It is during such days that one realises why becoming a minister is a dream for so many. Everyone, high or low, big or small, powerful or weak, seems to be on an "official" visit to some country where the temperature is kinder than that in Delhi. In fact, it will be difficult to find a minister who actually spends the long summer of seven months (mid-March to mid-October) in the capital.

The President has just concluded a visit to China, the vice president is off to East Europe, the prime minister is up in the hills of Manali, the external affairs minister is extremely ambulatory (Iran, Singapore, something else soon), the finance minister and the minister of information technology visited nothing less than the United States, and even the home minister, not known for being too fond of foreign climes, is in Israel, albeit briefly.

Naturally, a minister is accompanied by his bevy of babus, personal assistants, et al. Even other senior politicians not in government are using any opportunity -- official junket, study trip sponsored by some ministry or the other -- to get away from Delhi's unbearable heat, all in the name of serving India.

It would be interesting to know what exactly such visits achieve and how much they cost the taxpayer. But our bureaucrats say that the gains are intangible.

"We achieve goodwill and the returns will come in later," said one, "these things can't be computed in tangible terms."

One can only hope that later is in this decade.

In an earlier diary, I had complained that Delhi is not really fit to be India's capital.

Two summers in Delhi, third running, my conviction has been strengthened by the way the city treats its lesser citizens. It is shocking. This city is wonderful if you are well off, terrible if you aren't.

Everyday in the poorer quarters there is a power cut that can last for up to four hours, even more. It must surely rank as ironical that poor people who live in cramped quarters bear the brunt of such actions. If the fan inside the house cannot work, the small house gets stuffy and claustrophobic, forcing you outdoors. But outdoors, the scorching sun forces you indoors...

Power cuts also lead to an acute water shortage. It may sound petty to complain about water at a time when large parts of India is reeling from droughts, but the agony here is only slightly less. At a time when people need to bathe at least twice a day, water is not available even to drink.

Of course, the rich are not affected. Delhi is the city where the greatest thieves are not the poor who rob to fill their stomachs but the rich who rob to become more affluent. Power theft has reached alarming proportions, sufficient to call out the army.

The rich people in their large houses steal electricity without a care to run their many air-conditioners to keep the house cool. And of course, they are never penalised. The rich bribe the electricity officials, thus action has to be taken against both, the bribe-giver and bribe-taker. The former is protected by his wealth and connections to powerful people, the latter by his union and connections to his bosses who all collect a cut from the bribe.

How long will India survive this corruption that is eating away its innards?

Delhi is fast becoming a truly Marxist land where the state is withering away. Today, the denizens of the 'Rajdhani' have increasingly turned away from the government to private means and ways to get their work done. The extremely positive aspect of this is the gainful employment it has generated.

For instance, the constant power shortage has led to a massive market in the production of inverters and generators. And while the rich buy the brand names, dozens of 'grey' firms have cropped up, selling inverters and generators at a far lesser price.

Similarly, to escape the awful heat, the city has a number of small units manufacturing air-conditioners. Again, at prices much less than what the big ones offer.

The best part is that these small-time operators have also been affected by the financial revolution sweeping India. They now offer hire-purchase schemes to tempt middle-class buyers hesitant to part with too much money at one go.

Besides goods, even services have been privatised. Security more than anything else. Throughout Delhi, the posh colonies and offices are manned by private security agencies. The people no longer depend on the police to do the job of keeping the crooks at bay. Not that the cops are to blame: they are just too busy looking after all the ministers and politicians.

Similarly in the case of transport, anyone with money will seek a vehicle. No one wants to depend on the public transport system that is a nightmare. The buses in Delhi, besides being irregular, are also the single largest reason for giving Delhi the dubious honour of recording the maximum road deaths.

Clearly, the state in Delhi exists only for the benefit of a few. The rest must depend on private sources. If such is the case, why do we need a government?

A few weeks ago, a salesman visited me. He insisted on speaking in his extremely pidgin English.

I did my best to converse in Hindi, thinking he would be more comfortable. He certainly would have been more comfy that way, but he refused to speak in the raj bhasha.

It was clear why he preferred pidgin English to shudh Hindi. English was his passport to greater status. He felt that by speaking English he would improve not just his mastery over the language but his career prospects.

After the sale, he asked me if I had a job for him; sadly I did not.

Haryana, which borders Delhi on three sides, has also realised the importance of English. This state now plans to teach English from class 1 in all the government schools.

The measure was prompted when the authorities found that even the poorest person in Haryana, a relatively prosperous state, preferred to send his son or daughter to an expensive private school, where he could learn English, rather than a free government-run school where English was not a priority subject.

Are the others listening?