So my first full tour watching the team has ended in an Australian loss. Not since the late 1980s, when I first thought of this type of overseas adventure, has an Australian side been beaten so badly. But the result didn’t ruin the trip, which has been fabulous and fun, tiring and, occasionally, stomach wrenching.

To prepare for home and clear off the past five weeks, another visit to the hairdresser for a cut and a shave was required this week. The Indian sledging has been relentless all tour – fair play to everybody, especially DP – and it didn’t stop in the salon. “It’s grey,” the stylist said curtly, “colour?” I’ve spotted the white hairs poking through over the past month, but didn’t realise it was that obvious, nor that my only option was to turn to dye. It has been a long trip!

The hairdresser wasn’t convinced by my wish to look distinguished - or stressed - and asked twice more before checking that my beard didn’t also need a change of hue. I hadn’t even spotted those grey bristles! Now clean and relatively hairless, it’s time to get ready to depart.

I don’t think anything summed up India better than the view out my hotel window in Delhi. From there I could see city slums, hundreds of dodging rickshaws, fading buildings and hundreds of happy and busy people, walking through markets, lining up at stalls, or sitting and watching the day go by. As I scanned further away there was a magical mosque in the distance, with its bulbs and minarets pushing to the sky. It was breathtaking and uplifting.

Some days you see the beauty of India, and it moves you. Some days you don’t, and it disturbs you. I look forward to experiencing more of those sensations next time.

	In Australia and England, Ganguly is seen as a man of privilege, someone who clicks his fingers and an army of servants arrives to clip his nails or fan his face © AFP

Unlike most Australians, I like Sourav Ganguly. If he was Australian he’d have been my favourite player at stages over the past decade. Even though I preferred Steve Waugh, I was still amused by Ganguly’s ability to irritate Australia’s on-field Mr Unflustered. Ganguly could melt The Iceman just by turning up late for the toss.

Ganguly is a great tease. If he was Australian he’d be celebrated as a rascal and a larrikin, but as an opponent he’s rude, elitist, prickly, a time waster and serial pest who couldn’t play the short ball. I don’t know why, but I admire him for these weaknesses.

To have appeared in 113 Tests while dealing with short balls as uncomfortably as if he was being shot at by arrows is astounding. The game is hard enough without having to cope with a serious deficiency as well, but Ganguly did it. I didn’t really like his replacing of gloves or protective gear every couple of overs, or his calls for socks, blister pads, face wipes and grapes. Bowling 90 in a day is hard enough without the batsmen joining the turtles with the ball, although it added to Ganguly's character and ate at his opponents.

In Australia and England, Ganguly is seen as a man of privilege, someone who clicks his fingers and an army of servants arrives to clip his nails or fan his face. Maybe his life is like that, but after being dropped as captain and batsman by Greg Chappell, I liked him even more when he had to sweat to come back. Not everything in life was laid out for him.

At a presentation during the week to celebrate his playing achievements, Ganguly spoke about the need to make enemies for the good of India. He talked gently and softly, but with purpose. Of the players I’ve seen, only Shane Warne and Graeme Smith have been as magnetic. When Ganguly enters a room I’m drawn to him and even when he’s said nothing of real interest, I’ve been entertained. During the times when he’s sniped and picked and teased it’s been even better.

Before the start of this series he was defending his form and was reported by a Bengali newspaper to have complained “every Tom, Dick and Harry is playing for India”. For two days he let the story run before issuing a denial. Off the field he was equally good at playing games and scoring points. I will miss Ganguly for his entertainment and his spice. With each year more characters leave the game and as public life becomes increasingly sanitised, I wonder if they can be replaced by the next generation of media-managed clones.

During a quiet first day in the empty stands at Nagpur I was reminded of a nice story from the final day of the Delhi Test. One of the guys in our group was staying with friends in the city and had the services of a servant, who looked after him particularly well.

Instead of a small gift from home or a few hundred rupees, the tourist thanked the man by buying him a ticket for the conclusion of the game at the Feroz Shah Kotla. He had never been to a match before.

It took a few days to hear how things had gone, but it was a success. The servant was happy to have seen Sachin Tendulkar bat, was part of the farewell to Anil Kumble, and had a wonderful time

	Fans look on as the Australian team practise © Getty Images

For the first time in the series there was a seriously energetic vibe from the supporters on a practice day. People lined up, neatly and excitedly, outside the old Vidarbha Cricket Association Ground, and there was a large crowd sitting in one of stands watching the teams train. This was the experience I’d expected at every venue, and it was fabulous to see everyone expectant about the deciding game of the series.

Outside the ground a small boy was lifted up, probably by his brother, so he could peer over a fence and spot one of the Indian players entering the team bus. Happy children were everywhere, knowing their heroes were so close. But they weren’t just interested in the big names. As I walked out of the stadium people shouted “Australia” and little boys ran up to shake my hand. It was fun seeing their cheerfulness and the love of cricket in their eyes. With one week to go on the tour, it was a satisfying surprise.

