| Wednesday It's raining in New Delhi. The cool weather is welcome, coming as it does after a searingly hot day but not now, not here. I am stuck in a long jam on the drive upto the departure terminal at the Indira Gandhi International Airport. |
| The airport is packed with people. The usual Indian formula applies here, approximately 95 per cent of those milling around here, quite purposefully, are seeing off the 5 per cent who are travelling or trying to. I belong to the 5 per cent this evening and try as I might, nobody seems keen to allow me right of way. I take deep breaths, look left and right, contemplate the damages and begin to heave-ho. After much jostling, hard stares and irritated sighs, a path opens up. I begin my slow but steady passage into the terminal. Where other delights await me. The check-in does not take too long but the line to reach the immigration counter stretches into the distance. |
| The line takes for ever to move. Not because the immigration chappies are not working hard enough. Because for every four guys that stand in the line, there is one who jumps in merrily. They range from pot bellied, paan-chewing men to entire families with bawling children. Presumably, they are important in some way. As I understand it, politicians have separate lines. I shudder to think what would happen if they did not. |
| Sunday I am kicked. I am in the land of Cantonese chicken and fried rice. No, I don't mean just China. I mean the city that was once known as Canton and is now Guangzhou, a mighty industrial metropolis in the Guandong province. My friend who works for a US multinational's China head office is treating me to lunch. No prizes for guessing, it's Cantonese Chinese food. And its nice 'n spicy. |
| After lunch, I have to catch a train for Shenzhen. After Delhi airport, Guangzhou East Railway Station is like, well, an airport. The Guangzhou Baiyun International Airport, my friend tells me, beats almost every other airport he's ever seen. The railway station is large and well laid out at least. Most of the signage is disconcertingly Chinese but there is English in the right places. So if you know where you are going and whether you want the fast train or not, you can manage. Much more easily than in the Delhi airport. Where everything might be in English but you can still go round in circles. |
| Wednesday Every time I come to Singapore I look at the trees and plants. Of course there is more to see but it's the placement of the trees, shrubs and plants by the roads, pavements and in highway underpasses that tells you everything about the precision with which this nation-city operates. |
| Lee Kuan Yew, I read, spent much time and effort researching this bit. He found out which were the best trees that grew in light, shade and how they could be best maintained. There is an entire essay on just this bit. It's quite fascinating and gives you an insight into a perfectionist's mind. |
| Also...br> The Mumbai airport looks a tad brighter on arrival. And the baggage takes only 40 minutes to emerge so there is no shocking change. As I drive out of the terminal, I am greeted by a 200 m long stretch of road packed with freshly erected slums on both sides. I feel like I am intruding into the private spaces of the good folks who recently moved in here. I think, after the scale of China and the perfection of Singapore, it's befitting that one lands in Mumbai to see what man may do and, of course, undo. |
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