To The Queen!

New Delhi’s final day was spent dashing in the heat and polluted sun between a variety of air-conditioned shops and cafes. From around midday till about 5am the following morning, I barely stopped. What exactly I was doing, dehydrating myself in the sweat of the capital, I’m unsure, but I did manage some key tasks. For example, I am now the proud owner of a kick-ass set of tabla. In case you’ve forgotten, or you just fancy clicking on another site, tabla look like this.

By the time I got around to actually getting to a tabla emporium, I’d already managed to waste most of my day. I had successfully made myself drip from head to toe yet I had not been able to complete many of the jobs required for the last day in the city. I had stuff to buy, phonecalls to make, people to meet. By the time I set off on the tabla mission, it was late. I had a rough budget of 3000 rupees (just under 40 quid) and the first two shops I found after much walking and asking and rickshaw taking, were rubbish and expensive. Then I found a real music shop. A smiling guy was sitting by a beautiful wooden desk in his elegant music store, fixing a sitar. In the shop was a very strange American guy (that frankly people worry about) who I’d met in Dharmsala. He was playing Radiohead’s ‘High and Dry’ to a cute Belgian girl. I joined him for the chorus.

Once he left, I got down to business. It turned out the cheapest set of tabla he could offer me was 6000 rupees (80 quids ish - including all necessary accessories). I was carrying about 4000. He wouldn’t bargain on the price.

As I was leaving the shop, I saw a photo of a man shaking hands with The Beatles. I also saw the same man shaking hands with Ravi Shankar. The guy’s dad. This was a serious family connection. The Beatles bought their instruments here. Now I understood the price.

I went back, found Effie and Rhythm (another good friend from my travels) and they sat me down and pointed out the benefits of buying tabla from such a distinguished man. They would even lend me the money. Despite being very low on cash, I decided that I would indeed regret not buying them and I borrowed the money and set out on the mission again. Just as I got in my rickshaw I saw a friend, Murti. Without a word, he jumped in my rickshaw and told me he was looking for me. He wanted a flute. We got talking about tabla and flutes and when I mentioned the price the rickshaw driver jumped in, “Six thousand? I know a warehouse in Old Delhi where you can pay half.” It wasn’t a tough decision. The rickshaw would cost more, but it would save me big time.

After a long ride through what seemed like (but clearly wasn’t) half of Delhi, we dropped the rickshaw and started wading through the madness of Old Delhi, led by the benevolent driver. He led us to an unmarked archway and then through some pitchblack alleyways before making it to the anonymous music warehouse.

The man there showed me a nice selection of tabla and talked to me about astrology (he told me I need to do some charity on Tuesdays and Fridays). I found a set that looked and sounded nice and I managed to agree a price for the full kit - 3700 rupees.

I tipped the rickshaw driver handsomely. It pays to be useful.

Myself and Effie ate our evening meal in probably the poshest restaurant I’ve ever eaten in. The food was rich and a bit confusing but I drank a nice minty rummy cocktail. The toilet was wicked, all shiny black and individual hand towels and a small fountain for a sink.

After half an hour’s sleep, we got up at 5am to get our taxi to the airport. Teary eyed and bleary eyed we stared silently at Delhi’s modern landscape rushing past us in the emerging light of the day. We saw a car come very close to battering into a bus.

We had a few luggage problems. They wouldn’t let Effie take her didgeridoo as handluggage. It’s a metre and a half of wood. Maybe she would get angry at the inflight film selection and start walloping people with it. At the last minute, it was checked as fragile luggage – like my tabla. Luckily everthing survived.

I watched the flight safety instructions in utter dismay. British Airways have decided that a flashy, computerised version of made-up smiley people showing how to affix a lifejacket is preferable to 'real' made-up smiley people doing it. It was a little embarrassing because the flight attendants still had to stand there, made up and smiley (but dying inside) and point to the ‘real’ exits when it was appropriate. But that was it. Okay, they still use the ‘real’ ones to deliver tea and coffee and shitty food. But still, I think my point may still stand. I had no idea where the exits were after all that, I was so distracted by the modern world's attitude on dignity and its reduction of the work force.

The very film that you can’t see me in that I made in Bombay back in September (Taxi Number 9211) was one of the inflight movies and just before we landed I got to see the dance scene where you can’t see my hairy ass dancing to high quality modern Hindi pop. The subtitles informed me that the lyrics are all about the effects of love at first sight: “every face looks brighter, things generally improve” (words to that effect).

You now find me slept, fed and culturally surrounded. I’m in my brother’s flat in London. Located artfully on a street and connected to some other houses also in a trendy part of London, I can gaze out of the window at artful, short-skirted and gym-toned ladies and muscle-bound fashionistas. Welcome back scruff boy.

We ate at a lovely restaurant last night, summoning enough energy to stay awake, eat meat for the first time in months and defend the tenets of Eastern philosophy. It was quite impressive.

So, I stare at the walls. Rows and rows of books I’ve been wanting to read. I look at the television, artfully positioned opposite the artfully comfortable sofa and beside a huge selection of quality art films and TV series. The cd selection has me diving for Blur, The Super Furry Animals and Oasis. Ahh, England. Ahh, culture. You can fill your life with this stuff.

And yet there is a strange feeling inside. I am happy to be back but I wonder where I will fit.

The war in Israel is upsetting (I’m with Effie, my Israeli girlfriend, it’s unavoidable). But what troubles me is how much people carry this with them in their daily lives. It’s not that war isn’t a global problem, but perhaps to absorb a morning’s dose of propaganda before work and spend your watercooler time talking about it…what’s it got to do with you? I can’t help feeling that to focus on one’s immediate reality is a more productive and positive way to deal with life. Worrying, criticizing and debating about World Affairs can only begin by delving into a quagmire of lies and opinion that the MASS MEDIA feeds. Who to trust? No one? Everyone? The BBC? What is a fair representation?

Will filling one’s mind and one’s concerns with other people’s misery bring one happiness? That’s assuming happiness is one’s goal. It’s definitely my goal.

Ok, these debates I have little power for right now, I must go see an old school friend who apparently lives on the same street.

Ok, let’s go explore London.

Some administration: to those who actually know me and wish to hear my voice - all universalised from ten months with Indians, Europeans and Israelis who speak English like American children, you can reach me on my old old mobile number (thank the lord for pay as you go). It's the one that ends in 9992. And if you don't have it, email me.