What is uncertain is whether this hype will translate into large numbers at the new ground, which is about half an hour outside the city. Only weekly tickets are being sold, limiting the options for those who want to go for a day, and nobody seems to know how many spectators will attend. After the fun of the morning training sessions, I hope it will be a lot. This series deserves it.

My favourite section of the weekend papers is the matrimonial advertisements. The crisp descriptions sell the person's best attributes and outline their perfect-partner demands. It must take hours to work out what to put in to make you most attractive.

They range from the factually exaggerated (“Sweet natured veg, caring, soft spoken, 51 yrs [looks 42], perfect health) to the detailed (“Sober, slim, beautiful Manglik bride for Punjabi Saraswat Brahim chief office in the merchant navy) to the grand (Posh S.Delhi b’ness family seeks a b’ful convent edu girl).

I got married four years ago; fortunately without the need for advertising. That way I wouldn’t have had to embarrass myself with something like: “26 yr old going grey [looks 22 but feels 45], questionable sense of humour, capable of offending people without trying, arts degree. Age, height, religion no barrier.”

I used to think being a cricket writer would be the best job in the world. Watch the game all day, speak to the players whenever you want, and get paid for your thoughts. I’m told the job isn’t always quite that romantic. Anyway, after meeting up with my travel agent on the second day at Delhi I’m starting to change my mind.

Dean Tuckwell, a prolific former first-grade batsman in Brisbane, works for The Adventure Traveller and his venture is appropriately named. For the past two months he has been guiding a tour group around South America, starting in Brazil and taking in Argentina, the Galapagos Islands, Machu Picchu, the Caribbean, Colombia and other places that I forgot in my haze of envy.

To relax from his months of hard work, Dean is on a week of heavy sightseeing. He spent a day in Madrid and some time in Oman before landing in Delhi at 5am Thursday. A few hours later he was at the Feroz Shah Kotla watching Australia’s bowlers struggle and is back again on Friday before heading to Hong Kong for the Bledisloe Cup rugby union match between Australia and New Zealand. He’ll be home early next week, just in time for the Melbourne Cup horse race. I’m jealous.

It’s Diwali! Boom, crash. Like Christmas, I’m told, only the crackers come with fire and there’s much more noise. Pop, plink. It’s taken two days to get used to the sudden blasts throughout the streets, but now it’s the main event and new and old Delhi is pounding. Slap, smack.

Looking outside to see the streams of colour burst over the city creates childlike fun. Everyone I meet is cheerful and Happy Diwali messages have come throughout the day. Bang, bang. The shops are full of specials and the mood is light and free. Thud, thud.

It’s nice to watch the sparkle in people’s eyes as they talk about what they’re going to be doing for the festival of lights. Bubble, crash. An all-night party here, time at home there. Thump, splat. I’d like to say for certain the fireworks went on all night, as promised, but I don’t know. Rat-a-tat-tat. The background noise helped send me to sleep.

Some of the buildings in Delhi are magical. The route usually starts at the Qutub Minar in south Delhi, winds around to the Lotus Temple then up towards Old Delhi, ending at the magnificent, sprawling Red Fort.

The minar (tower) stands at 72 metres and was built around the 12th century as a means of protection. How anyone could construct something so tall and, at the top, so narrow is a mystery to me. It is so beautifully crafted, with different coloured materials and seemingly perfectly round columns heading to the sky. I still can’t use a protractor, and they did it without one.

The thing I find the biggest shame is that, as with many of these grand structures, the people who started the work died before it was finished. And it’s not like they were painters who could deliver many masterpieces. They got one go, and didn’t make it to the end. They would be happy to know their sweat was not wasted and the structure, which is closed to climbing, is on the world heritage list.

Over at the Lotus Temple, a domed building that is similar on the outside walls to parts of the Sydney Opera House, is a home to the Bahai faith, a small religion when compared to Hindu and Islam which came from believers who were pushed from Iran. Sitting inside the temple it is hard not to feel something spiritual. People are told to enter and exit in single file without their shoes, and when inside I considered my tiny place in the world.

Getting around Delhi is tough and half of every day feels like it’s spent in a taxi or rickshaw. The traffic seems to be at its worst around the Red Fort in Old Delhi, where even the experienced drivers want to crane for a look at the spectacular sandstone. Not much happens inside the fort once the markets stalls are passed, but it’s a place you could spend hours looking at the shadows created by the various ruins, enjoying the old buildings and imagining the harems, royal meetings, riches and battles. Half an hour is not enough, so it’s another thing on the to-do list for next time.

