Date: unknown.
Time: unknown.
Location: Delhi.
Thank you for accepting this invitation to the city of madness. The circus lurks around. This is Delhi written for eyes that have never witnessed its insanity. Walk with me as I tell you about it, will you?
They say that all good stories begin by summoning the sun. But in this city, all good stories begin by convening at Sanju bhaiya’s shop. It is fair to assume that these tiny paan tapris are the backbone of Indian society. Trust me, if the monkeys were to pass a law that banned the existence of these nooks, everybody would go bananas. So let’s begin here, in the north and right outside campus.
A story is unfurling. Here and there, rising in intensity.
The truth is, Delhi is of a relentless kind, created only to exist in extremity. You must survive the here and the there. Tumbling tumbling, the sky is soaring, grey all around, withering below and blooming above, saturation bursting at the seams. The weather is changing and… EARTHQUAKE!!!
The birds have scrambled to the ether. Look up, look up. Trace the circles in blue.
Down below, here in this splendid town, the pigeons remain perched on tangled electrical wires that are heading somewhere else. (Towards trees, vaults, and ancient dimensions, some say). Somebody feeds these hundreds every day. I know because I see them eating away on my way to Vishwavidyalaya in the morning. There are goats too, standing at the gol chakkar (in my home town we call this a chauraha, but whatever). The shepherd silently walks away. The goats are too well-fed to care.
Didi asks me for money but I have no cash on me.
“Paytm bhi chalega, meri jaan.”
PAYTM PAR, BEES RUPAY PRAPT HUE. (To Mohammed Mustaqeen).
In college, I hear these words again at Nescafé (from Amitabh Bachchan). The sun comes alive in the presence of the trees, light rays peak through the leaves and grace the desolated with warmth, a feeling that often feels foreign in the anonymity of the city. Spring on our lips, the flowers are here to welcome the world. It’s nice during these few moments of serenity during March. Otherwise, we’re just oscillating between the mayhem that is the scorching heat and blistering cold of Delhi. Oh, and how I forget the sporadic rains that render potholes invisible to the naked eye. Can’t you see? The ground is fallin’
Falling
F a l
Ling
It’s always pretty on campus, though — come rain or shine. Plus, the added bonus of getting a compliment from the guards in the morning is a motivation for many to attend 8:00 AM classes. She will compliment your earrings and call you Paro and tell you that you’re looking jhakkas. These are the true joys of attending a women’s college. Otherwise, it’s an infrastructural hellhole. As is DU in its entirety. You must jump through the circus hoops and make a clown of yourself in front of a couple hundred before you can get the administration to do their job. It’s standard procedure.
Anyway, back to the story I left on the boiling pot.
I walk through the streets laden with green and read the graffiti on the walls. Resist and persist. Did you think the spectating city forgot the preceding tales of anarchy? Blood in the cement, thousands were maimed in this city of ashes. Go on, check the gutters for the bones of your brothers. Slain for a nameless power, I often think of the forgotten names that died for the life I currently have. Still, the compass of rebellion fears a changing wind incoming and perhaps, you too are a witness to it. Come on, let’s play a game. Count the number of country flags you can spot under ten minutes. I counted five. Now, count the saffron.
MOVE.
The cars are moving in the opposite direction.
You will be killed like this.
It seems to me that there are many things you cannot trust in the city. But the following remain on top of the list:
- The weather;
- The cars;
- The men.
Reminder to all young girls: the pepper spray and umbrella must go in the same pocket of your bag — they make for (un)likely weapons. The best response, however, is always no response. You are but a speck of dust under the sun, why share that bubble of grey with a lousy catcaller? However, if they begin to throw plastic bottles at you while you pass by the petrol pump or drunkenly drive an inch from death away from you, feel free to ignite the flame thrower. Masks on masks, burqas, and veils — we conceal our identities but they peer through our clothes. Burn the motherfuckers alive! Why do you place garlands on them? Bilkis asks.
Agh, where was I?
Ah yes. Here we finally are, at the tapri of our fate. An anecdote has escaped the mouth of an eager friend, and the rest of us stare with incessant anticipation.
“Arrey yaar, what else? The next thing I knew, I was elbows deep in cow shit. The Gods decided to bless me today.” She whimpers, frooti in one hand and a clove in another.
“Yeah, that would be easy to believe if you weren’t so close to tears. Maybe there’s a lesson you’re not seeing here.” A remark has been made. We are taunting God today. (We are too afraid to taunt the cows).
“Well, I was on my phone while I was walkin-”
“Aha! The Gods have spoken. You must desecrate your phone now, go throw it in the Hudson. The acid should burn it.” I point at the sewage canal in the distance. A hesitant laugh. A choked cry. A lingering silence.
“It’s supposed to be lucky, you know?” An attempt at consolation. The conversation moves on.
“Forget about that. Did you hear? My friend’s phone was stolen in broad daylight in the street. Just some guys on a bike who whisked it away in a second.”
“So what did your friend do?”
“The idiot stood there like a mummy.”
“I mean, what else can you do?”
“Let’s go,” says the slightly aggressive but pathologically silent one in the friend group under his breath, barely looking up as he took the last drag of his cigarette. “I can make it look like an accident.” We turn our heads towards the quiet voice slowly, and almost comically.
“There are no accidents in the universe.” It’s true. Everything is written — just like this.
After class, we head towards the market through the ridge. Monkeys seated in joint families, picking lice off one another. Soon enough, they begin to fight. Slap! Kick. Whack. Don’t worry, this is quite common, it happened to my buddies in the parliament once, twice, thrice…
Let’s get off the rickshaw here. There’s something you must see.
