In Delhi the sun strikes hard. I know it because the locals are sweating or hiding to die fro; the heat, a bit like R. Chamberlain and his birds. Faithful to my genes, I liquefy myself under the ambient 45 degrees Celsius, in a similar way to the landing in "Flying high", for those of you who are desperately looking for cultural references on this blog*.
In Kathmandu I had the good luck to meet Sarah and Simon, an Australian and a Swiss working in Delhi for an online travel agency, and they had the even better idea to invite me to stay in the house they share with other colleagues. Thus I avoid the dodgy backpackers area near the train station to enjoy a huge room with attached bathroom (suite royale) and friendly evenings sipping beer and re-working the world. A really appreciated change. I also discover some "trendy" bars and restaurants, loud music and throat ache guaranteed.
I do attempt some cultural visits, the most interesting being the Lotus Temple, a meditation and prayer place open to all religions. A calm, aerated and somewhat magic place that does look like the flower version of Sydney Opera.
Of course, I also get lost in the streets of bizarre bazaars wandering around aimlessly. Indians are kind of queuing up in front of the local theater, a bricks merchant sips his chai (milk spicy tea), a man selling lemony water pushes his bad metal chariot, an old horse draws a creaking cart loaded with mangos, women sell vegetables or clothes on the ground, a BBC - Bloody Big Cow - adds to the traffic mayhem, some are getting shaved in the street - but careful with the moustache - while others are patiently waiting for their turn, savouring oily samosas or a plate of chapati-lentils and commenting the results of the national cricket team.
A subway is being built, it might help improve the traffic and pollution, but I am pesimistic. I am happy to leave this oven like place in order to reach the heights of Dharamsala, and I quickly buy a train ticket to Pathankot, the door to Kashmir. Quickly is not the most appropriate word, as I have to deal with the Indian taste for forms, stamps and various papers that one needs to fill in the right order and with the exact pen colour, a legacy from the British it seems...

*I do what I can, and it certainly is not my fault if Young Werther and happy-chappy Hamlet used to live in cold and humid countries. The same blokes in India and the first chap would complain of the heat while the second one would put on his scuba gear to go fish some skulls at the bottom of the Ganges in Varanasi.