Mahatma Gandhi remains a hero for India’s masses for his tolerant approach and violence-free revolution. So it was upside-down that my treasured local friend, who had taken me to Gandhi’s memorial, Raj Ghat, had his shoes stolen while paying homage. One of Gandhi’s seven social sins is wealth without work, but someone at the memorial ignored the signs of the outlook, which are available in most languages around the tranquil garden. My friend took the theft well and we tried not to laugh as he shuffled out of the tomb in bare feet, in the same way Gandhi walked before his death in 1948.

The other friend in my group then said his motorcycle had been lifted while he was visiting the site another day. He’d left it in a no-parking zone, but there were 20 other bikes there and he was surprised not to find it when he went back. After speaking to a police officer and learning it had been impounded he said: “There were 21 bikes there, why did you take mine and none of the others?” The officer replied: “Because 20 of them were police bikes.” It cost him 200 rupees to get his machine back, which I soon learned was much less than the price of a new pair of shoes.

	How does Dhoni do it? © AFP

Hugging the stomach of a motorcyclist with the intensity of a lover is not something I’ve done before. Don’t worry, the details are clean, and there’s no need to think of Police Academy’s Blue Oyster Bar. It’s just that I ended up in another of those situations where I question whether I’ve ever travelled before.

It was time to pay the hotel bill, they didn’t take Visa and I needed to go to a bank. Despite seeing a couple of ATMs coming home at night, they were apparently too far to walk to. Enter the hotel’s motorcyclist with the cuddly tummy. He said he’d take me and I agreed when I still thought we were walking. As he picked up his helmet I said “no, no, no” and shook my head like someone who has just been framed for murder.

And this is where things started to go really wrong. He put down the helmet, thinking I was too tough for the protection, instead of seeing the fear and loathing of being the second man on a bike. Too late. Even at the street, when he’s wheeling the bike in the right direction, I’m still hugging the kerb. Then his safe eyes invite me up and soon I’m gripping him like he’s saved my life.

After the cycle rickshaw in Chandigarh I never thought I’d get this close to the traffic again. When I was in primary school I doubled on a motorbike and burnt my leg on the exhaust pipe. It was a good lesson: stay off bikes. I broke the rule on holiday in the Greek Islands once to keep up with some more adventurous friends, riding behind them as slowly as the geeky cop in Police Academy.

So I have no idea what to do with my weight when this guy goes around corners, avoids a pothole, goes through a pothole, or dodges a bus. Except hang on - and I do it pretty well. While potential damage to my uncovered head is one ever-present thought, the other nagging one is what happens to my sticking-out knees if they are clipped by any of the many passing vehicles? Because of the seat, I can’t get them any closer together, so I just have to sit forward and think of Australia.

We get to the ATM, the money comes out, and I’m thinking this adventure isn’t too bad. The return trip is equally eventful and when we stop at the hotel I’m so hyped I walk off in a different direction.

Since reading a diary of an Englishman’s travels around India I’ve always wanted to have a haircut and a shave here. The head massage always sounded great and it’s the kind of pampering that I’m not so comfortable with back home. Only one lady and two children are allowed to touch my face in Australia, but after my first haircut-shave experience I’m happy to extend the field to Indian hairdressers.

I’m not quite ready for a trim by the side of the street, so one of my local mates takes me to a special place called Madonna’s, where they play music by … you guessed it. Strangely, there were no pictures of Guy Ritchie.

We don’t have an appointment and for a while it feels like my stylist was hoping to be at the gym instead. He pulls my head back at forth, taking it to unusual limits. He knows the English of "shorter" and "longer", which is a good start, and he begins cutting. I now have sideburns that would get me a place in the New Zealand squad, but the rest is fine. At least I don’t have the same style as one of the hairdressers in my local town. It’s easy to spot the men who go to him; they all own the look of an evangelical American.

It reminds me of one of my favourite dad’s jokes. A man walks into a hairdresser and asks for a Brett Lee (or Prince Charles or John Lennon or anybody you can think of) haircut, but when it’s finished he looks like a schoolboy. “But I asked for Brett Lee’s style,” the man complains. The hairdresser replies: “If Brett Lee came here that’s what I’d give him.”

Anyway, the shave is fabulous. I feel like Rick McCosker in 1977 when my face is wrapped in a hot towel and pushed around. Then about three lotions are rubbed into my face. I don’t need the fingers up my nose – I think he had dosas for lunch – but the rest of the treatment is fabulous, and I nearly fall asleep despite the strange angle of my head.

There’s more massaging and finally the razor comes out, being used like knifing jam on to toast. I start to sweat slightly, but it’s done before I can shout “Murder, bloody murder” or “what’s the Hindi for tetanus shot?” The only awkwardness comes when I use my tongue to try to help him around the curves of my bottom lip. “No,” the hairdresser says firmly. That’s all I need to reduce the chances of blood on the floor.

It’s McCosker time again, only now with an icy towel that makes me squeal on the inside, followed by grandfather-strength aftershave that makes me squeal on the outside. After so much pleasure, it was time for some pain. An A$11 bargain.

