New Delhi, Aug. 30 -- In a muddy lane in Gurugram, I approach a speed breaker that is half a metre high. I am not being figurative; it really is half a metre high. It's not a mound or any other natural feature of the ground; it is a man-made speed breaker on which a low-clearing Ferrari can become a seesaw. My heart aches in fondness watching its primordial bearing.

Some minutes later, I see a road sign in English that has been nailed inverted. I feel the tug of home. Another day, I see a tough rustic man, his towel masking his face, enter the porch of my villa and fiddle with something. He is from the electricity board-no badge, no uniform, no ringing-the-bell, he goes where he wants to. I feel like a villager whose porch belongs to the...