This is instead replaced by the incessant horn cacophony familiar to most Southern Asian cities. Noticeable though is the lack of discernible rights of way, and to a certain extent the lack of “sides of the road”. However, I felt perfectly safe (rightly or wrongly) marching down the side of a busy road. Dodging stray dogs and suspicious puddles, headed towards my first taste of Mughal India.

The Tomb of Humayan jut out of the flat, almost featureless landscape of New Delhi suddenly, and I almost felt I could have missed them if I wasn’t paying attention. A glimpse of red sandstone walls here, and a sharp break in the roadside shrubbery there, and I was at the entrance. Handing over my rupees and strolling through the gates, I was greeted by a treasure trove of ruins and mysteries. Ornate tomb after ornate tomb, all aligned with one another and each a spectacle in its own right. Miles of gardens and interconnecting water features combine to make this a truly must-see sight.

After a comfortable three hours exploring every inch of this majestic Mughal masterpiece, my adventurous spirit was up. Not for me the now boring walk back along the main road to the safety of my accommodation. Hailing an auto-rickshaw (or perhaps being hailed by one), I set off for the ex-pat haunt of Khan Market. More a shopping district than a conventional (European) market, here are offered such pleasures as imported chocolate, secluded western style coffee shops, and more importantly; ATM machines! Following a number of terse conversations with my UK banking institution, the machine dutifully spat out a wad of notes, and I took in what Khan Market had to offer. Though understandably upmarket due to the proximity of the ex-pat communities, it did feel as if I was being sheltered from the “real Indian experience”. Having said that, a coffee, chocolate croissant, and fresh dollar was a welcome cure to the remaining jet lag. The real India would have to wait, as I caught the attention of a friendly auto-rickshaw driver and mispronounced my way home. Real or not, India it was; and though it was raining, I had arrived.