	Ricky Ponting doesn't seem to have problems with rickshaws, unlike my experience with taxis © AFP

To prepare for two weeks in Delhi I read William Dalrymple’s City of Djinns, a book about his year in one of the world’s great historical cities. Early on he introduces International Backside Taxis, his charming, unpredictable, but usually tardy, couriers for the duration of his stay. My welcome to Delhi felt like it came through International Sh**head Taxis. For the second time in a week there was no driver waiting to take me to the hotel, as promised. Which is not such a big deal, except it leaves you vulnerable to the demands of whichever hawker/helper/tout offers assistance first. I’ve been caught like this a few times so know some of the tricks, but at 10pm the options are limited.

So I was relieved when this short, young guy with a heavy growth said he was from “tourist information” and took me to an office of the same name. Except it wasn’t the type of helpful, often free, service offered in other countries. This one seemed to specialise in overpriced taxis, foul-mouthed employees and phones that didn’t work.

After waiting for about 15 minutes while they tried to convince me that my hotel didn’t exist, the original guy took me to a taxi where a homeless man was sleeping in the back. Like a WWE wrestler, the driver wrenched the guy out of the car and threw him to the footpath. “My brother,” the driver said, stepping over the person on the ground.

It’s easier to squeeze through a thumb hole in a dike than to get out of an Indian car-park, and after another 15 minutes we were on to the exit road when the driver stopped at another tourist shop. He yells at the young boys at the front to bring their manager out, while beeping his horn with every tap of his fingers. At this point I realise that despite showing the address of the hotel about five times, the driver doesn’t know where he’s going. “Karol Bagh, yes, sir,” he says. “Karol Bagh, yes, sir.”

If anybody is reading this (Hi Mum, Dad and Sister), you’re probably wondering why I didn’t get out. I’d thought the same thing at each step too. But now I’m at stage 15 of about 18 and the other option is to head back to the start and repeat the experience. So I sit, without a seatbelt, and pray.

After hearing the stream of yelling from the street, the busy manager on the inside explodes, shouting words only sailors and taxi drivers understand. It was clear he didn’t want to help and even the persistent driver knew it was time to do some driving instead of more stalling. I don’t like young drivers. They go too fast, don’t use the brakes, and most probably won’t make it to old age. Ten minutes later I'm at the hotel, paying the guy far too much in the hope I never see him again.

I watched the Champions League Twenty20 draw last night. A perfect example of how to take an hour or more to do something that could be over in three minutes. When it’s a football draw, Sepp Blatter somehow makes ping pong balls look exciting, but this was dreary and tacky. At least watching the Da Vinci Code later lifted the pace of my evening.

Poor Steve Waugh had flown in from Australia and his job was to pull a bat from a barrel. Duty performed, he stepped off stage awkwardly without a word. There were plenty of others who spoke, but not one of the modern game’s greats. There were some funny moments, like Lalit Modi referring to the eight states and provinces involved as “clubs”. In Australia the club is where you start out, working for years in the hope you’re good enough for your state. Sledging someone as “just a club cricketer” is usually pretty effective.

It looked like a night when India’s most influential sports administrators were showing off a rock and telling everyone it was a diamond. “This is for the champions of club cricket,” Modi said, “and we hope it is the biggest tournament of all.” Shane Watson confused the Champions Twenty20 with the Indian Premier League, which is understandable considering the number of acronyms in the game at the moment.

At least Watson remained on-message, saying “amazing” a lot. Shoaib Malik, of Pakistan and Sialkot Stallions fame, said it was great to qualify for the competition for the first time – with all the signs and manufactured hype, how could he not know this was the inaugural tournament? – and then told how hard it would be for his team after seven of his men signed with the Indian Cricket League. The rebels must have been pleased.

Matthew Hayden was asked about his cooking and said it was going better than his batting. One joke going round some of the Australian supporters here is that Hayden needs to eat some bad food, then at least he’ll get some runs. The players on the big screens in the Twenty20 had no such problem and Charl Langeveldt won sympathy for his brethren when he said “bowlers were only there to start the game”. At least some people on the night were being realistic.

After seeing The Darjeeling Limited I was desperate to experience a train trip in India - without the on-the-loose snake. Like a few of my expectations on this trip, there was more movie than reality. The train from Chandigarh to New Delhi is called the Rajdhani-Shatabdi Express but the exotic name does not translate into an authentic experience. Parts of India are just too damn modern. The template for this fast, efficient, comfortable train is pretty much shared by those on the London-to-Bristol and Brisbane-to-Ipswich lines.

For 262km we sped to Delhi and the only noticeable difference was the industrious service of the overworked waiters, who serve about four courses. I haven’t had a cooked meal on a train since the 28hr journey on the Sunlander from Brisbane to Cairns as a teenager. On the Bullet Train between Tokyo and Kyoto lunch was a plastic box full of I’ll-never-know-what while the Eurostar to Paris was cold meat and red wine.

