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DELHI August 28th – 31st
The city of Sheffield developed from an eighteenth century village, Sheaf Field, which nestled in hills at the confluence of five rivers – Porter, Rivelin, Don, Loxley and Sheaf – the waters of which were to turn the mill wheels of forges in the iron and later steel manufacturing. Thus, the nineteenth century city was placed in the forefront of the Industrial Revolution but for this same topographical reason – the surrounding hills – Sheffield did not have an airport until land was released as a result of the decimation of the coal industry in the 1980s. Even then, partly because of shady practices in the newly privatised coal business, it took several years before a small airport appeared on former opencast mines and railway sidings. When we arrived for our flight, at six in the morning, the air was still, the terminal building quiet even though it was filling up with passengers and their entourages. Our taxi driver was our neighbour, Brian, who had insisted on driving us the four miles out to the airport at a time of day that made his kindness above and beyond the call of mere neighbourliness.
This was the first time we had used the airport so, as we took off on the first leg of our journey, we felt this was quite an auspicious start – taking a new view over that part of South Yorkshire we had known for twenty eight years. The M1, city landmarks and then the surrounding hills of the Peak District were soon separated from us by a layer of cloud and we settled down to enjoy a KLM breakfast on the short hop to Amsterdam.
Schippol Airport, which I also had not used before, lived up to its reputation for cleanliness and quiet efficiency. I was pleased that we had made such a stress-free start. Although Pat was by now looking forward to the whole adventure, I was conscious that there had been moments, at the time the idea was first mooted, when she had been uncertain and not a little anxious about joining me on this trip. On other such ventures – Hong Kong, Australia, New Zealand, Malaysia – she had felt quite comfortable shopping or sightseeing on her own during my working weekdays. India, with the known attention of beggars, its none-too-easy urban transport system plus the obvious worries about health, was not a country she could immediately feel so relaxed about. Having been fascinated by the subcontinent on my earlier visit, and wanting very much to share this fascination, I admit there was some persuasion on my part (I like to think not too much). The result was that, certainly in the early stages of the trip, I was very aware of her reservations and was probably too protective and over-sensitive to her worries.
For the moment, however, all was going according to plan and the feel-good factor was enhanced when I managed to sweet-talk the flight attendant on the 747 to move us from the claustrophobia of central seats to the leg-space of the emergency doorway. We were able to identify the Danube, the mountains of Rumania and the Black Sea before the afternoon grew dark and we settled down to rest before our mettle was really tested – at Delhi airport.
The first of what was to become a catalogue of frustrations came at baggage reclaim. At every other airport I have used, luggage has remained on the carousel to be uplifted by the passenger – a tried and tested system. One can only speculate as to why, at Delhi, the luggage was removed from the carousel by staff and assembled in the already crowded immediate vicinity so that, before long, there was an area the size of a soccer penalty area crammed with suitcases of every description and size plus all the other appurtenances with which Asians in particular seem to travel. Was it because the carousel itself was likely to grind to a halt if left with a full jumbo-load? (Only the previous week, a child had been killed on a faulty escalator at Mumbai (Bombay) airport.) Or was it, as I suspect a scam. Since it was impossible with any dignity or safety to scramble over the phalange of cases, many people were employing the very men who had unnecessarily caused this chaos to extricate their luggage and load it onto a trolley. Since no incoming foreign passenger would have any rupees (it being illegal to bring Indian currency in to the country), the porter would then show the passenger where to change currency and collect a large tip since cashing a traveller's cheque is not likely to produce many small denomination notes.
Fortunately for us, our cases emerged from the edge of the scrum and I was able to haul them on to a trolley and make for Customs. I was brought to a halt by a notice warning that any passenger bringing into the country more than $10,000 (American) must fill in a declaration form. Although I only had a little over that amount, I could not risk being delayed and interrogated by Indian Customs carrying out a random search, so we found the appropriate windowed counter. A bored-looking man with long, bony arms and the regulation moustache which any male in authority in India seems to sport, looked at me, bleary-eyed, and, after I explained my mission, muttered at me "You need not have bothered". Instead of leaving the matter there, however, and, I suppose, to justify his position, he proceeded to fill in three different forms, all triplicated, via my responses to his none-too-easily-heard questions. Ten minutes later, I was the proud possessor of a certificate enabling me to take $10,500 into the Republic of India.
