Take Two

As the winds whistle outside my window  in Chennai (there's a cyclone brewing here), I realise it's only fitting that I end this year back home. After all, it was this time last year that I was preparing for my arrival in Dilli. I was not sure what to expect, but I knew for certain this transition was going to kick my ass just a little. And snap, the year is over, and I'm left wondering where it all went.

I looked out of the car window today- onto the roads that I've travelled over my childhood and the shopfronts that are different every time, and I thought about how unfamiliar it all seems now. It strikes me how much my life over the past couple of years has changed so much at the end of each and every year, and how constant that change has been. In fact, it's strange to be sitting down and thinking that in 2012, I'll be going back to a city that I've lived in for a year, to a place and a job that are familiar. And I have to admit, that's a bit comforting.

I would be lying if I were to say that I am sad to see 2011 go. It's been a year that's stretched me physically, mentally, emotionally, ideologically, and I heave a sigh of relief as it comes to a close. It was a year for me that signified survival. And yes, one could argue that isn't that life, but this year, life was amplified. Or maybe it's just that I'm growing up.

And as a part of this process, every new year, I am surrounded with talk about resolutions and starting afresh. What strikes me is how definitively the new year is used as an excuse- a moment in time- that has the potential to provide a new start. To erase what happened before and chart out some exciting and different path. Whose to say things should be different in the new year? And whose to say things should stay the same? After all, I am in control of how I interpret time, and I say, bring it on 2012. Bring on the madness and the mayhem. I know for sure that there is alot in store.

And so Dilli, I return to your throes a few days from today. I'm taking you on again. And yes, it's been hard and we aren't really the best of friends just yet, but let's try and get along better this time. See you next year. Take Two.

Stories

I was cocooned away from this madness for 5 days, but I knew, there is no real escape. 

I was shown these stories, so eloquently weaved together by film-maker Sushmit Ghosh. This is Dilli- the city in which I live. The city with countless untold stories. And now, there's one less untold one.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KK-E0VkoBR8&feature=youtu.be

We/Us

She and I left home in our teens.                      She left to work. I left to study
She and I started school.                                 She didn't finish.
She and I miss our parents.                          
She and I had to learn a new culture and a new language.
She is seven years younger to me and married.

She and I were sitting in the same room and laughing and chatting. I asked her a thousand questions.

I've had a really long, lonely day, and I'm so glad she was here when I got back. 

Mystic Music

It's been quite a month. I went to Goa for the first time, I had money stolen from my wallet, I facilitated a four-day national consultation with 70 young people from 16 states, and oh, did I mention I had to clear out of my house on 24 hours notice? That too. Talk about context.

I've realised I do alot of ranting in this space- partly because for me, I write when I'm at a point where I feel I have no other outlet. I write when this life makes me want to sit on the side of the road and burst into tears. I wrote today on a napkin with the waiter's pen, at the restaurant where I watched the superficial Dilli  mall world go by. I breathed out all my feelings through the nib of the pen. But today, I won't rant (though I'm highly inclined to do so, re: context).

Today, I'll recount a couple of hours spent listening to some music. Played by some pretty amazing people. 

This week, we brought together young people from all over India across 4 days of consultations, in a sleepy little corner of Delhi. Since it was an intense four days, an evening of entertainment was on the cards. We had met a couple of months ago, a group of young musicians- the product of an amazing little youth space in the heart of a posh Delhi market. We invited them to come across for an hour in the evening, and they agreed. 

I was exhausted when they arrived. I was kind of just looking forward to getting into bed and passing out. They set up, and the expectant wide-eyed crowd from eight states looked on. I hoped that it would go well- I had talked so much about them to our group.  I can't explain really how I felt over the next hour. They sang  some lovely little folk numbers, some melodies and some simple harmonies. My heart became so full. My eyes filled up. It had been a while since I had heard plain and simple live music- from voices that were honest and joyful. 