On the track to Delhi it’s dal, paneer, rice and roti. It smelt okay but I’d eaten late and after seeing old food on my spoon I was a bit wary of the rest. I’m trying not to be a delicate Westerner, but after a few days of upset stomach I feel a bit like a delicate Westerner.

The nice guy next to me thought the meal was delicious, licking every finger a couple of times. For health reasons, I’ve given up chewing my nails for five weeks – to me it’s as addictive as nicotine and just writing this makes me want to hack into my overgrown claws – so as I tried not to watch my heart tightened in envy and my stomach started to gurgle in anticipation of an imminent evacuation.

In The Darjeeling Limited Owen Wilson’s character joins his two siblings – as well as a harassed personal assistant – as they try to rekindle their brotherly love while finding themselves and their mother. They journey for days, stopping for tea, markets, faux prayers and fights with the train steward. It’s a bit hard to match that in a four-hour journey on what feels like a commuter service, so I didn’t try.

Due to a morning of unavoidable administrative jobs I stepped on to the train just after dusk. A trip back to the SIM card-watch shop was necessary as the officious people at Airtel don’t think my home address in Australia exists. Three lines of official description and a postcode is not enough, and they still weren’t convinced when I added in “third street on the left after the swimming pool”. So I’ll have a different number and network in Delhi.

Instead of seeing desert and hundreds of people and having cups of tea handed in through the train windows, I got lots of orange lights and kilometres of shadows. They were nice shadows, not the kind to be jumping at. But I can’t tell you what’s it’s like between Chandigarh and Delhi. Next time I’ll do it in daylight.

The highlight of the trip was the squawking bird cacophony at the station in Chandigarh. Louder than the crowds at Mohali, it was overwhelming initially but provided me never-before-heard background music to a 30-minute wait. How such tiny animals can make so much noise, I’m not sure. I was scanning for an escaped snake, but that sort of thing only happens in the movies.

It’s strange being an Australian in another country when the team loses, and in India it gains you more attention. People who didn’t recognise me before suddenly are – and they want to talk. “Sorry Australia,” one young boy said, smiling as I walked to the ground on day five. The rest want to know whether Brett Lee or Matthew Hayden should be dropped.

Those that don’t talk have seemed to stare more over the past day. It feels like there’s a red dot on my body, like the ones created by the hi-tech guns the contract killers hold. Or maybe I’m just imagining it.

After two decades of Australian success, perhaps it’s me who is feeling differently. I had nothing to do with how the team played at Mohali, but it’s hard for the result not to have some sort of effect. It was shocking to see such a one-sided game – with Australia behind.

Maybe this is how England fans feel every Ashes series (exception – 2005). As I left the ground at Mohali I was thankful it was so empty. If results like these become regular it will take a while to get used to.

I got stuck in the hotel lift this morning. It was only for two minutes, but was about to feel like ten. Until they break, lifts don’t feel that small for me. The night before a friend had told me he hated them because he’d been caught in one as a child. At the time I thought I’d never been stuck. Not anymore.

Fortunately there was a nice man wearing a green turban who seemed to double as one of the hotel managers. He wasn’t worried and called someone to fix the problem. Then the fan stopped and the walls started to creep in. Finally, probably less than a minute later, I spotted some fingers and two of the hotel staff joined with their boss in pulling the doors open wide enough to let me out. Free at last.

Downstairs – I’m using them now – at breakfast I spotted a rat. Among some of the Australians fans this has become known as the hotel of rodents, but I’ve felt comfortable here, and still do. The rat was hanging from the beak of a bird in a tree outside the breakfast room. I didn’t feel like meat any more, so ordered vegetarian.

I’d looked at the pedal rickshaws since arriving in Chandigarh and wondered how they coped in the traffic ecosystem. Now it was time to find out for myself. It was frightening but fun, the scariest moment being when we were hooted by a bus trying to overtake us on a roundabout. And hooted. And got closer. And hooted louder. And got even closer. Every muscle around my midriff tightened in a way that hasn’t happened since I last went to the gym.

Things were more relaxed on the special bike paths, although my driver was trying to compensate for his lack of power on the road by attempting some rare overtaking. He did it without success due to the wide loud of another rickshaw that wasn’t in the mood to race.

The seats were like the back-less sofas preferred in trendy hotels, minus the trendy part. As soon as I sat down I thought I was going to slip off, but after trying a few awkward positions I settled on a laid-back lounging style often featured by models in men’s magazines. Finally, I was sort of comfortable. There wasn’t much to hold on to, which didn’t help in moments of fear, so it was lean back and (try to) enjoy the ride.

I felt like an olden day character in a buggy, only my fan was missing. The riding was hard work. There were no gears and only two speeds: sitting down and, when extra power was needed, standing up.