The first stage after customs was Thomas Cook's bureau de change. What happened next I can only ascribe to a number of factors: the eight-hour flight (it was now 11pm local time), the scramble for the cases, the general noise and hubbub, my annoyance at delaying matters by offering to make unnecessary declarations and having half my mind on our next step – locating the Delhi Police Department pre-paid taxi office (as instructed by our tour bible, The Lonely Planet). The queue was not long and, on reaching the counter, I took out a cheque, signed it in front of the teller but, before handing it over, realised to my horror that what I thought was a $50 cheque was, in fact, $500! The idea of retaining that cheque and explaining at some further date that it was already countersigned by mistake and "could I please just go over the signature ..." did not appeal. I had no choice but to collect 22,000 rupees in a wad of notes so thick that the cashier had to find me a special envelope in which to secrete them. These notes were to haunt me through the next three weeks.
As a further introduction to the duplication of work which is a feature of all matters Indian, we paid for our taxi at the aforementioned Police Dept. window, then we had to take the receipt to another window round the corner where the taxis were assigned. This meant running the gauntlet of a crowd of taxi drivers all of whom insisted that "Yes, I am your taxi sir". Resolutely gripping Pat’s arm and my receipt and manoeuvring the trolley without ploughing into the forest of legs and ankles, I eventually reached the office where every official seemed to be shouting either at each other or at the taxi drivers, the latter desperately hoping the next fare would be theirs. When our taxi was found, several small boys fell on our cases, picking them up just clear of the ground and boyhandling them into the boot of the Ambassador taxi – I had some coins from paying for the taxi so they did not go unrewarded. Eventually, we settled into the back of the cab and began the first of many heart-stopping journeys through the disorder of an Indian street although, by this stage, we were so tired that most of the driving lunacies passed us by on the route to The Claridges Hotel.
It was not until the next morning, after breakfast in Pickwicks Coffee Shop (stuffed full of British memorabilia and with Silent Night, Little Drummer Boy and Winter Wonderland for muzak) that we began to appreciate the splendour of our hotel. Dating from the 1920s, the building was originally a private residence and, with adaptations and additions, became The Claridges in 1950. Its situation, at the junction of Aurangezeb Road, Krishna Menon Marg and Janpath, provided the hotel with a wide, sweeping drive around a well-tended lawn. The palm trees and casuarinas were home to many palm squirrels – similar to our common grey squirrel but smaller and with a distinctive stripe running the length of its back. The spacious foyer was presided over by uniformed doormen, the most impressive of whom was a tall Sikh whose warrior ancestry was reflected in his military bearing. It was his voice, we realised, which had woken us from our jet-lagged slumber earlier that Sunday morning – part of his duties was to call, via a microphone and loudspeaker system, for the taxis which were lined up out of sight beyond the tall, white perimeter wall. Inside the foyer, the marble tiles, elaborately decorated furniture and the plethora of the most wonderful floral displays gave the hotel a palatial feel. All of the "front of house" staff were men, mostly young, handsome and extremely smart and with names such as Jeremy, Charles and Henry. Their English was impeccable. Apart from the hotels in Chennai, nothing on our tour was to match the obvious (but most enjoyable) ostentation of The Claridges – note the definite article.
Our room, with its emperor size bed, luxurious settees and chairs and elegant mirrors, was tempting enough not to leave but, despite our tiredness and the intense heat, we knew that we must see something each day of the city which was waiting for us beyond the front doors. Delhi has been called the "graveyard of dynasties" because every conqueror since the first Mogul invasion in the 12th century has subsequently lost control. On each occasion in those 900 years, the new conquerors have laid waste to the city and built a new one. The exceptions were the British who, in the 1920s, built a new city alongside the old. Hence, The Claridges lay in the heart of Lutyens' New Delhi and it was this area we decided to explore on our first full day. We negotiated the rate for a taxi to Connaught Place (Rp150) and the Sikh major-general duly summoned a vehicle. Once installed, our driver asked if we wanted "for shopping?" and when we said no "just sight-seeing" he was most perturbed and continued to tell us where the shops were open. Having failed to make the day into a retailing experience, he then tried to sell his services for the day. "I wait for you – only Rp500 – you do your seeing, I wait and bring you back". I told him that we would find a taxi on the road when we decided to return. "No taxi Connaught Place – no taxi – I wait." He wore us down (but for Rp400) and we were to be very glad he had done so – he was not wrong when he said that there would be no taxis floating around for hire: we had to remind ourselves that this was not London or New York,
The wide, tree-lined avenues of Sir Edwin Lutyens' New Delhi were very attractive in their elegance and were ordered, neat and tidy. Even the traffic seemed to reflect the fastidious planning and design as the roads wheeled away from well-maintained roundabouts. Drivers here had no need to keep their hands on their horns, normally the first rule of subcontinental driving. There was almost a feeling of Georgian Bath about Connaught Place. But closer inspection of the tall, imposing, white crescents sweeping around the circular central gardens, revealed much that was chipped, battered and bruised. Beggars and hawkers inhabited the collonaded terraces (plus the inevitable livestock). Colonial grandeur faded as we walked around although there was much to admire in the colourful stalls and simple pavement "shops". We crossed over to the hedges surrounding the central park and a passer-by must have read our minds – "Not to go in there – not safe". We could see families sitting under the shade of neem trees, youngsters kicking a football – the scene was not at all threatening. But, not wanting to take what apparently one local considered a risk, we crossed back to the shops. Like Coward's "mad dogs...", we were, of course, out in the mid-day sun so, discovering a modern, air-conditioned cafe, we enjoyed a bottle of Limca, gallons of which lemonade I remember consuming on my previous Indian trip.