I looked across at the band- there were about 5 girls and 4 boys, all in their early twenties. These are the hearts and minds and voices and the dreams of young Dilli. They sang for what seemed like about five minutes, packed up, laughed and went home. But everything just felt right when they finished. It helped me to stay sane, and I was reminded how it's those little moments that matter so much. I tend to forget that these days, when everything seems so daunting and so difficult.

As we disbanded to go home, one member of the band was being picked up by her brother. The rest of the band ran over and were introduced to him one by one. They waved goodbye to all of us, laughing and joking, piled into an auto and left. As that family left me with my family of young people, I realised how we all share this city, this space. How every day, we fight and love and hate this city. And sometimes we find it hard, but then we meet each other and sing and laugh and talk. 

And then most things are alright. 

Sometimes..

..there are moments when it's all just overwhelming.

Deep.

Breath.

Drama Queen.

mood:free

I don't have much, but I have my words, my friend.

I have my words that flow from my soul so deeply and easily. These words may not mean much to anyone, not anyone at all. These words just get me through the days. But I'd like to give them to you. Because you are truly amazing and beautiful and strong. That's reason enough. So just hold on to them.


I don't have much, but I have my words.

I look over at you, and my eyes well up. The music washes over me and it is just so beautiful. And in those moments, I feel small and I feel humbled. And I listen to the memories that are not mine, but I feel as though I am there, partaking in a life that is not mine. And I am reminded what this world is all about it and what happens in it.


And though you may feel that you're falling, I'll keep catching. And you better do the same ok, because we're friends like that. Old Monk promise.

Remembering to remember

About eleven months ago, I was home, in the middle of another transition. My degree complete, hunting for a job was my new preoccupation. In between however, I got an opportunity to dive into the lives of my old friends, which I really appreciated. Having left home so many years ago, I had never really had this opportunity on my short trips home.

On one such occasion, I accompanied my friend on a unique evening— he was reading a Christmas story at a pantomime-fundraiser put up by young kids at a local primary school. The venue was idyllic, and the energy, palpable.  I wrote the words below at the back of a supermarket receipt on that evening- December 16^th, 2010, without striking out a single word- my pen didn’t leave the paper, even for an instant. I write them here merely to save them and hold on to them. Sitting amongst these kids and their excited parents. Sitting amongst red bricks and a cool Chennai sea breeze. I wrote like it didn’t matter.  

  I sometimes regret not discovering this city as a young adventurous person, on my own. I might have discovered so many hidden secrets like this. But isn’t home where you are mostly protected and shielded from the adventures you want to be on? Well that was my home. Maybe that’s why, till now Chennai has been a     box       - a place of no escape.  A place of no independent thought or action. A place of sedentary life and unimaginative thinking. Or is this something that I have imagined up? Was my life in London or Brighton or Chirag really any more inspiring? Actually- YES! Because the moment I arrived, I was switched on. I was ready for things that would be hurled at me.

Anyway, back to my point. I find it odd to be sitting here amongst young parents of Chennai- remembering those days when Amma used to be one of these women (but her look of course was more regal Indian than Western chic). It takes me back to days of cycling around the CMC campus, arguing with Minu about riding bikes and swinging on the Vidyalayam swing set. I have to keep reminding myself that if I ever have children, I want them to have memories in spaces and places like these. Is that something that might be possible? In fifteen years’ time, will this safe haven be transformed into a ten-storey apartment building with sea views? I really hope not.

I realise I have so much to look forward to, to experience. It’s all too much. I feel so overwhelmed— like I’ve experimented more than enough for a few lifetimes. But looking around me, I realise there is hopefully much to come. It’s scary to think that these little people are growing and learning and absorbing just like I did. I’m really grateful that I have this not-so-normal opportunity to step into another world of Chennai— one that throws me way out of my comfort zone, but keeps me smiling the whole time.

I can’t ever forget that balmy evening in Chennai. It meant so much to me in ways that are completely inexplicable. Almost a year later, sitting in a beautiful, but strangely unfamiliar place, having added Dilli to the list of places I’ve transitioned into, I’m humbled. By the opportunities, the love, the relationships, the people and an amalgamation of it all— the memories.  