Just because there are lane markings on Indian roads doesn’t mean they are followed – in either direction. So auto-rickshaws putt-putted within centimetres of the carriage and the cars got pretty close too. But it wasn’t until the bus-up-my-behind that I started to think I was being too adventurous. My cyclist was unperturbed and swung off the roundabout like he was a Tour de France rider dodging a traffic island. He parked by the side of the road and I was safe.

	Satshriakal to you too © AFP

Chandigarh feels like it’s in a different country to Bangalore. The streets are wide and there is less traffic, but more ways to get around. Pedal rickshaws jostle on the roads with the auto-rickshaws and a few horse-drawn carriages clop along with the cars. It’s much easier to navigate (from the passenger seats, of course) and nobody seems in much of a hurry, although when a herd of cattle stomped through a main intersection there was some driver angst.

The city has been cut up into sectors, making the addresses in the various hotels seem like parts of a prison. It’s not that bad, but it is well-organised and rustic. People say it’s an Indian version of Canberra, with the planning but without the roundabouts and landmark buildings. From what I’ve seen over the past two days there aren’t many similarities. It’s like nowhere I’ve been before.

Westerners don’t seem to be a regular part of the trade and I’ve heard that the first time one of the Australian journalists opened his hotel-room door he saw a rat above his eyes, which then scurried to the window sill. It took another two accommodation houses before he found something close to his original standard (the journalist, not the rat). On Australia's tour here in 1986 the players were horrified to see rats, but Geoff Marsh, the opening batsman, said he'd seen bigger ones on his farm.

I believe I’m in the same hotel as where it happened, but I have stayed in much worse places. If I was living here while I was at university I would never have left, but I’ll see how it goes. At the moment not being able to connect to the internet is a bigger deal. It’s down for a day. Or more. Time is hard to judge here. Five minutes can mean half an hour, so I might have left Chandigarh before the “back-end server problem” is fixed. Modern life is warped. Once food and water was satisfactory, but now it’s a room free of rodents and full of unlimited WiFi.

The stadium in Mohali, a suburb of Chandigarh, doesn’t seem to fit with the city. It is grand, imposing and rises on the same strip as a tent city, where people wash near the roads and sit round small fires to cook. The Punjab Cricket Association Ground looked immaculate and from the pavilion a shady line could be seen in the distance. It’s the start of the lower Himalayas, but there is as much chance of Sachin Tendulkar retiring 15 short of a world record as cold weather over the next week. It is hot, hazy and a much better place to be a spectator than a player.

***

Hindi isn’t the only Indian language that Brett Lee has been learning. When he sat down for a press conference at Mohali on Wednesday he offered the Punjab greeting sat-shri-akal. He even pronounced it properly, which impressed those who are more familiar to these parts. The rest was in English, but Lee’s small deeds and wide smiles go a long way to showing why he’s so popular in this country.

	"Dada we'll miss you" minus the paternal emotions © AFP

Having a servant is something I can’t get used to. At the guest house in Bangalore I had a fabulous helper who would do anything I would ask – and when I didn’t make requests, he would do things anyway. Like making four delicious dinner dishes when my stomach could cope with only one. Or press the lift button, pick up the clothes I had dropped randomly to feel like home, fill me up with water or buy toiletries. And when I had a long day at the cricket and came back with tight shoulders, he noticed, insisting I have a massage. It was as good as his excellent cooking; I doubt I’ll taste better dosas, parathas or idlis over the next month.

In Australia I live in a do-it-yourself house. Asking a partner for a drink is okay, but only if the tone is right. Handing over a bundle of dirty shirts for an overnight turnaround, or sitting at the table waiting for food without at least pretending to offer help, is as fraught as waving an Australian flag in the cheap seats at Chinnaswamy.

Being a westerner in India means privileges are granted without merit and each time I visit, it’s uncomfortable. But trying to offer assistance gets a slightly offended look and a “pleeess, sir” that gently says “sit down and let me do my job”, which isn’t an unreasonable request. So I try to be served. Except I can’t help but sneak the dishes to the sink (Don’t worry, special friend, I haven’t used up my annual washing-up quota) or put some bread in the toaster. Or pour my own drink.

Servants are a regular part of Indian life, a way of providing employment to people who need it, building a home and getting every-day jobs done. I’ve been told three or four in a house is not unusual. They stay in a small room, or let themselves in with their key, and receive food and a tiny wage.

As the guest it’s like being in a hotel, except you get to know the person. It makes me more uncomfortable to place orders. I’ve practised my eight Hindi words with him – bas, shukria, which means “enough, thank you”, was my most-used phrase at meals. Even my expanding stomach could not fit in all of the fabulous food. So it was sad leaving him this morning. From now on I’m staying in hotels and will miss my live-in friend.