The taxi driver was waiting for us at the appointed place in the Square. Even though we had cooled down, his grin told us how lobster-like we were beginning to look. We made off along Vivekanada Road and headed through part of Old Delhi to Raj Gat, the memorial to the father of the nation, Mahatma Ghandi. This quiet park lay between busy ring-road – Mahatma Gandhi Marg – and the Yamanu river. From this road also there were entrances to similar memorials to members of the Nehru dynasty – Nehru himself, his daughter Indira and grandson Rajiv. There was not time to visit the memorials to these last two martyred Prime Ministers, so we spent some time walking along neat paths amongst small neem trees, eventually climbing a small grassy ramp. From here, we found ourselves looking at the large, simple rectangle of black marble marking the cremation point of Mahatmaji, past which members of the public filed in respectful silence. This was one of the several times throughout the tour when we just sat and pondered our good fortune at being in such a significant place.
From Raj Gat, our driver retraced his steps a little and it was while waiting at several traffic lights that Pat experienced for the first time the anguish of small, mis-formed beggars, mostly children, tapping on the window of the taxi and miming hunger with a gentle, pathetic but almost elegant hand-to-mouth supplication. Other children were selling sweets, papers, balloons, even candyfloss, threading their dangerous way between the rows of cars, lorries and buses
Our next destination was the broad road and vast open space of Rajpath, the Hindi eqivalent for Lutyens’ original Kingsway. This is the setting for the annual Republic Day Parade, an event watched each January by, literally, millions of people. The eastern end is dominated by India Gate, a vast, 130-foot-high triumphal arch, Here, we wandered in awe, taking photos of this grand War Memorial which bears the names of some 55,000 Indian soldiers killed in World War I and other (British) wars. At the other end of Rajpath lay the official residence of the president of India – the Rashtrapati Bhavan. Built as the Viceroy’s palace, the building is Lutyens’ fusion of eastern and western architectural styles, the obvious Mogul feature being the enormous copper dome. The last British occupant of the 340-roomed palace was, of course, Mountbatten – it is said that he employed 50 boys to act as bird-scarers! There was a noticeable absence of beggars here. Presumably some restrictions must apply and the authorities/police monitor who is able to frequent the area. We were pestered to buy postcards and to pay for performing monkeys and a snake charmer. I don't really think we effectively communicated our displeasure at these last two activities except that the lid literally went down on the cobra when it was apparent we were not stopping even to glance at the poor animal.
By now, we were wishing that we had more time to explore further the buildings of New Delhi. Nehru described them as “the visible symbol of British power with all its ostentation and wasteful extravagance” and the view of the then monarch – George V – was that “we must let the Indian see for the first time the power of Western civilization”. For the worst or best of reasons, the architecture remains splendidly noble, immaculately balanced and, since many are now embassies, elegantly maintained. But we had given ourselves a maximum of three hours in the (by now) 40c temperatures and it was time to retreat to the calm of The Claridges. A couple of hours by the shaded pool, gentle swims and essential drinks plus dinner in Pickwicks (where the Christmas tape was still playing) brought our first full day to a close.