Faulty Towers, Dilli-style

We entered the building- hungry, thirsty and tired from the Dilli sun (and a little bit of shopping on the side). The elevator didn't work so we walked up four flights of stairs. My ex-smoker friend was not happy.

Sam's Cafe, a little spot on a roof-top in Paharganj, even features as #4 on Lonely Planet's 236 Things to Do in Delhi. I had heard (from here and there, of course) that this place was worth having a bite at. We took our seats on a lazy Sunday afternoon, and looked at out at the skyline of Delhi. The fan whirred hesitantly above us.

My friend decided that she wanted cheese and tomato toast, and I decided to go with falafel, seeing as this particular area of Dilli is teeming with Israelis. As we waited and chatted, I looked around. A dusty picture of a saxophone on the wall, a group of 'Lonely Planet travellers', a man behind the cash counter, and a few waiters milling around. Our drinks arrived- a lime soda and cold coffee- the former with no sugar, and latter with too much. I couldn't drink the coffee, so I sent it back. The waiter explained that 'the new guy' was responsible for this mishap. He picked up the phone at the counter - 'Arrey budhhu, cold coffee kisne banaya?!'

Meanwhile, Round 1 of the toast arrived, and it wasn't toasted- instead, it was two slices of mildly warm bread with a slab of cheese and tomato slices in the middle. As Round 1 was rejected, I felt a pair of eyes drilling into the back of my head- my friend informed me that one of the waiters was staring at me. As I turned around and enquired as to what was so amusing about me, he told me he was fascinated by my headband (it happens to have some feathers on it). Round 2 arrived- we could tell it had been dumped on to a frying pan and reheated. My friend's request for cutlery was met with one of the waiters coming over with a knife and fork, wiping them on this brownish orange t-shirt, and handing it over to her. She smiled, said thanks, and ate.

As we chatted and polished off what we could of our meal, a young employee turned off all the fans. The whirring noise stopped. He took out a jhaadu and began sweeping. We laughed, lifted our feet, paid the bill. Lunch time was officially over, and we headed out into the jungle that is Dilli again.

Another day, another story.

As the world marches in protest, here in Dilli, the small stories of my life piece together-loud Punjabi parties, an unsigned contract, a new flatmate, an old friend, an empty gas cylinder... I hope the winter brings some comfort and joy. Oh, and the falafel was excellent.

Dilli feels different..

..when you have music in your ears

Mr. Grumpy

So I've hit the 'nine-months-and-I'm-done-with-this-crazy-city' stretch. Another immigrant friend of mine who has been here for a couple of years told me the other day to not despair, as the city will grown on me. Seriously?

*raps fingers impatiently on the table*

I think what has amplified this feeling of general patheticness  is that it's apparently coincided with a quarter life crisis of sorts. Yes yes, when it rains, it pours bla bla. But it doesn't make it any easier. Patheticness- is that even a word? Hell, I'm going through a crisis, who cares. Oh, also, as long as I'm complaining, can i also complain about the sweltering weather? I mean it's been the same temperature since May. 

Need I say more?

Look me in the eye..

..and tell me your secrets, Dilli. Tell me how it feels to hold the stories of twenty million lives.

Tell me all the things that you have in store for me. Just me.

And then tell me some more. That would be nice, yes, what a great idea. Let's sit and have a chat sometime.

This Ugly City

There are multiple things happening in my life right now. I always used to snigger at people who said 'I wish there were more hours in the day'- but today, I'm going to be one of them. Of course, unsurprisingly, work has been one of my main preoccupations, but the mind is an amazing thing- it can process so much other stuff simultaneously. So even though I'm typing away at my computer (with the occasional poignant g-chat update about the meaning of productivity), getting home at 11pm after a late night meeting, jadoo maro-fying because we fired the maid 4 days ago, and reflecting on where my life and relationships are heading, how do I still have time to fit in a Dilli experience ? Well, the answer is, this is Dilli, and here- anything is possible.

