7 DECEMBER 1991, Page 7

DIARY

WILLIAM DALRYMPLE avinder Singh, son of Punjab Singh, Prince of taxi drivers, may your beard never grow grey! Nor your liver cave in with cir- rhosis. Nor your precious Hindustan Ambassador crumple in a collision — like the one we had yesterday with the van car- rying Mango Frooty drink. Although to the newcomer Delhi traffic may seem anarchic, after a little time you realise that it is in fact governed by very strict rules. Right of way belongs to the driver of the largest vehicle. Buses give way to juggernauts, Ambas- sadors give way to buses, and bicyclists give Way to everything except pedestrians. On the road, as in many other aspects of Indian life, might is right. Yet Mr Singh, a strong individualist, believes in the importance of asserting himself. While circumstances force him to defer to buses and lorries, he has never seen the necessity of giving way to the tinny Maruti vans which, though taller than his Ambassador, are not so heavily built. After all, Mr Singh is a lcsha- triya, a warrior, by caste, and like his ances- tors he is keen to show that he is afraid of nothing. He disdains such cowardly acts as looking in wing mirrors or using his indica- tors. His Ambassador is his chariot, his klaxon his sword. Weaving into the oncom- ing traffic, playing 'chicken' with the other taxis, Bavinder Singh is a rajah of the road. Or rather was. Yesterday, taking a road Junction with more phlegm than usual, we careered into a Maruti van, impaling it in its bows, so that it bled Mango Frooty all over Mr Singh's bonnet. No one was hurt, and Mr Singh — strangely elated by his `kill' — took it stoically. `Mr William,' he said, 'in my life six times have I crashed. And on not one occasion have I ever been killed.'

Al, though I am devoted to him, my wife is quick to point out that Mr Singh is in many ways an unattractive character. A Punjabi Sikh, he is the Essex Man of the Bast. He chews paan and spits the betel Juice out of the window, leaving a red `go- fast' stripe along his car's right flank. He Mutters incoherent whoops of joy as he drives rival rickshaws on to the pavement or sends a herd of paper-boys flying into a ditch. He leaps out of his taxi to urinate at traffic lights, and scratches his groin as he talks. Like Essex Man, he is a lecher. His eyes follow the saris up and down the Delhi avenues; plump Sikh girls riding side-sad- dle on motorbikes are a particular distrac- tion. Twice a week, when my wife is not in the car, he offers to drive me to G.B. road, the Delhi red-light district: 'Just looking,' ','e suggests. 'Delhi ladies very good. Having breasts like mangoes.' Yet he has his princi- Pies. Like his English counterpart, he is a

believer in hard work. He finds it hard to understand the beggars who congregate at the lights. 'Why these peoples not work- ing?' he asks. 'They have two arms and two legs. They not handicrafted."Handicraft- ed?"Missing leg perhaps, or only one eye.' `You mean handicapped?"Yes. Handi- crafted. Sikh peoples not like this. Sikh peoples working hard, earning money, buy- ing car.' Ignoring the bus hurtling towards us, he turns around and winks an enormous wink. 'Aftetwards Sikh peoples drinking whisky, looking television, eating tandoori chicken and going G.B. road.'

It can't be a coincidence that we crashed underneath an advertising hoarding show- ing a woman unwinding a sari. In the last year, even in the last six months, India has undergone something of a sexual revolu- tion. In a country where a love scene in a film consists of the camera panning away from a converging couple and homing in on a bee pollinating a flower or a bush violent- ly shaking, Delhi advertisers have belatedly realised the old precept that Sex Sells. If this bodes well for the shopkeepers, it is disastrous news for the road users, consid- ering the number of similarly preoccupied cousins Bavinder Singh has driving taxis around Delhi. Kama Sutra condoms, India's answer to Richard Branson's Mates, are currently being blazoned over the Delhi skyline in an extraordinary new advertising campaign. Heading off the usual criticism that anything remotely titillating is promot- ing Western immorality, the manufacturers of Kama Sutra have hit on the idea of drawing on India's home-grown garden of erotica: 'A man should gather from the actions of the woman of what disposition she is,' suggests one of the advertisements, `and in what way she likes to be enjoyed.'

The reference is helpfully given in case any- one wishes to research further (The Kama Sutra, Book II, Part VIII). Immediately below is a tastefully cropped picture of India's sauciest film star, Pooja Bedi (a dis- tant cousin of my landlady, as it happens), discussing matters Ugandan with a hunky male model, shot in best Independent Mag- azine-style black and white. According to rumours circulating in Delhi, Miss Bedi was paid 7 lakh rupees (£15,000) for the picture — on the condition that Kama Sutra have the rights to her nipples for life. True, India's laws still forbid the showing of nip- ples anywhere except on temple carvings. Nevertheless, considering the speed with which liberalisation is now unveiling Indian womanhood, Kama Sutra realises that the time may soon come when Pooja Bedi's nipples will be the jewel in their crown. God help anyone near Bavinder Singh's taxi cab when her brassiere finally falls.

In purely technical terms the Kama Sutra advertisements are a great advance on any- thing which has gone before here. Last year, India was treated to a tour by the ex- Page 3 girl, Samantha Fox. Though largely ignored in Britain, Miss Fox has become one of India's favourite pop stars and her concerts were given enthusiastic publicity. Giant hoardings sprung up all over Delhi advising us to book tickets quickly while stocks lasted. Filling the full length of the hoarding was a painting purporting to be of Miss Fox. You could believe the legs. You could even buy the chest. Only the face was wrong. Someone had bungled. Tacked on to Samantha Fox's guitar-wielding, leather- clad torso was the unmistakable face of the Princess of Wales — due to have visited India the following month.

Afortnight ago, in a book review for The Spectator, I stated — incorrectly that boxwallahs (men in trade) were as unwelcome in the Calcutta Tollygunge Club as dogs and Indians. This error has produced a storm of letters from former members keen to correct the mistake. One particularly irate correspondent was Sir Owain Jenkins, a member of 'Folly' from 1929 to 1958, who called my review 'a fan- dango of balderdash' and suggested that I had been misinformed by reading too many ignorant 'popular novels'. True, says Sir Owain, Indians were not admitted as mem- bers, certainly as long as. the Empire lasted. But dogs were always welcome: 'I used to train my labradors on the golf course,' he writes indignantly. To all former members of the Tollygunge Club, who were either dogs or dog-lovers, and particularly to Sir Owain, I offer my apologies.