OLD DELHI
Our plan to look at New Delhi one day and Old Delhi the next was, it turned out, a wise one in that we had eased our way in gradually via the relative emptiness of Connaught Place, the quiet of Raj Gat and the wide open spaces of India Gate and its environs. On Monday morning, we left at 11am and, whether by accident or design, found we had the same driver. At least this meant that we did not have to go through the "no shopping thank you" routine and we knew he was reliable. Our first port of call was the Red Fort and nothing could have prepared us for the melee at the point where taxis had to disembark their charges. The area was a heaving mass of cycle- and motor- rickshaws, hawkers, card-sellers, beggars, rag-clad children, policemen, "ordinary" men, women and children, presumably sight-seers like ourselves. I remember giving a one-legged beggar Rp10 but I cannot remember what for (opening the taxi door?). Our driver indicated a large tree as being the point where we would find him and he was gone. We suddenly felt exposed – two very white faces (and four white arms) in a sea of people. It was almost impossible to find the entrance to the Fort. "A donation for our school, please?" said a tiny, well-dressed lady who almost had to step on tiptoe to fix small flags of India onto our lapels. "It is for orphan children and I am one of the teachers." This last could have been true as her English was excellent. In these circumstances, and because of the crush and the noise, I did not stop to enquire any further but reached into my purse on my front belt and searched through the wad of notes to find the Rp10 or Rp20 I thought was appropriate. Seeing the Rp100 notes she said "Rp100 is usual for our poor children" almost relieving me of the note herself! We managed to fend off the services of the "essential" guides and eventually found ourselves approaching the towering red-pink walls and the Lahore Gate, decorated with the ubiquitous small domes or chattri. From here, on 15th August each year, India’s Prime Minister of the day delivers an Independence Day speech to an audience of hundreds of thousands. Passing through the gate, we found ourselves in the crowded bazaar – Chatta Chowk – (selling everything from trinkets and sweets to cameras and gold watches) and reached the calm of the gardens inside the fort. Here, there was no harassment – the atmosphere was calm and stressless.
 This moment was very special for Pat. In November 1914, her maternal grandfather, Charles Ferris of the 14th Wiltshire Regiment, would have marched through that same gate and bazaar to begin his four years service to King and country. The postcards and photographs he brought back show a rather neater Red Fort than today's, with the area outside cleared of anything which could obstruct a view of an enemy – much the same, in fact, as the Mogul emperor Shah Jehan, who built the Fort in 1648, would have wanted. The immediate impression of the Red Fort today is of dereliction, of scruffy dilapidation. We walked along the paths beside the various palaces, marvelling at the beauty of the Mogul architecture, the graceful jali (stone screens) and elegant projecting windows (jharokha), wondering how such fantastic architectural gems could be left to disintegrate in this way. Finance, obviously, would be part of the answer – the government, local or national, would doubtless feel that there are other, more pressing, matters to spend money on – like nuclear weapons? With the fall from power of the "secular" Congress Party and the rise of Hindu fundamentalism represented by the present BJP government, it is tempting to think a policy of spending money on what is, after all, a monument built by and for Muslim conquerors, would not sit well with BJP members of the Lok Saba (parliament). I thought back to my reading on the communal slaughter which took place when Partition was announced in 1947 when gangs of Hindus roamed the streets of Old Delhi hacking to death any Muslims they could find, even those who, up to that point, had been neighbours and friends; how Muslims had barricaded themselves into the Red Fort, setting up machine-gun posts to protect themselves from the bloodletting. Again, in the Hindu/Muslim riots of 1992, the fort became a focal point in the conflict. But this neglect has obviously been going on for more than just the last decade. The walls of the Diwan-I-am (Hall of Audience) and the Pearl Mosque still have a great deal of dignity despite being devoid of all the Mogul trappings – awnings, carpets, thrones. But they are skeletons. The intricate Mogul gardens were replaced by plain grass when, as one of many acts of reprisal after crushing the Indian Mutiny in 1857, the British destroyed many of the palaces and buildings and zenanas (harems) within the fort. Ironically, one of the least decrepit buildings seemed to be the ugly barracks the British, with no feeling for the architectural treasury around, erected for their soldiers – men like Charlie Ferris, who sat in those rooms writing letters back to his wife, Fanny, in her Wiltshire village.
