BBC - Around the World - Ariel's 'Foreign Bureau' - 23 March 2004, Adam Mynott in Delhi

By Adam Mynott, Correspondent, Delhi, 23 March 2004

There are two perfect times of year here in Delhi: October/November and March. Cool nights and warm days are framed by enchanted evenings and early mornings, lit by a magical golden haze.

Alas, for the three years I have been here the deeds of terrorists and world leaders have kept me away from Delhi too often during these faultless weeks.

In fact, it is only a looming general election in India which has prevented me from being in Iraq now. I was due there for the first anniversary of the war. A year ago I was lying in a shallow hole in the sand, stewing in sweat and filth, waiting for the invasion to begin.

Now I am gazing out of the office at a jacaranda tree across the road – an explosion of vibrant violet against the pink and golden stone of Lutyen’s Delhi.

Spring and autumn are punctuated however by events which shatter the serenity. In October I renew the residency documents for my family, and in March I encounter the tax authorities.

Indian bureaucracy renders them days of Stygian misery. Without Sunil, who helps me keep the Indian inland revenue cohorts at bay, I would have gone mad. I am told there are five times more words in the tax laws than there are in the Mahabarata.

I am largely on my own when it comes to registration as a resident. I have tried each of the three times I have reported to the foreign residency registration office to anticipate any and every possible demand.

I have turned up with photographs in triplicate, photocopies of everything from my passport to my membership of the RSPB; biographies of every member of my close family; pens with ink of every colour of the rainbow. I have taken my cheque book, travellers’ cheques, rupees, dollars and euros. But it is like trying to outwit Hercule Poirot.

Last time I was sure I had everything, and I was smug as I noticed growing frustration on the face of the official examining my documents.

"You haven’t got a letter from your employers."

"Yes, I have...somewhere," I replied, diving into the chest with my paperwork and surfacing with a letter on BBC headed notepaper.

"What about the letter from the Ministry of External Affairs?"

"Yes… I think… here we are."

Then a sight I feared most: the first small lift of the corners of her mouth. The faintest trace of a smile, evolving in seconds into a broad, expansive grin. "Ah ha! I cannot give you a multiple entry visa," she shouted exultantly.

"What do you mean? Of course I need a multiple entry visa; you gave me one last year."

"But the External Affairs Ministry has not instructed me to give you one. It just says ‘visa’."

It is too traumatic to recall every detail before I emerged from the FRRO two days later with a full clutch of signed, stamped, receipted, counter-signed documents.

At least the exercise was conducted in English. A young Pole who started the process the same day as me, and who spoke no English or Hindi, had not got beyond stage one when I left. He is probably still there.

I am leaving India soon. In more ways than I can number I will be very sorry to go. In one or two I won’t.