***

There are small things that remind me of family – and big things. Like a stadium full of people roaring “Dada, Dada”. In the daydream my two babies had arranged the chanting and sent over the scribbled signs: “Dada, we’ll miss you.” Five weeks is going to be a long time away from them. Of course the noise on the last day of the first Test was for the retiring Sourav Ganguly, but for a moment, to me, it wasn’t.

Being part of thousands of people shouting for a player is one of the best feelings as a sport watcher. I think I remember the “Thommo, Thommo” cries at the Gabba for the slinging of Jeff Thomson. If they aren’t my original thoughts, they have been told to me by fathers and friends, or heard on the television, so often that they have become mine.

The “Ooh Aah, Glenn McGrath” chorus at Perth during his final series in 2006-07 was skin tingling and the “Dada, Dada” was stirring in Bangalore, especially as Ganguly’s fielding, which was up to its usual standard, had been jeered earlier in the match. The subjects of the chants are special because they have allowed people to love them through their deeds.

I’ve always liked Ganguly – his Lord Snootiness, the awkward dance to avoid anything short and his superstar presence - from the moment I first heard him speak after India chased more than 300 to win a one-dayer at Lord’s in 2002. I like him so much that once the Dada daydream finished I didn’t even mind that they were chanting his name instead of the one my children call me.

I'm scared to cross the roads here. I'm getting used to the smaller side
streets, but the main ones swarm with speeding vehicles and buzz with
danger. The first time I was in Bangalore I never felt safer than when a
local friend held my hand and guided me across the main MG Road.

Without him I feel like I'm guiding a chariot across the Red Sea, fearing
that what looks like an empty landscape will change before I can do
anything about it. If there are other people waiting by the edge - they
always look so calm - I hang in their shadow like a shy child grabbing a
parent's leg.

At home, I've been teaching my little girl about roads and crossing them.
We stand at the edge, look left and right, until we can't see any cars.
I don't know what I'd tell her here because hundreds of metres of empty
lanes don't exist.

There are vehicles everywhere, smooth-running sedans, smoke-blowing
rickshaws, motorcycles with fearless riders and bicycles of various
degrees of sturdiness. To me the slow-pedalling cyclists are among the
world's bravest people. They are so much more vulnerable than edgy
tourists.

Vanity has a new name in India: Lalit Modi. The IPL commissioner is starring in a television advertisement for something I can’t remember. It’s normal for the players to cash in (I’m not missing seeing Andrew Symonds emerge from a car wash every time there’s a break in the news back home), but it makes administrators look like they believe the hype about them. I can’t imagine David Morgan pushing rouge make-up or James Sutherland promoting pocket protectors.

In the advertisement Modi seems to be auditioning as a Democrat from Maine, standing in his den admiring his possessions. Ron Burgundy, the self-promoting newsreader in the movie Anchorman, instantly came to mind.

“I don't know how to put this, but I'm kind of a big deal,” is one of Burgundy’s best lines. “I’m very important. I have a lot of leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.”

Modi is a good looking, successful businessman who has done some incredibly valuable things for the game and confirmed India’s superpower status. But talking to people in the stands in Bangalore it was hard to find supporters who thought the television move made him look better.

After the relaxed security on the practice days, inspections and searches have become more thorough, although they still carry an endearing local touch. Nothing in this sphere is more fun than watching the teams arrive escorted by police in their Ambassador cars. If Volkswagen made a sedan in the 1950s, it would looked like these charming, almost vintage, white vehicles.

With a whirring red siren on the roof, they cruise through the traffic as the lead and rear parts of the envoy, reminding me of slow-motion car-chases in black-and-white movies. The players sit in the centre of the procession in their modern buses and watch the policemen shaking their arms and beeping their piercing horns to create a clear path. I’m not sure if it makes the teams feel safer (they probably wish they were in their own swanky four-wheel drives), but the parade creates some Australian smiles.

I think I’m going deaf. One day in a stadium that was a third full and my head is echoing. The best I can do to describe the noise is to compare it to when a streaker runs out on an Australian ground. There it might happen once late in a one-dayer, but here it’s every few minutes. For a single, for Sourav Ganguly fielding cleanly, for Sachin Tendulkar running to the boundary, for a Ricky Ponting four. And every time they roar I look for someone running on the field wearing nothing but an Australian flag – or less. Like much in India, it’s a fabulous experience that will take a while to get used to.

Jetlag is least fun when the changes don’t turn the days upside down. Heading for England or Canada from Down Under isn’t usually too bad because the time switch is so severe there is no option but to adjust quickly. Being in India is trickier for east-coast Australians, who have to deal with a difference of between four-and-a-half and five-and-a-half hours. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s enough to upset the balance. After three visits here in three years I haven’t found a solution.

I’m determined to focus on India time, but that plan falls down when thinking about contacting my family. In Australia my two babies wake between 4am and 6am, so while I’m not always up with the sun, I’m usually starting to stir (Dear wife, please stop laughing). The upshot is that In India my usual wake-up time is the middle of the night, meaning dozing to 4am counts as my longest sleep-in since the second baby arrived. I’m still waiting to feel refreshed.

