Vibrant colours. Rituals on rivers. Sacred cows. People. Poverty. And prosperity. Images of India have probably circulated in my mind for as long as I can remember. But it wasn’t until the ticket was booked and I was heading there alone for four months that I really started to hear stories about the place. Those who had never been to India, but had a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend who once had, relayed their wisdom. I heard everyone spoke English. I heard the food was unbearably chilli and that the streets were dotted with human excrement. I heard that cows standing on airstrips delayed the take off and landing of airplanes. I heard not to trust taxi drivers, and not to walk on the streets alone. I heard there would be little respect for human life and that people disappeared off the streets every day. I heard not to look men in the eyes and not to eat any fruit or vegetables without peeling all the skin off first.

My plane touched down in Delhi without any cow related delays and when I emerged from the international airport I had no other choice but to trust the taxi driver who drove me to my apartment. The first four Indians I met didn’t speak English. And the following day I cooked eggplant and realised moments too late that I had forgotten to remove the skin. But I was fine, and I was in Delhi.

So, how to describe such a place? Some love it. It seems to posses this all-captivating hold that won’t let go, while others just can’t escape it quick enough. I will disclose my bias from the start – I’ve fallen in love with this city. I came to Delhi originally for a four-month art related work/research trip and now I am here at the beginning of a two year period in which I will call this city my home.

In his book City of Djinns: a year in Delhi, William Dalrymple, one of today’s most remarkable travel writers, manages to pin point this allure of Delhi. In it he goes much further than simply admiring Delhi through it’s architectural ruins and rich history – rather he brings the history to life and in doing so unveils Delhi as a city of human ruins scattered and preserved across different areas, like the nooks and crannies of a very old home, where different centuries, and in this case even different millennia, exist side by side.

But after declaring my love of this place I also have to admit that Delhi is not the city for a relaxing, escapist holiday. Like the love of a person it is the imperfections, the complexities, those beautiful grey zones that you really fall in love with over here.

And “holidays” are depressing things anyway, that imply a division between work and leisure – something I am not keen to partition off.

So for those who might think of coming to Delhi – I would say pick up a copy of Dalrymple’s City of Djinns as a starter and give yourself time. Give yourself time to explore, to listen, to watch and understand. Take the time to sit by the side of the road – with a small hot cup of strong, milky, sweet chai in your hand and let the histories, the living stories, the energy, the people – let Delhi pass you by at it’s own unique pace at once frenzied and tranquil.