Wet Wet Wet

I never thought that I'd be cold as the Delhi June approached, but in the Auto on the way to work today I could have done with a jumper. Recently, the skies have unloaded on the city, effortlessly plunging the temperatures from mid-40s to early 20s - something the guests on '10 Years Younger' go through hell to rarely achieve. It got so low the other day last week that the weather here was the same as that predicted for Manchester. I could've saved myself the cost and damage to my green credentials by staying at home, driving around blindfolded and haggling for pies at Greggs. The weather - what a very British way to begin this excerpt. Yet, it's a big thing to be cool when 2 weeks ago you were hot and sweaty. Also allows me to get a few wears out of my clothes before I put them in for wash, a necessity when you find your supply of boxers depleting and the ones you do have are a little ragged to say the least. I've already lost my beloved Roxers; alright for socks though.On to more interesting subject matter. Last Tuesday my boss, Indira, invited me to join her and her husband in celebrating Buddha Jayanthi, the Buddha's birthday at Sanskriti Anandgram, a cultural centre on the way to Guragaon which is the gleaming new techno- business centre they've built south of Delhi. Here's a link.http://www.sanskritifoundation.org/feel_of_sanskriti.htmOriginally we were supposed to go the night before, but I think they were waiting for a full moon. Her car picked us up and I met Mr Mansingh (didn't catch his first name). Indira's husband is quite the opposite of herself: quiet, softly spoken and not very forceful. Opposites attract I guess. We drove down the main road to Guragaon, passing the new temple pillars of steel and concrete which will support the flyover once it's completed. For a while we were lost and Bhibu received numerous phonecalls for directions, as it was his directions we were following. In her frustration, ma'am let slip, "Bhibu, he is a most useless fellow", which is unfair on him, but a brilliant example of how old-fashioned English is still used so prevalently here.When we eventually found the place, we turned off the dual carriageway onto a private road. Despite it's proximity to the Guragaon express, it was wonderfully quiet. On the way back, Indira confessed that the businessman - a family friend - who built the Sanskriti Anandgram offered to sell them a plot of this land back in the 70s so they could build a house. They declined. At the time, South Delhi wasn't as far south so it would've been far from the centre. Not so now, though. Ma'am is certainly a little gutted to have missed out.When we arrived, the moon was already out. Night had fallen and everything was shadow, nothing totally clear. I slipped my glasses on - it helped. As we entered the main gate, I first heard the sound of Peacocks crying in the dark. Well, I heard something crying; Ma'am clarified the species (an unfortunate example of how young Britains are too removed from nature). It added to the atmosphere and the occassion. If a woman had started singing "Aaaaaahhh" I would've burst into Govinda, I swear.At this point in the evening, everyone was sitting in a small amphitheatre listening to a talk by three Buddhist practitioners. I confess my mind was on taking photos, not in the moment as they would have liked, but I did hear a few words of wisdom. That was followed by chanting monks from Vietnam and eventually we were all invited to take a candle, light it and head towards the Banyan tree. Easy! Well, that was the plan. The breeze, previously so welcome, was now interfering with the celebrations. No-one's flame made it to or round the tree in one incarnation. I guess Buddha was impatient to blow out his birthday candles.Failed pyrotechnics were followed by a buffet prepared by each of the guests. Ma'am took care to bring food that wouldn't irritate my already irascible stomach, but I dived into everything regardless. The Jungli Sahib was in his element: lovely daal, rotis, aubergine curries, vegetable curries, savoury biscuits for dipping. And that was only half the table. The other half was filled with fruit, rice puddings, Indian sweets with a sugar and fat content that could kill Gillian McKeith on sight. For the first time since I arrived, I was in gastronomic Nirvana.Obviously, all this feasting left little room for talking. I did, however, have a short discussion with a small, pleasant elderly lady. Indira informed me that she used to be a renowned and very well-respected judge, and is mother to a Booker-award winning author. I smiled and nodded. Her son wrote "A Suitable Boy". I'm sure it's very good.Once everyone was fed, the night came to a close. On the way back, Indira mentioned that she had taken a former volunteer to a dinner attended by about 25 of India's most famous artists. Artists, judges, landowners, award-winning novelists: if I hang onto her coat tails I'll be in Bollywood in 6 months!Tony distinctly remembers saying to his parents that Delhi would afford him an escape from televisual guff such as 'Dancing With the Stars'. The Programme Controller of BBC Entertainment on TATA Sky is a cruel prankster. Tony is also at a loss as to what to get for his Dad's birthday. Whatever he buys, it will be thoroughly inspected for quality of material and craftsmanship before the dreaded question is put out there: "How much was it?" And there's no way he's buying a 2 grand statue of Kubera - I don't care how good a wicketkeeper he might have been!