I caught the night train from Jodhpur to what I thought was Delhi central to arrive at six thirty in the morning. Luckily it arrived at seven. I dragged my big bag off the train and joined the crowd heading for the exit like a sheep. I must be at the back of the station, I thought. I don't recognise anything. Confusingly the sign on the station platform said Delhi Junction.
"Is this New Delhi," I asked an Indian passenger.
"No," he said "it's Old Delhi."
The next task was to find the left luggage - called the cloakroom in Indian stations, which was down a hidden passageway behind one of the platforms. One has to fill out a form stating name, address (in UK), date, ticket PNR number, passport number, mobile phone number, visa number, colour of one's cat (I added the last one in), padlock one's suitcase and lift it up onto a counter, behind which the cloakroom attendant stands, ready to store it, numbered and ticketed, on one of the large number of shelves in the cloakroom. I indicated that I couldn't lift it. The cloakroom attendant left the cloakroom by a side door, came round to get my suitcase, then, instead of taking it inside through the side door, he lifted it up onto the counter, walked back round through the side door and lifted it down from the counter.
I joined the throng of passengers leaving the station, struggling through the hooting rickshaws and taxis and made my way along the road to where I thought the metro was, missed it, asked a passing man, who pointed it out to me. More helpful people pointed me in the right direction to catch the metro on the various lines I needed to take to get to Rama Krishna Ashram Marg, gateway to Parharh Ganj, by which time it was eight o'clock.
Parharh Ganj was mostly asleep, cafes, restaurants and shops shuttered, piles of rubbish on the sides of the dusty streets, the odd wandering cow (all of whom are banished during the days in Delhi and only appear at night).
I made my way to Ajay's restaurant, where, like Alice's Restaurant, you can get anything you want: gluten free muesli, yak cheese, peanut butter, tahini, honey, brown bread, tropical fruit salad, omelette, bacon (!!!), sausage, jam.... in a cavernous space under a hotel with no windows to the outside world (a blessing in disguise in this part of Delhi), an Aladdin's cave of clothes shops, shelves full of jams, spices and herbs, and tables full of breakfasting tourists.
"Is this New Delhi," I asked an Indian passenger.
"No," he said "it's Old Delhi."
The next task was to find the left luggage - called the cloakroom in Indian stations, which was down a hidden passageway behind one of the platforms. One has to fill out a form stating name, address (in UK), date, ticket PNR number, passport number, mobile phone number, visa number, colour of one's cat (I added the last one in), padlock one's suitcase and lift it up onto a counter, behind which the cloakroom attendant stands, ready to store it, numbered and ticketed, on one of the large number of shelves in the cloakroom. I indicated that I couldn't lift it. The cloakroom attendant left the cloakroom by a side door, came round to get my suitcase, then, instead of taking it inside through the side door, he lifted it up onto the counter, walked back round through the side door and lifted it down from the counter.
I joined the throng of passengers leaving the station, struggling through the hooting rickshaws and taxis and made my way along the road to where I thought the metro was, missed it, asked a passing man, who pointed it out to me. More helpful people pointed me in the right direction to catch the metro on the various lines I needed to take to get to Rama Krishna Ashram Marg, gateway to Parharh Ganj, by which time it was eight o'clock.
Parharh Ganj was mostly asleep, cafes, restaurants and shops shuttered, piles of rubbish on the sides of the dusty streets, the odd wandering cow (all of whom are banished during the days in Delhi and only appear at night).
I made my way to Ajay's restaurant, where, like Alice's Restaurant, you can get anything you want: gluten free muesli, yak cheese, peanut butter, tahini, honey, brown bread, tropical fruit salad, omelette, bacon (!!!), sausage, jam.... in a cavernous space under a hotel with no windows to the outside world (a blessing in disguise in this part of Delhi), an Aladdin's cave of clothes shops, shelves full of jams, spices and herbs, and tables full of breakfasting tourists.
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