On the first night of our Indian holiday, the earth moved. Gazing out of the bedroom window, with its panoramic views over the trees covering New Delhi’s golf course, I blearily noticed that the curtains were swaying back and forth. So was the bed. Then my phone began to ping with earthquake notifications. As my family told me crossly the following day, I ought to have dressed and run down the seven flights of stairs to find safety outdoors. Instead, I commended myself to fate, and the hotel’s architect, and allowed myself to be rocked gently to sleep.
The experience set the tone for a fortnight that was as surreal as it was exhilarating, a sensory overload as we processed the vibrancy of the colours, the whirling crowds, the noises, the smells, the landscapes, the flavours and the history of the subcontinent.
On arrival in New Delhi, we started as we were to go on: at full throttle. Having disembarked from an overnight flight, we were whisked off in an air-conditioned car, passing