So it’s now 6.43am and I’ve been up for almost three hours. I feel like I’ve slept worse than Cameron White and Jason Krejza, who are waiting to find out if they get their first baggy green today. It’s going to be a long first day at the cricket for a few people.

	By the time Steve Waugh packed his bag for the final time he felt like family © Getty Images

Twenty-four hour news channels all over the world are prone to constant exaggeration, seemingly capable of turning a shop fire into a global terrorism threat. So when something big happens they sometimes struggle to do it justice because there is no room left for extra flexing. One place where it doesn’t seem to be a problem is India, where the coverage of Sourav Ganguly’s retirement plan quickly reached hysterical limits.

It was like a president or prime minister or rock star had died. One station had four talking heads in various parts of the country swapping back and forth as they told of the disbelieving reactions in their city to an event that wasn't exactly a shock. Even so, the news was so big it didn’t need a mumbling past player acting as on-screen expert – the presenters were able to do it themselves.

I’m not sure how much Sourav’s decision contributed to so many people being on the streets – they are always crowded – but they surrounded the reporters and offered their views, loudly and passionately. Back in the studio the best batsman/captain/person of all time was being praised – although in India they prefer felicitations.

Over the next month I am interested to learn whether these emotions are felt by people around the game, not just those involved in the game. I was slightly disappointed not to see hundreds of supporters sitting in the stands watching the teams train on Tuesday and Wednesday. In years spent reading and watching India from afar, it seemed cricket was the lingua franca and that anything would be done to spy Sachin or Sourav or MS. Maybe it was like that, and Twenty20 has changed the view. Or perhaps they get to see them so often on the television.

Steve Waugh’s pre-series announcement that he would step down at the end of the 2003-04 contest with India was a huge deal in Australia. Like Ganguly, his place had been questioned over the previous year and some lingering resentment resulted in people wondering whether he was putting himself above the team. It quickly turned into the Summer of Steve and the coach John Buchanan blamed Waugh’s farewell as a reason for the side losing focus on the way to a drawn series.

Most of Waugh’s moves that season were covered in detail and by the end of the series, with the newspaper lift-outs, the paper red hankies and television news specials, we felt we knew him better than his three brothers. It was blanket coverage. At least I thought it was. Until now.

	The view in Bangalore © Getty Images

Getting into the Gabba in the lead-up to the first Test often feels like a job for Jason Bourne or Mission: Impossible’s Ethan Hunt. Over-sized security guards stand watch, telling people they can’t come in with a backpack or a watermelon on their head, and the stadium has more dead-ends than a new housing estate. Achieving a look at the pitch gains more satisfaction than watching a Queenslander’s century.

Security has been a buzzword in the lead-up to the series due to the postponement of the Champions Trophy due to safety, and then there were recent bombings in Delhi. So it was a treat to walk straight into Bangalore’s Chinnaswamy Stadium without encountering any roadblocks or army lines.

Asking for directions to the Australian team management, I was pointed towards a gate and told “just go across the field”. It’s probably not the casual approach the cautious tourists want, but it was fabulous to step on the soggy outfield, walk past the players training, scan the pitch and wonder what it was like for Michael Clarke during his 151 four years ago.

In the stands the bare concrete slabs were slowly turning red and blue with plastic chairs, providing some much-needed colour. Kites observed from above and lots of orange dragonflies buzzed down for a closer look. The security guards only let the flies do that at the Gabba.

***

Landing at the new Bangalore airport is now almost the same as arriving in Brisbane or Adelaide, which is a relief after the battling experiences and snaking journeys in the out-dated and tiny old version. While playing the Artful Dodger to pick up luggage was initially fun, the biggest obstacle was escaping the carpark, usually because an Indian Oil truck was parked near the exit. It meant travellers were more likely to get a deep vein thrombosis in the taxi rather than during the flight.

At the new airport bags and immigration were cleared as easily and quickly as in Australia and one of the main priorities, as promoted on a welcome sign, is “facilitation with security”. The only problem is it is 40km north of the city and initially the not-to-scale in-flight journey made me wonder if the facility was shared with Hyderabad. It’s not, mainly because a more accurate map shows the cities are about 500km apart.

Gatwick is a long drive from London, Belfast is a big hill and a few country lanes away from its international airport, New York’s JFK can be a bit stressful in peak hour and Dubrovnik’s tarmac is closer to Montenegro than the old town, but at least smooth progress is possible, along with a choice of transport options. Nothing I’ve seen in three visits here can match the Bangalore bottlenecks in a city with a road infrastructure that has been ruined by the exploding population. “Another three or four years,” a taxi driver predicted when asked how long it would take to build new streets in the centre of the city. He seems like an optimist.