Chasing India Gate: A Very Determined Stroll Through New Delhi

On our final day in New Delhi, we decided it was time. India Gate had been hovering on our mental to‑do list all week, and now, armed with Google Maps, stubbornness and a questionable sense of direction, we set off to see it up close.

India Gate, if you haven’t met it, is an enormous sandstone arch designed by Edwin Lutyens., the British architect who was commissioned to design a new city – New Delhi – as the High Command of the British Empire in India in the early twentieth century.  It stands proudly at the centre of New Delhi’s grand, geometric road system - those wide, straight avenues that radiate out like spokes on a very ambitious wheel. The arch was originally intended as the focal point of the great ceremonial road leading from the Viceroy’s Palace (also designed by Lutyens, no doubt at vast expense, and now the President of India’s official residence), and it bears the names of Indian soldiers who died in the First World War. It’s impressive, solemn, and – crucially - visible on Google Maps, which was enough encouragement for us.

One thing you don’t quite realise until you’re actually in New Delhi is just how vast it is. Everything is on a monumental scale: sweeping boulevards, endless lawns, hedges trimmed with military precision. Even the bungalows, which were originally built for top‑tier British officers, sit neatly behind their walls, now home to senior officials in the Indian government and army. The whole area reminded me a little of Pretoria: grand avenues lined with jacarandas, slightly spoiled by high walls, barbed wire, and the occasional electric fence. Security, of course, is a necessity these days, but it does make you wonder what the place felt like in the 1930s when it was first designed.

We left our hotel, the Le Méridien, turned right, and followed the road. Somewhere in the distance, the arch awaited. Google Maps assured us it was there, even if we couldn’t yet see it. What we could see were police officers, soldiers and security checkpoints everywhere. Tomorrow was India Day - one of the biggest celebrations of the year - and the city was preparing for a huge parade. The guest of honour was Ursula von der Leyen, President of the EU, and Delhi was taking no chances.

Halfway down the road, an Indian gentleman approached us with the air of someone delivering bad news.

“You won’t get anywhere near India Gate,” he said. “It’s closed. Completely closed.” he fumbled inside his puffer jacket for his phone and started checking for destinations that might be more appealing than a grand sandstone arch on a roundabout that one couldn’t; get near.

He suggested Connaught Place instead. A tuk‑tuk driver materialised instantly, delighted to whisk us there. Apparently, English people walking was a concept too strange to accept.

But we were determined. We thanked them politely and carried on.

A little further along, we encountered two Germans coming from the opposite direction. We asked if they’d managed to see the arch.

“Oh yes,” they said cheerfully. “Not too close, but you can definitely see it.”

Excellent. Encouraged by Germanic efficiency, we marched on.

Another man came out of the tress and stopped us. “No, no, you cannot see the arch. Go to Connaught Place!” He was determined.

We ignored him too.

The pavement disappeared. We dodged traffic. We negotiated a baffling roundabout. We climbed under a fence (not our proudest moment). And then - there it was.

India Gate. Glorious, honey‑coloured sandstone, and surrounded by crowds of Indians doing exactly what we were doing: taking photos, enjoying the atmosphere, and ignoring anyone who said it couldn’t be done.

We couldn’t get right up to it. The memorial garden was closed, and the parade stands were already set up; but the view was spectacular. We took our photos, admired the arch, admired each other admiring the arch, and then decided that Richard’s bad foot had earned him a tuk‑tuk ride back.

A tuk-tuk driver was idling nearby.

We negotiated a fare of 100 rupees (absolutely extortionate, but we were tired). Off we went.

Two minutes later, the driver turned around.

“Shall I take you to Connaught Place?”

No.

“Maybe the palace?”

Still no.

“When is your dinner?” he asked, as though this were the key to unlocking our true desires.

“About 7.30,” we said.

“No, no, it is 7 o’clock!” he declared triumphantly. “That gives us one hour! I can take you many places!” He obviously new the dinner times for all the major hotels.

It took some gentle but firm persuasion to convince him that all we wanted - truly, deeply - was to go back to the hotel.

And eventually, he accepted it.