After breakfast, we leave our hotel early, and arrive at the train station 2h before our scheduled departure. My parents are nervous travelers and, eager to escape Chandigarh, I don't protest too much at leaving the hotel (and its speedy internet connection) behind. Our next stop is New Delhi where we'll be spending seven days exploring the nation's capital. Multiple people have told me that seven days is far too long but my parents are adamant that there will be plenty to occupy us, and besides, we've got nothing but time. Having not read up too much on our destination, I'm not quite sure what to expect, but suspect that Delhi lies somewhere between the calm serenity of Shimla and the pandemonium of Varanasi's tight confines.

While mum sorts out the tickets, I mind our baggage and engage in a bit of people watching. Train stations, like any transportation hub, are fascinating places. An entire cross-section of society is forced to congregate into a single place making for interesting contrasts: a sharply dressed Sikh and his wife whose nose sprouts a gold ornamentation the size of an acorn do their best to ignore a beggar with twisted legs like that of gnarled tree root, red uniformed porters -denoted by their brass armbands and toppling turbans- do it old school and balance loads as big as their person on their heads while railway workers labour to relieve an overloaded dolly, and youths sporting t-shirts with rude slogans loiter only a few feet from old ladies in bright saris and ornate bangles.

A porter transporting a chest on the busy railway platform

When our train arrives, the crowds cram into the caridges, and after a quick game of musical chairs and much baggage fondling, people settle into their seats and the gentle rocking of the train soothes the passengers into easy conversation and quiet contemplation. Even my anxious parents seem to enjoy the ride.

After being told to expect the worst of Indian trains from both SS and VY, I am pleasantly surprised at the efficiency of Indian Railways. A conductor quickly punches our tickets while two trailing security guards ensure that all baggage is accounted for. Cleaners come through at regular intervals to dry mop the aisles, and a no-fuss/no-diarrhea meal service is distributed on plastic trays containing appetizer, main-course and dessert. This is 2AC or second class air-condition and y'know, it ain't half bad.

Prepared to hold it for the duration of this 4h journey, but emboldened by the thus far pleasant experience, I brace myself and enter the bathroom. The stainless steel, Asian style toilet is well worn but clean. As I relieve myself, I stare out of the mercifully open window as pastoral scenes whiz by: flat land organized into rectangular plots are worked by farm hands, others bail hay into large piles drying in the sun, and the occasional tractor ploughs the field while water buffalo graze. As we get closer to the capital, the hinterland gives way to the beginnings of Delhi's urban sprawl: factories billowing smoke, water towers painted with advertorials, small slums of corrugated metal and ramshackle houses with parabolic lines of drying clothes.

Slowly pulling into New Delhi's station, we see lines of people squatting on the adjacent tracks and initially take them for loiterers. Further inspection reveals that the dozens of crouchers are actually unabashedly relieving themselves while waiting passengers go about their business on the platform above. Without a doubt, this has to be the most shocking introduction to a capital city that I've ever had.

Welcome to Delhi.

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They say be careful what you wish for because it just might come true. A lesson I'm not likely to forget. While in Chandigarh, I remarked on the conspicuous absence of the chaos so characteristic of India's metropoles. Well Shiva himself must have heard me because the moment the train pulled into Delhi we became mired in the kind of mayhem anarchists only dream about -hands in your face begging alms, menacing calls of touts, porters grabbing for luggage, the push of anxious crowds looking to board as you struggle to alight; and the noise, an auditory assault of mighty train blasts announcing their imminent departure and wheels grinding away on steel, announcers declaiming incomprehensibly through the static of the speakers and the hellish din of the crowds, incessant and never-ending. And this was only a prelude to what awaited outside. Smog so thick you can barely glimpse sun or sky, gridlock traffic whose noise pollution is matched by its output of fumes and exhaust, and the endless badgering of touts that borders on abuse making you wish for the assurance of a thick stick to beat them away. Such a contrast was this to the comparative serenity of Chandigarh, and indeed the whole northern territory of Uttar Pradesh (excepting Varanasi), that I found it a shock to the system.

Moments later the sidewalk became dominated by impatient motorcyclists fed up with the traffic, almost running my mom off the bridge

And we were to spend seven whole days in Delhi, too many by anyone's count except that of my parents, who stubbornly refused to amend the itinerary. But, refreshed from days spent in the north and keen to explore Delhi -in my mind a place synonymous with India- we fought our way through the crowds, found our taximan and made the agonizingly slow move through traffic to our hotel.

