Having collected my bag, I set off to find an appropriately obvious point in Arrivals to meet my brother. He was late. I was just retrieving my phone from my sling bag (which I nearly didn't bring, thinking that I wouldn't need it) when a "Hullo" from behind me alleviated the distress that was in the very early stages of mounting.
Despite being very busy and pretty modern, we were the only 2 Europeans on the Metro system. It was however reassuringly reminiscent of the Northern line at rush hour, as fellow passengers desperate to get onto this particular train threw their weight at my rear, thrusting me (& those around me) deeper into the carriage, making the required foot square of space available for them also to board.
That day, my brother and I visited the Kashmiri Gate and Parliament buildings, the architecture of which is not dissimilar in arrogance and imposing stature to Nazi German and Fascist Italian architecture, as I read at the time in William Dalrymple's City of Djins.
I had to sit down alot. And every time I sat down, I slept. Extraordinarily.
I remember at some point walking down a road near City Lines that smelled strongly of faeces. We were lost and I was beginning to lose the will to go on, so we took an auto to a colonial hotel for lunch, which went some way to reviving me for the Metro journey back to Connaught Place, the shopping circus near to where we were staying.
The next day, we were back to Delhi airport and off on a flight to Dehra Dun. All flights were delayed, which made for prolonged queueing and chaotic check-in. Many glamorous Indian ladies were as furious and astounded at the airline's incompetence & inefficiency as we were, and we finally arrived 3 or so hours late and took a taxi up into the mountains to the Glasshouse on the Ganges where we met Mum and Dad.