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A shallow salmon sun pry’s readily from the distance. Between it and our speeding 4×4 lies wide open plains of dark viridian fields, and the occasional oil rig spewing flames out into an ever brightening dawn. We left the darkness of Delhi about two hours ago, and we’ve still another two to go, along roads that aren’t always smooth, nor free-flowing. Our destination is Agra.
Hours seem to disappear in the Delhi morning traffic as we sit patiently in the backseat of a Morris Miner, dueling with an army of mosquitoes. It becomes apparent after some time that our apparent Punjabi tour guide is lost. Was this another attempted sting? Was he even our tour guide? As it transpired, he wasn’t, but he was just as bewildered by the Delhi AM traffic as us.
Five and a half hours after departing from Singapore, my 777 thumped down onto the asphalt of a now darkened Indira Gandhi International. It was the night of the 27th, and while all I could see outside my airplane window was the colourful blinking runway lights of New Delhi’s airport, it was confirmation that I had finally achieved my long-standing ambition of coming to India.
