He is a bad loser. He chalks my valise as if he were writing ‘Fuck off.’ One takes a lot from these customs bastards.

A porter grabs my valise. We pierce through a wall of clamorous taxi-drivers and find a cab. The porter dumps my valise on the rear seat and exclaims: ‘Okay sir, salaam!’ Airport rules say don’t tip porters. He takes five rupees off me.

The Sikh cab-driver has a Sikh friend in the front seat. Twenty minutes later we arrive at my destination. The cab-driver lights a match and reads the meter, ‘Eighteen fifty plus two for the luggage. Twenty fifty.’

‘Eighteen fifty?’ I pack as much disbelief as I can into my voice. It is more than double what I paid on my way out to Palam airport a few weeks ago.

‘Eighteen fifty,’ repeats the cabbie. His friend lights another match and reads: ‘Eighteen fifty. See meter.’

One Sikh may argue with one Sikh. One Sikh must never argue with two Sikhs—certainly not after dark. I pay twenty rupees fifty paise plus another two rupees as tip.

The night-watchman of our block of apartments is also a Sikh. When I go out of Delhi, I leave the key of my flat with him. He is an honest fellow but a little soft under his turban. He was discharged from the army for his eccentricities. Although he was only a truck-driver he never forgets he once wore a soldier’s uniform. He jumps up from his charpoy and orders himself: ‘Salute!’ And salutes me as if I were the colonel of his regiment. ‘How was his Majesty the King of England?’ he asks me in English.

‘England now has a Queen.’

He thinks that a matter of small detail. ‘Very well, sir. Did you ask His—beg pardon—Her Majesty, why he/she did not answer my letters?’

‘Budh Singh, how long have you been like this?’ I enquire very gently. Budh (knowledge) Singh gets this way three times in the year; then he becomes a Budhoo (simpleton) Singh. One has to be very gentle with Budhoo Singh.

His eyes burn. ‘You think I mad?’ he screams. ‘You want dismiss me?’ I do not answer. He unlocks the door, switches on the light and lets me in. He carries my valise to the unlit bedroom mumbling to himself. He comes back and presents me the key of the apartment with both his hands like a vanquished general surrendering his sword. ‘Sir, here is your key and here is your job!’

‘Budh Singh, I only asked you how long you have been like this,’ I say taking the key.

‘Yes, but I know truth,’ says he peering into my eyes. ‘Public say Budh is Budhoo again. Sahib sack him when he back from foreign. I say Hunooz Dilli Door Ast: you know what that mean? It is a long way to Delhi.’