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Like all large cities, the inhabitants of Delhi have an underlying aggression to their nature in contrast to their country cousins, a natural consequence of living in a place that doesn't have the time or patience for anyone, let alone the uninitiated. It says "hurry up or get out of the way" and is where money and the pursuit of it is what matters . This latent aggression can be found in the subways of London, streets of New York and on the boulevards of Paris.

But here's how Delhi's different. Its aggression is augmented by the fierce competition that comes with massive over-population and compounded by the desperation of poverty. And it manifests itself most acutely to the foreign tourist in the form of the endless touts, solicitors, auto-rickshaw drivers and even ticket attendants of UNESCO world heritage sites; all conspiring to separate you from your money, if not with a beguiling smile and hollow compliment, then through vulpine cunning, trickery and sometimes blatant fraud. We had experienced a benign and almost playful version of this in Varanasi which was a tolerable, if mild annoyance, and of course other epicenters of tourism such as Bangkok have this in spades though to a lesser degree. But Delhi's brand of hard-selling, cut-throat tactics is something else entirely, and is applied with such assiduousness as to turn you off interacting with locals altogether, the very thing that separates a traveler from a tourist, who merely zips from temple to temple ticking off a checklist.

Mughal archways in Delhi's Red Fort

It is hard not to feel like a walking billfold in this city. Everywhere you go, the solicitation is incessant: you are pestered, hectored, heckled, harassed and browbeaten; personal space invaded and mobbed as touts jostle and crowd-in, contending for your attention. Conducting the simplest of transactions requires your full attention as, after taking your money, some will claim not to have change while others will insist you are not due any (as we found buying tickets to the UNESCO recognized Red Fort where I had a five minute argument with the attendant causing a long queue to form behind me). And more than the pervasive destitution, crushing crowds, choking pollution, and absolute squalor, it is this need for constant vigilance as well as the aggressive badgering that most taxes my energy and patience. All the rest of it, I can rationalize, but this drives me to madness. Needless to say, Delhi is not a city that agrees with me and indeed has forced me to close myself off from people. I hate that my first emotion upon meeting a stranger is one of mistrust and suspicion rather than curiosity, but in this city it is an unfortunate necessity.

The exterior of the Lotus Temple is made entirely of marble

Of course Delhi is not without its positives: the sparkling new metro system, built for the 2010 Commonwealth Games, is a modern marvel in a city where people still travel by ox and cart; architectural gems abound: the majesty of Jama Majid, the hulking presence of the Red Fort, the mystery of Janta Mantar and Qatab Minar, the serenity of the Lotus Temple, and Humayun's Tomb, a proto-Taj Mahal. And there's shopping too: Haus Khaz is an oasis of calm and sanity, Khan market is a shopper's paradise, and the spice market near Chandi Chowk is replete with the exotic and esoteric and has barely changed over the past century. But, as a lady we had met who spent a whole year planning India but decided to leave after only a month said: "The good is really good, but not enough to compensate for the bad."

The necessary caveat: this is based on my own personal experience with Delhi. Plenty of others have had wonderful times in this city, either because they spoke the language, had someone showing them around, had more mental fortitude than I do or simply find it agrees with them. Going on our own we had opted for the Full Experience, "India Raw" if you like, and had barely survived it. But good or bad, Delhi has left an indelible impression which I suppose is better than being so insipid as to leave none at all.

With relief, off to Agra.

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Vignette

India has finally gotten to my parents with New Delhi being the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. After 18 days in the country, four of which spent in New Delhi, they've had it. It happened for my mother yesterday, after a tuktuk scam, then being ridden off a pedestrian sidewalk by impatient motor cyclists, she snapped when a shopkeeper tried to short change her a few rupees then dismissively threw a few candies her way when she demanded her change. Days of fermenting frustration boiled over and she gave in to a fit of rage. Fireworks in the store.

Dad fared a day better; bristling at the over charging tuktuk drivers, then taking exception at trying to be charged R300 to enter Jama Masjid (it's free), he almost threw a merchant's orange in his face when he tried to charge R10 when a local had just bought one for R5.

It's the little things that get to you.

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The Qatab Minar is covered in thick bands of engraved farsi script

This sweet shop in Delhi had wall-to-wall confections with as many people behind the counter as there were customers. I haven't come across a better place to have dessert since

Chai walla

Old school transport

The peanut gallery

Muslims celebrating Hijra, the Islamic New Year. There were many baton wielding police officers watching from the periphery

Digging deep

Shopping arcade on the way to Delhi's Red Fort

The Jama Masjid. Behind the group of ladies is a beautiful pool where worshipers can wash hands and feet before entering the mosque

The density of New Delhi is astonishing

Friends

A device for observing heavenly bodies in Delhi's Janta Mantar

A couple causes a mob scene by handing out free juice boxes before making a quick getaway in their BMW