"Yes, Dear, I am enjoying my new experience and its all very interesting here. But I would much rather be home with you. You are allways (sic) in my thoughts, and if you have any thoughts of me not being always true to you, you must get rid of them at once. … I think far too much of you to ever think of having anything to do with the women here. They are all more ore less infected with disease and rather than risk it I would rather go to the front and get shot by the Germans. The low class natives are very dirty indeed and the places they live in are not so clean as plenty of pigstys at home”
From the far side of the fort, we looked over into what was once a moat but which was now a small shanty town on the edge of the roaring traffic on a new road built, as all new roads are, to relieve congestion in one place and move it to another. We were aware that some areas of the fort were being maintained. There was a group of men and women cutting the grass using a mixture of scissors and what looked like sharpened paint strippers. One sector had been roped-off by the Archaeological Survey of India "for renewal work". But this seemed at best cosmetic. It appeared obvious to us that several million pounds would need to be spent on the Red Fort to preserve it. Even as we thought it, the concept seemed ridiculous when the very infrastructure of the city outside was so woefully inadequate.
This thought struck us again as, on our walk to Jami Masjid, we passed the "Public Toilet Area", the stench from which added to our discomfort. This latter arose from my insistence that we could walk to the enormous Friday Mosque. From studying the map, the distance did not seem great. I had not, however, allowed for the choked streets we had to penetrate. The denseness of the "traffic", two- and four-wheeled, two- and four-legged, plus the narrowness of the Chowk (bazaar) further increased Pat's scepticism which she had expressed as soon as we set out. As in the fort, we were the only Caucasions present and I was beginning to doubt my map-reading and my usually reliable sense of direction. Pat was imagining that we would have to dive down some even more impenetrable alleyways and, in response, I gripped her hand and towed her along so firmly that she had to tell me to calm down. On reflection, we were both quite simply reacting to a new experience. It is one thing to watch TV documentaries or holiday programmes about a country like India and marvel at the colour and the activity, the congestion and noise – particularly when one knows the presenter has the back-up of a camera crew, director et al. It is quite another to throw oneself headlong into this situation without the inevitable feeling that the environment is hostile, even frightening.
It was with some relief, therefore, that, on turning a corner, there lay the massive steps up to the West Gate of Jami Masjid. Again, grandfather Ferris' pictures from 86 years ago show a completely clear area in front of these steps. Now, we had to push our way through traders, stalls, bikes laden with vegetables and/or animals, stray chickens and cows and – India's greatest commodity – people.
We arrived, panting, at the top of the steps to find our entry to the mosque denied. Prayers had only just finished and the powers-that-be were not allowing visitors in until the mosque was clear. Since, on important festivals or prayer days some 20,000 worshippers fill the area within the high walls, this seemed a sensible course of action even on an ordinary day. We must have looked as though we needed somewhere to sit and a young man in western clothes stepped forward, indicated to a very old man to get off his stool which was then handed to Pat. Another stool was found for me and the youngster smiled and suggested we remove our shoes ready for our "tour". Having ploughed several times through The Lonely Planet and read the do's and don’ts of being a tourist in India, I should have heard warning bells. But the heat, noise etc. obviously again affected my usually clear mind. The man appeared to be someone in authority and, before we knew it, he was whisking us through the entrance gate into the mosque itself and giving us a conducted tour. Since there were no leaflets or other printed guidance on hand, this, in itself was no bad thing. But the golden LP rule is "always fix a price first" and this I had not done. He took us (in retrospect much too quickly) around the whole building or at least the parts open to infidels such as ourselves. Basically, the mosque is just one enormous, tiled, open space the size of a baseball park with raised platforms on three sides from which we could look out over the streets and bazaars of the old city. The long walls of the Red Fort could easily be picked out from these platforms. Groups of women sat around in the few shaded sections: the stone floors were so hot to walk on barefoot that a trail of carpets had been laid for the comfort of visitors and, I suspect, worshippers. The grid marked out across the breadth of the area would presumably assist the kneeling 20,000 to remain in straight lines, preventing overcrowding.
