Delhi. For the longest time, I couldn’t wait to get away. Now, I am away and can’t wait for the airplane to touch down in dear old, dreadful Delhi.
People argue passionately that Delhi is characterized by contradictions of wealth. But to me, the supreme contradiction lies in the seasons that inevitably become the subject of frustrated conversations.
Summer for the sweaty millions is torturous anywhere in India but Delhi has the most sweltering summer of all.
Hordes of people scramble for every patch of sinewy shade. The parched lips of child beggars open in an eternal cry for ‘paisa’. The rich cool themselves in their air-conditioned cars and air-conditioned homes and air-conditioned restaurants. Groups of lanky teenagers in unbuttoned shirts whistle at girls passing by; the girls gaze downwards, pulling their prickly synthetic dupattas closer to their bare necks. Couples crouch behind bushes in the overgrown gardens of Humayun’s tomb (a UNESCO World Heritage Center), touching urgently, knowing the only spies here are the pitiable eunuchs begging for money. At night, the newly weds throng to India Gate to cool themselves with neon ice-lollies and gaze at the shimmering lights of Rashtrapati Bhavan (the President’s mansion).
For eight months from March to October, Delhi’s heat swells like a pregnant belly, settles heavily on every beaded brow, rises in a mirage from gray concrete until one day, in mid-December, I wake up to a fogged morning.
From my third floor balcony, the fog has obscured my neighbors – the laundry man who shacks in the alley behind your house, the sweeper who lives with his six kids next to the laundry man, the newspaper boy who lives with his alcoholic father next to the sweeper, the cook who supplies tiffins to students and working women and lives next to the newspaper boy – but I know they are there, like every other morning, squatting beside the drain and brushing their teeth with twigs of the neem tree.
Out on the roads, it’s a battle against the bitter, biting wind. Groups of homeless men, women and children crowd close to a fire made on the sidewalks and under flyovers. The blur of the embers is faintly visible through the fog but on deserted wintry streets, its hard to miss. Cars drive in first gear, unable to see the rear bumper of the car in front. The chill swirls around groups of women huddled in homes and temples, chanting hymns and songs late into the night, invoking Durga, the Goddess of strength. The rich drive to the nearest momos’ shop for steaming momos served with red, hot sauce right in their cars.
The winter is also the wedding season because the outrageous amounts of food made for guests does not rot easily. The glittering jewelery and heavily sequined dresses keep both men and women warm, as does the feverish dancing and singing.
Every Delhiite worth his salt will argue feverishly over where to get the crispiest, the yummiest chaat, the most intoxicating hukka joint, the best cocktails, the most original trinkets, the widest collection of used books, the softest pashmina shawls, the heaviest embroideries. You know a Delhiite by how fiercely s/he argues. I think it’s the seasons and the spices that bring out the passion among Delhiites. That’s saadi Dilli.
