Eggbound

My stomach's still not right. After almost 4 weeks in India, I've pretty much gotten used to most aspects of life over here: the dust, the haggling, being stared at (because I'm so Goddamn beautiful, naturally). But my stomach refuses to integrate into Indian society. Don't get me wrong, it's better than it was. It is a relief not to have to cross your fingers every time you break wind for mortal fear of an oopsie. I'll take the cramps over that any day of the week.

It does, however, leave me paranoid about my diet. The western-style restaurants over here are, as I have already chronicled, awful. Ruby Tuesdays isn't a touch on the one in Ocean Terminal. I tried my hand at cooking, starting off with buying a pack of eggs. Last week, I had scrambled eggs for dinner twice. This was mainly out of paranoia about the shelf life of eggs in India, even though I was keeping them in a fridge. That was 6 eggs. Then, because I couldn't be bothered leaving the office to grab a bite and because my sub-conscious obviously doesn't subscribe to the idea that 6 eggs in one week is quite enough for someone not entering a Mr Universe competition, I proceeded to order bread egg omelette for lunch from the staff canteen twice that week. To clarify, bread egg omelette is an omelette in a sandwich. Most cardiologists wouldn't recommend it.

As a result of my impending heart attack (not uncommon in India), I've gone for broke and started eating the indigenous cuisine…and Chinese food which is almost as indigenous (it's ubiquitous at any rate). The real gem has been the discovery of Sagar, a restaurant opposite where I live which serves South Indian food on one floor and North Indian food on the other. South Indian food is mild but fairly plain; North Indian food is tasty, but very spicy. It's the gastronomic equivalent of David St Hubbins and Nigel Tuffnel. I need to chow down on a bit of Derek Smalls, taking care not to touch the armadillo.

Well, enough of my gastro adventures for the meantime.

Finally, at long last, I reached my first full weekend, and I still didn't get enough kip. Met Nathan and Emily (two Britishers I've met)at 4S and spent Friday night having a few drinks. Emily works for as a contractor for NGOs. She lives (used to live) in Chalk Farm and knows a thing or two about rabbit mating rituals. Nathan is a Cumbrian guy who's been working in India for 4 years. He's pretty much the most relaxed bloke I've met, he loves playing with street dogs and frequents 4S so regularly that the staff automatically crack open a beer as soon as he sits down.

Saturday I lazed around, escaped the heat and then in the afternoon I visited Begampur. I wouldn't have known Begampur existed if not for the excellent book 'City of Djinns', which must be in most ex-pats' reading collections. It's written by a Scottish author, William Darymple, who lived in Delhi during the early 90s and intertwines his life with that of the extraordinary people he meets and the history of the city he comes to know.

According to the map it wasn't far from where I'm staying, so I decided to walk and use my sense of direction - a risky stratagem if ever there was one. To my slight surprise, the risk paid off. Begampur still remains a small village, despite having been assimilated into Delhi as the city sprawls ever further southwards. Cows graze on the litter strewn over a shanty town which lies in the heart of a village, and people were enjoying the parklife as the heat finally abated for the day. I ventured further into the village and couldn't see any significant structure. I passed cows, goats and gawpers, wandered past another park then, all of a sudden, I spotted two egg-shaped domes framed between the walls of two closer buildings. I headed towards them and sure enough I had reached my destination, the Begampuri Masjid.

The pictures, which I have yet to upload, speak better of the mosque than I can. It was built around the 14th century by Muhammed bin Tughluk who ruled one of the largest empires the city has ever known. A tomb lies nextdoor. With children playing cricket in the grounds of the tomb and the peace and serenity you feel sitting looking out into the courtyard of the mosque, it is hard to imagine this as the centre of one of the most brutal regimes in Delhi's history. According to a Moroccan contemporary who had travelled to Delhi, Tughluk was "far too free in shedding blood".

And he didn't even have to deal with Auto-wallahs!