I have only known independent India in middle age — the country’s and mine. I first set foot here in 1992. It was Kolkata in mid-June — steaming, stinking hot. Everything about the place, from the hammer and sickles to the dilapidated architecture, seemed out of sync with the rest of the world; fascinatingly so. I loved Kolkata. But it was Delhi that became my adopted home a year later, when I moved into a barsati in Nizamuddin East near what was then the BBC office.

It was an exciting time for me. The job was absorbing and high profile. At times, unsettlingly so. But I also met my wife-to-be. And the sights, sounds and smells of south Delhi, as I got to know the city, are still etched in my memory. So much that struck me as remarkable about the city has since been changed beyond recognition.

When I first arrived in Delhi, the ubiquitous Ambassador gave the city’s roads a dated and, because there was hardly any other model of car around, slightly sinister air. I was entranced by all the itinerants who made their way to my home — the ektarawala, the ear cleaner, the knife sharpener. I counted about 20 different trades and services, and even toyed with the idea of writing about each of them. Nowadays, only the sabziwalas and kabariwalas keep the old customs alive.