A World Citizen in New Delhi

India is home to 1.2 billion people — one sixth of the world’s population. And yet, from afar, how little we truly know about it. A bit of history. Hinduism. A frail man named Gandhi who led a nonviolent independence movement and was later assassinated. Economic growth. Bollywood.

At 4:20 a.m. on April 5, the wheels of a Turkish Airlines plane touch down in New Delhi.

The first hour disappears while I wait for luggage that never arrives. Then half an hour in a baggage claim queue. Another 40 minutes searching for a functioning ATM in the airport. Eventually, I take a train toward the city center, to the railway station near where my hostel is located.

I step out of the station.

Civilization ends.

Beggars sit on the pavement. Rotting fruit lies in the street. Stagnant puddles give off a sour smell. Traffic flows in chaotic waves — two-, three-, and four-wheeled vehicles weaving dangerously, coughing out thick clouds of exhaust. And the noise. Relentless, deafening noise.

Two hours later — after persistent touts and self-appointed “helpers” — I finally find the hostel, hidden in a narrow alley off the main road. It feels like navigating a labyrinth.

They give me a room on the rooftop.

It is… memorable. A dirty concrete floor. A couple of battered tables. Old fans. A large bed with worn sheets. One window. The toilet and shower are outside. It immediately earns a place in my personal ranking of worst accommodations — alongside a questionable African guesthouse and a bed in Chile that I’d rather forget.

Exhausted from the overnight flight and the scorching sun, I put in earplugs to block out the chaos below and collapse into sleep for a few hours.

When I wake up, they move me to another room. Thankfully, the first one was temporary. The new room is spacious, with old wooden interiors and a television that seems to date from the same era.

With only the clothes I’m wearing — my luggage still missing — I step out to explore India’s capital of roughly 12 million people.

A brief exchange with the hostel manager:

Manager: “You have nice shoes! Before you leave, you will gift them to me!”Me: “What?! They’re my only shoes!”Manager: “I give you Indian shoes in exchange!”Me: “No! I like my shoes!”

In India’s major cities — New Delhi and later Mumbai — one thing surprises me: nightlife, as understood in Europe, barely exists.

Throughout the day, I wander.

Motor rickshaws and cycle rickshaws crowd the streets. Taxi drivers cluster near the railway station. Market Road is lined with shops, hotels, and small businesses — including mine.

The “Old City” feels dense and intense. A faint haze hangs in the air all day, muting the sun into a dull orange disc.

At the Red Fort, built in red sandstone and once the seat of Mughal power, crowds of locals gather — many eager to take photos with me. On Sundays, it seems, visiting the fort includes photographing a foreigner.

Nearby stands the great mosque, Jama Masjid, imposing and timeless amid the chaos.

As evening falls, I return to the railway station area. The noise hasn’t diminished.

My first day in India is overwhelming, exhausting, confronting. A shock to the senses. And yet — undeniably alive.