“What?”
That’s a silly question; everything, of course. The bazaar comes alive on the eve of dusk. Soak it all in — the people, the food, the land. You are the observer here, holding the world before you in the fragility of your hands. Your eyes are settling upon all matters of things delicately. I know you see it too — the world is sold on these thelas; books, clothes, momos. Name a celebrity. Any celebrity. I’m sure I can find you a poster of them in the haze of these trinkets.
“BHENCHOD!” A man calls out on the street. As I said, it’s all coming alive. A fight has broken out, and all eyes have turned to the brawl in the middle of the street. Onlookers analyze the issue in their minds but remain uninvolved. Who could spare a moment to get involved with these dodos? They say as their eyes remain glued to the scene. Our people are nosy. Get with it.
You know, these bazaars and small marketplaces are truly the life and force of this city. They show you the reality in some sense, facades peel off almost instantly. Bare-faced and hungry for a sale, you see their personalities so vividly. Every little corner on the street has unspoken character, well and alive, there’s something to set your gaze upon. There are the tapris (and their owners: Sanju, Manoj, Jeevan, etc.). The tiny marts at the junction of residential streets (CP mart, MT2, Majnu Ka Tilla, etc.). The thelas and their essentials (from combs and buckets to phone covers and sunglasses to fruits and vegetables).
Everybody has a story to share. And here we are, a breath away from life itself, eager to hunt some anecdotes for this collection of lived lives. I see my reflection in everybody I come across; the old man chasing the bus under the blazing sun, the lady on the metro with a few too many bags, and the girl whose shoulder was greeted, most kindly, by pigeon shit (since it’s lucky, apparently). It’s funny how our lives coalesce. You know, this once when we were walking towards the metro outside Khan Market, we spotted the cutest dogs out on their daily walk. It was late but they seemed to be familiar with the routes. Turns out, they were Rahul Gandhi’s dogs.
I told you we find celebrities here.
These marketplaces are also pockets of tranquility hidden right in the blur of the passing days. I mean, the people need their trinkets. Right around where I live, there’s a tiny little block market for your daily needs. Everybody knows us now (the evening popcorn runs got a little too frequent) but they’ve come to trust us just as we’ve come to trust them; walking in and out of the minuscule general store like it’s my mother’s pantry back home.
The ones selling dairy products next to this mart have also taken up a serious task — they feed the family of cats a kilo and a half of paneer every afternoon. Vegetarian billis, scaling walls to hang around roofs and fighting each other half to death at 3:00 am without fail every day. It’s all too entertaining. From the tapris to nukkad ki dukans, these are the nooks that sustain life in Delhi; intersections for a myriad of communities with people from all lands, practices, cultures, and backgrounds who come to make a living for themselves here; who mold their oddly placed little corner shops with love and tenderness, making them uniquely theirs. Creators of a craft, I’d say.
That may be why the people of Delhi find joy in no other city but theirs.
It is midnight now. The night has grown silent and the dogs have begun to mewl. I fall asleep peacefully in my land, knowing that it is mine and that the people here are my own — no matter how crooked. It’s warm when I wake up, the cats are fighting outside as if on schedule, and I reach my hand out to switch the fan on. Nothing. I reach for it again, flicking random switches around. Ugh.
It’s almost 6:00 am, and the light breaks out in blues. That familiar bird in the window, cooing and lulling me back to sleep. Except it’s too hot, and there’s no electricity. Fan, fan, fan. So grateful to be out of three layers and two pairs of socks now. I’m barely awake when I hear a voice outside my window.
“Light sabki gayi kya?” A yodeling voice at dawn. Has the light gone out for everybody?
“Haan, haan. Kuch toh kaam hai.” A sleepy response, too lazy to formulate coherent sentences. Yes, yes. Some work.
So it’s like this around here. Quite dazed and awfully hilarious. A city of hearts and swords. Clutch onto all you’ve got and brace yourself for the ride. I can’t assure you much except that it is intense and if you are to survive here, either be cool or beheaded. Nonetheless, you will form a sort of otherworldly attachment to the oddities of Delhi. A place to remain in the chaos. A place to rest despite the rife. A place to love your grief.
What color shall I give this city? I won’t ask you because the narrator dictates the rules here.
A buzzing and blaring red.
Sirens in the air, the mosquitoes fly through the screens. A violence burning within, scratch until you reach bone.
And?
Bear me what you witnessed. The naked eye wishes to see beyond the rift.
The ground beneath me stands still so why do I ache for calmness? A longing looms within the shadows, behind alleyways and crooked streets, a thing is born and then it is destroyed. Can I ever know something in its entirety? Can you see me whole? Can I change the winds of perception? In my first year, I learned about the doctrine of (in)dependent origination. It taught me that I exist within the confines of time, of momentariness, and of change; that my existence is part of an ever-changing limitless web of interconnections that is under constant transformation, and that nothing is subject to an ‘absolute’ existence.
I wonder then, how many Gods have come and gone since. However, if I refuse to accept a first cause (or “GOD” as one), who is to tell what came before the (un)knowable universe? Still, when I lay at night, I think about the momentariness of my life and attribute the loneliness of the human condition to a projection of a lonely god. If I can escape the matrix, maybe watching the fleeting bygones of my youth slip away wouldn’t be so torturous.
It’s odd because I am not old but I am growing old. Still, I station myself in this very moment, remaining only where my feet are, and think of a time far ahead. Somewhere along the thread of time, I tie a note that will allow me a few leaps through the quantum realm. I could be old then, or outside my body altogether, but I will look back at this day and think of how I did nothing but be present.
I was alive.
It was enough.