Getting an auto these days in the morning has moved from easy to a challenge, to now, an all-out struggle. Nowadays, I'm left every morning staring at my watch, praying for an auto to arrive and then proceeding to call every taxi guy in the vicinity of Malviya Nagar out of desperation. Today was no different. It was 9.35 and I knew that if I didn't get in an auto in the next 5 minutes, I would be late for work. I gave up on my usual spot and then moved further down the market road. I saw an auto on the side of the road, half way down. The driver was wiping the auto down, and when he named his price (which was obviously way over what the actual price was), I walked away. I looked at my watch again. I usually would never give in, but today it was hot, I was late and I just did not want to start the day off on a bad foot. So I walked back, said alright and got in.

At that very moment, an elderly gentleman appeared out of nowhere and started beating the driver. He got into a physical fight, yelling at the driver, asking him where I was from, and why I was getting in. I tried to make him stop and to understand the situation, but the old man was hysterical. A small crowd gathered, and I explained that I had agreed to pay the driver more than usual, which is why he had agreed to take me. However, this man was so far beyond any explanation. He ignored me, screamed about how we would report this driver, and stormed off.

Very often, I have resented the ways in which auto drivers in this city have treated and judged me immediately, mainly by my appearance. I have got into many a conversation with multiple auto drivers about why everyone in this city is so rude all the time ( I have taken ALOT of autos over the past nine months). Today, I realised one of the reasons why they are often so hard- it's because the people of this city are on the brink as well. As I sit here and recall the look of hatred in that old man's eyes, I wonder how this city has the ability to erode the basic human traits of compassion and tolerance. It makes me sad that every day, when I get dressed, apart from my actual clothes, I pull on that invisible armour, that goes over my body, that helps me brave this city. 

Poetry in Retrospect

Wrote this about a year ago. My first poem ever- angsty enough?

Boxes

I've put you away
in a box
to look at and deal with on another day
not today
today is busy
as it should be
though it would be nice to sit by you
in that box for a while

I shouldn't
because if I do,
I'm bound
to drown
and feel down
and hope you'll come around

but you won't
so I'll just keep you there for now

Privilege

I stopped at the light that I get stuck at every day for at least ten minutes, during rush hour on my way home. Every day, I see the same set of people at the lights- a Sardar-ji selling incense, a man selling little mechanical cars, a young woman with her baby. Yesterday, as I sat in my auto, exhausted and impatient, I watched as a group of young girls and the woman with her baby snuck up behind a drinking water tanker in the next lane. They opened the tap at the back of the tanker and began to drink, placing their little hands and mouths under the sudden gush of water. The young woman filled a two plastic bottles full and drank. I wasn’t sure when the last time she quenched her thirst was. The driver got out, and I thought, ‘He’s going to lose it.’ Instead, he gave them a stern look, but didn’t stop them. He let them drink, fill their bottles, laugh and run away. He understood— it didn’t matter.

Today, across town in Gurgaon, I stepped into the elevator of a colleague’s flat, with two young boys who lived on the twelfth and sixteenth floors; each accompanied by a young woman, carrying their respective school bags. As I went eighteen floors up, one of the boys asked his nanny, ‘Is mom home yet?’ She shook her head, pulled out the house keys, the elevator doors opened, and they stepped out.

I continue to struggle with trying to comprehend the multiple faces of this city. What did these two boys do for them to not be racing behind a water tanker on a Monday night? As someone with a certain amount of power and privilege, reflecting on these irreconcilable differences that I encounter every single day is so challenging. Where do I fit in this web of inequality, and what am I doing actively to challenge this? As I sit here in the mother ship of corporate offices in Gurgaon, called ‘Cybercity’, it’s hard to put things in perspective. 

Being Human

The bottoms of my new chappals are marked with purple spots. It's jamun season, and walking around India Gate today, I couldn't avoid stepping into puddles of purple mess, as they dropped in their hundreds from the trees. Balloon and cotton candy sellers rummaged for undestroyed fruit on the pavement, and popped them in their mouths, quenching their thirst on another hot day in Delhi.