The commentary from the guide was exhaustive but, in our by now flagging state, it was not easy to take in all the details. His English was first-rate – he claimed that he could speak nine languages other than Hindi and other Indian dialects – English, German, French, Turkish . . . the list went on – all picked up "from the street", an expression we were to hear on several occasions from people with no formal schooling. We were encouraged to take lots of pictures before the tour reached its climax. At this point, we mounted some steps to approach a small "window" in the stone-work at which appeared a very old man dressed in kurta and pyjamas. His turban was the same off-white/grey colour as his clothes and extensive beard, which gave him a spirit-like appearance. "This man will show you a miracle, sir" (Pat was always ignored in these situations.) Solemnly, the fakir opened what seemed to be a large, black shoe box. Raising the lid, he whispered, "This is a footprint of Allah" and proffered a slab of stone with the indentation of a footprint upon it. "The stone is 2,000 years old – Allah melted the stone!" Pat was then allowed to take a look. Whether our lack of astonishment annoyed him or whether this was all part of the act I don't know but, as if to say, "Now try this", he reached for another box. "This" (in an even more conspiratorial breath) "this is a hair from Allah's beard!" He held up the box, across the frame of which was stretched a very wiry grey hair. I found myself saying "Good heavens!"" and then wished I hadn't. Again, he solicitously indicated that Pat was allowed to see this very personal piece of Allah's hirsutedness. "Thank you, thank you very much", I mumbled. "Now you make a donation, sir." This was not a question; it was a quiet demand. I looked into the holy man's bleary, yellowed eyes – he looked about 100 but was probably 60 – and found myself fumbling in my bag and, again, making the mistake of taking out a roll of notes, something this day was teaching me not to do again. "How much ... ah ...is ... usual?" What a silly question! "Four hundred rupees, sir." And I paid him! More than a week’s wages for 85% of Indians – £6! By the time our guide had taken me into the privacy of a nearby archway (was he even supposed to be on the premises, I wondered) I was another Rp150 lighter. Not that this haggled-over figure pleased him. "Two people – Rp150 each, sir!" "No", I retorted "you only said everything once." I knew by then that he would also be getting a cut from the fakir so he did pretty well out of two "innocents abroad".
By the time we had re-traced our steps through the chowk, past the Public Toilet Area, across the main road to the heaving mass outside the Red Fort, we were feeling hot enough to explode. We had water with us, of course, and without constant swigs at this I'm sure we would have been ill. I paid the one-legged beggar another Rp10 for telling us where the taxi would be coming from and we fell into the back of the car, exhausted by another three hours of Delhi's heat. Back at the hotel, the cold water in the shower felt warm against my roasted body and I only got some relief from the heat when I poured iced water from the fridge over my head! 
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With our total of six hours looking round Delhi, we knew that we had only scratched the surface of the tourist areas, let alone discovered much about the Delhi the residents would know. Nevertheless, we had learned quite a lot about sightseeing in India: that hiring a taxi for the day or half-day was sensible (and cheap), that the rules in LP re guides were to be followed, that I should not open my bumbag and take out rolls of notes and that we should always ensure we have plenty of Rp5 notes handy for baksheesh. This was not always easy as, being the most commonly exchanged notes, they were often ragged, torn, dirty and evil-smelling.
And the state of the country's bank-notes was to cause me a final problem when, later that evening, I went to Reception to explain that, with a very early start in the morning, I would like to settle the account. "Certainly, Mr. Christopher, and how would you like to pay?" The cashier's eyebrows nearly touched the chandelier when I replied "Cash". And when he saw the wad of notes (Rp22,000 remember) from which I was beginning to peel Rp20,181.40 for the bill, his brow furrowed so much his hair-line seemed to join his eyebrows. He began counting the money but then paused and said, "I'm afraid I cannot accept a lot of these notes, sir".
"Why not?"
"Because many of them are torn and others may be counterfeit and the bank will not accept them. There are only Rp10,000 usable here, sir.”"
"But how can they be counterfeit – I got them only on Saturday from Thomas Cooke's at the airport? Why would they be passing counterfeit money?"
"That I cannot say, sir. Perhaps they did not have much cash and had to use these." He held up some particularly decrepit notes – I dare not tell him how much I had cashed. " You see", he continued, "the Pakistanis have been flooding the north of the country with forged Rp500 notes in an effort to disrupt the Indian economy. If I take these notes and the bank refuses them, then I will have to pay your bill. I cannot risk it."
That at least made sense, but the thought of being landed with several hundred dollars worth of useless Indian rupees made me sweat somewhat. The cashier went off and talked to his manager. When he returned, he said, “OK, so I take your money but my Manager says it is my risk". By now I was beginning to think that it could not be much of a risk and only later realised that he was probably hoping I would reward him for his risk-taking by slipping him one of the notes. He agreed to take the Rp10,000 in notes and the remainder I put on a credit card. However, I had rid myself of Rp10,000 in these doubtful notes. Only Rp12,000 to go! Perhaps they would not be so fussy in Shillong
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