It is time to catch up with Delhi. A quick shower and I am off in my Hindustan Ambassador. More roads and round-abouts have had their names changed. The Windsors, Yorks, Cannings and Hardinges have been replaced by the Tilaks, Patels, Azads and Nehrus. There are red flags outside a petrol station with three men chanting, ‘Death to petrol-stationwalla.’ Red flags outside Dr Sen’s nursing home. Six men yelling, ‘Death to Doctors.’ Red flags outside Food and Agriculture Ministry building. Four men in garlands sit cross-legged on the lawn. A placard in front of them says Third Day of Relay Hunger Strike. A procession with saffron flags goes along Parliament Street chanting, ‘Our religion and our country are one. The cow is our mother. Death to cow-eaters.’ On the lawns of Connaught Circus there is a political meeting. The speaker yells into the mike: ‘All together cry—Jai Hind.’ The crowd obeys: ‘Jai Hind.’ The man at the mike is not happy. ‘That’s not good enough. We cannot fight those Chinese pigs with such feeble voices, can we? Let your voices be heard as far as Peking. All together—Jai Hind.’

‘JAI HIND.’

Pekingese pigs piss in your pants. With enemies like Indians you’ve nothing to lose except your piddle.

I park my car beside the stalls of the Tibetan ‘antique’ dealers on Janpath (once Queensway). The same brand of American tourists bargain for the same kind of brass and stone bric-à-brac. The same set of Sikh fortune-tellers mumble the same kind of romances and travel to foreigners. One fellow spots my Marks-and-Sparks T-shirt. ‘You come from phoren, you go phoren again,’ he assures me. ‘One minute you give me and I tell you love-affairs. Rich, white lady passioning for you. I tell you name. I tell you how to make her and her much fortune your own.’ I speak to him in Punjabi. ‘Tell these things to the Amreekans, I have no money.’ He knows his victim. ‘Money?’ he sneers indignantly, ‘Money is dirt on back of hand. You great future. Much riches. Much love-affairs with phoren ladies. One evil star stopping you. Close palm.’ Without thinking I clench my fist. ‘Now open.’ I unclench my hand. There is a black spot in the middle of my palm. ‘See!’ he says triumphantly, ‘Black star! You give rupee one only. From Amreekans I take rupees ten. I tell you how conquer black star.’ I give him a rupee and am instructed in the art of seducing foreign women. ‘Sardarji, your lady love name begin with J.H.T. Yes?’ I know no woman with the initials J.H.T. He goes on: ‘When you get white lady with J.H.T. in name you remember Natha Singh, world-famous palmist-astrologer.’