Dear Diary: Travel Fatigue in New Delhi
- Rand Blimes
- May 20
- 6 min read
Author’s Note
The following entries are taken from the recently discovered travel diary of one R., a weary wanderer of distant lands, recorded during the final days of a long and bewildering sojourn through the Indian subcontinent. The pages document heat, curry fatigue, personal space violations, and a deep and abiding longing for pork products.
Dear Diary,
It has now been six months since we first set foot on the Indian subcontinent. In that time, we have marveled, wandered, perspired, digested (and occasionally regretted digesting), and negotiated daily with auto-rickshaw barons of the most cunning variety.
What once charmed now merely persists.
Where once the cows were whimsical—majestic beasts drifting through traffic like bovine ghosts of holy antiquity—now they simply stand, unbothered and obstructive, chewing cud upon sacred intersections and defecating with imperial indifference.
We have arrived in New Delhi. We shall remain here nine days before sailing westward to Spain (by which I of course mean flying in a budget airline seat of unpardonable width). There, I am told, they serve pork freely, without apology or ritual. I plan to eat it all. Possibly at once. Most likely with both hands.
India has been astonishing. But I am, at present, quite ready to be astonished by something that doesn’t honk at me.
Ever yours in curry-stained dignity,
—R.
Dear Diary,
Today marks one full year since our departure from home. To commemorate this feat, we ventured to a restaurant most highly recommended by the internets and also the man at the front desk, whose culinary enthusiasm is widely respected. The curry was, without question, magnificent. Rich. Fragrant. Perfectly balanced.
We despised every bite.
Our stomachs clenched in betrayal at the very sight of another murgh makhani. The potatoes in the aloo gobi mocked us with their golden smugness. Even the naan—gentle, beloved naan—was received as a personal affront.
We are haunted by ghostly whispers of cheeseburgers. Bacon. Ketchup. Food served on buns rather than in bowls. But alas, we are prisoners of our geography and can do nothing but suffer. Our palates are staging a coup.
Yours, in culinary despair,
—R.
Dear Diary,
We have established residence in the Paharganj neighborhood of New Delhi. Our quarters are tolerable. The air conditioning labors valiantly. The internet is practically luxurious, having achieved speeds not seen since Bangkok. We should be happy.
And yet—across the street, there lies a mystery.
A large door, resembling the kind one might affix to a garage, conceals a horror. Behind it lies a vast and growing mountain of garbage. No signs. No explanation. Just trash. Epic. Unfathomable. Apocalyptic. Trash.
We do not know who placed it there. We do not know who maintains it. We only know that it is guarded by a battalion of flies and an evil stench. We have taken to holding our breath as we step into the street, trying to clear the fouled aid before we inhale again.
We usually fail. Sadly.
Yours, struggling with olfactory dignity,
—R.
Dear Diary,
We are no longer sightseeing. Our spirits are broken. Our wills have been trampled beneath the heat and the city’s insatiable need to honk.
We have taken to our beds.
The air conditioner whispers lullabies. Netflix provides a soothing window into fictional lives. To our enduring shame, we subsist on Pizza Hut. Subway. McDonald’s. We fear the Judgment of Fellow Travelers. We fear we may be forcibly stripped of our True Traveler Credentials and cast into the realm of Package Tourists.
We accept our fate. We are not proud. But we are cool, and we are fed.
Ganesh have mercy.
Yours, in defeat (but also in stretchy pants),
—R.
Dear diary,
Today I stood in a queue. A most unfortunate arrangement, made more so by the proximity of the gentleman behind me—an ample fellow whose rotundity pressed against my person with unnerving persistence. His considerable midsection, glistening with the exertions of the day, made repeated and unsolicited contact with my back.
With each forward shuffle, I attempted to peel myself away from his abdomenal advance and reclaim a whisper of space. Yet, like the tide or British colonial bureaucracy, he was relentless. Step. Press. Step. Press. A grotesque choreography of unwanted intimacy.
There was no reprieve. Only the slow horror of realization: I was trapped in a conga line of perspiration and despair. I fear my spine may now carry a permanent impression of his navel.
Our only hope, dear diary, is to flee India and seek asylum in a land where queues are quiet, ordered affairs, and personal space is not a theoretical construct, but a sacred covenant.
Yours in humid affliction,
—R.
Dear diary,
The hour of our departure draws nigh. I sit now in the airport terminal, quill in hand, a strange weight upon my chest. Today we leave India.
My heart is full—perhaps with emotion, perhaps with my breakfast. I know not. What I do know is that I have never known a place like this. It defies comparison, resists simplification, and endures in the soul like the persistent ghost of a very noisy goat.
India has been chaotic, magnificent, maddening, sacred, profane, and deeply human. It has carved itself into the grain of my being. I shall not soon forget it. Indeed, I could not, even if I tried.
And yet . . . I yearn. I yearn for silence. For cool air. For streets not paved in honks and puddles of indeterminate, maleficent origin. For just one stroll during which not a single person asks to take a selfie with my sunburned countenance.
Also, I miss bacon. Desperately.
Farewell, India. You were overwhelming and unforgettable. I carry you with me. But please do not sit so close.
Yours in wistful digestion,
—R.
Dear diary,
We remain, against all expectation, in India.
This morning we boarded our plane with the gentle joy of those whose trials are finally behind them. Alas, fate had other plans. A mechanical malfunction—described by the flight crew with an admirable vagueness—rendered takeoff inadvisable. We were unceremoniously ejected from the aircraft and returned to the terminal, where we commenced a lengthy bureaucratic ballet.
Many hours passed. Many forms were filled. Many queues were joined. In each of these queues, as is custom, a stout man pressed his perspiring abdomen into the small of my back. One wishes to be stoic. But stoicism has its limits.
Eventually, we were transported to a very fine hotel. The beds are soft. The AC is functional. The towels appear to have been laundered in this decade.
And yet, dear diary, we are bereft. For the buffet, though bounteous, offers only curry. And aloo gobi. And more curry. Not a rasher of bacon in sight. Not even a rogue sausage.
We are faint with longing.
Yours without pork,
—R.
Dear diary,
It appears we shall depart at last. The airline has declared our conveyance to be once again airworthy, and our long entrapment on the subcontinent may now come to a close.
As compensation for our prolonged detention, we are to spend twenty-four hours in London, courtesy of the airline. This detour, while pleasant, deprives us of a full day in Madrid—an injustice that stings, though softened by the prospect of pork products and potable tap water in her Majesty's capital.
It is our fervent hope that the people of England shall possess both the means and manners to queue without bodily contact. The mere thought fills me with cautious optimism and a nostalgic affection for boundaries.
Yours in anticipation,
—R.
Dear diary,
We have arrived safely in London, where the bacon flows freely and the air smells faintly of imperialism. The breakfast buffet offered an all-you-can-eat bounty of crisp, golden rashers, which we received with deep and nearly tearful gratitude.
Our brief sojourn included a visit to the British Museum, where we stopped to see the Elgin Marbles—prized pieces of ancient Greece, wrenched from their homeland by Lord Elgin under dubious authority and now displayed with the polite arrogance only a former empire can muster. They are beautiful. But they should be returned.
And now, on to Spain. Spirits high. Bellies full. Consciences only slightly heavy from partaking in looted antiquity before second breakfast.
Yours in bacon-fortified optimism,
—R.
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