I took the bus today, from my home in good old Malviya Nagar, to visit the National Gallery of Modern Art- the NGMA- in Central Delhi. Sitting in the bus, it struck me how Delhi is full of little stories. I watched two teenagers having a mid-day smoke, a cricket coach giving a speech to his group of Sunday cricketers, a bunch of mechanics peering into the hood of a car having an argument.

Over the past few months, I've always maintained that somewhere, behind  its hardened exterior, Delhi has a heart. And whenever I begin to doubt this, the city always comes through with something that gives me a little bit of hope. I have a theory, which I (almost always), put into practice every single day- treat people with humanity. Sounds corny I know, but it's amazing how in this city, this isn't something that comes easily to people. This achieves two things: firstly, it pleasantly surprises people, as noone expects to be treated with anything but aggression and secondly, makes getting by in this city just that much easier.

I walked into the NGMA today, and true to the general state of heightened security that we live in nowadays, was greeted by a screening machine for my bag. As it came out of the other side, the security person informed me that I could not take my bag inside. I politely (take my word for this) asked her why I couldn't and pointed to two foreigners who had their bags with them. She immediately rolled her eyes, raised her voice and  impatiently explained to me that it was just not allowed, and that the tourists were leaving the building, which was why they had their bags with them. Watching all of this were two young men right infront of me. I explained to the young security person that I was just enquiring, and one of the young men also told her to be calm.  I co-operated and gave her my bag, only to realise that I hadn't bought a ticket. By this time, the two men also had to go to the ticket counter to buy tickets. As I moved up behind them, the young man bought three tickets and casually handed over one to me, smiling. I tried my best to give him my money, but he refused. We went back in, he dropped his bag and disappeared into the museum. The security person smiled and said 'Dekho, aapka vijit free hai'.

The ticket was only 10 Rupees, so one could argue that it wasn't a big deal. One could also argue that he just wanted to buy a ticket for me to chat me up. But he didn't. As I walked out of the NGMA, and made my way home, I felt happy. It's days like these that I need to stay sane in this city.

Seasons

I stepped out yesterday during the day, and the day pushed me back inside. It was so oppressively hot. I showered twice and felt annoyed. And then, the evening came, with a trip to Lodhi Gardens. The wind blew and the sky turned an eery grey. Eagles hovered, and the red tombs of Lodhi came alive against the colours of the sky.

And then it rained. The walkers jogged. The joggers ran. The lovers moved closer. And I watched. As the city watched the seasons changing.  

The Lives of Others

So that’s that. This city just moves so fast, and rather than trying to figure out how to slow it down, I just let it fly by. In the past two months, I have wanted so badly to share so many little Dilli anecdotes— from my schizophrenic day in April that started with attending the opening for a ridiculous Five Star hotel in the city and ended at a Home for vulnerable young boys; to the completely random background music at Italian restaurants in the city (I mean, seriously listening to Justin Bieber while digging into ravioli can be a bit disconcerting). I wasn’t able to recount these stories though, because somewhere, I never stopped to process. And over the past few days, I realized how important and sacred this space is. So, I’m back.

What better way to return to dilli-dallying than to talk about the journey that I was taken along for today, metaphorically, of course. My friend has just arrived to spend the summer in Delhi, and I spent the afternoon at his grandmother’s place, where he is staying. It kind of took me back to my summer holidays growing up, in Calicut. The house, situated in a leafy, residential neighbourhood in Delhi is a reminder of those houses built in the 70s— all the random furniture and full of an eclectic mix of artefacts collected over the years. My favourite thing to do in these kinds of houses is to look around for old photos; you’re always bound to find some random picture that has some amazing story behind it.

True to my suspicions, I came across a picture of my friend’s grandmother— sporting a beehive, dressed in a chiffon saree— dancing away with her (now Late) husband. It made me smile, and looking at his grandmother now, surrounded everywhere by her past, it also made me wonder what she remembers about her life as the wife of an influential and senior Army official, in the forties and fifties. ‘It seems like a dream now’, she explained to me, when I quizzed her on her three years in Paris.

We sat down after lunch and my friend pulled out three old books, each weighing about 3 kilos each— apparently, his grandfather did a very good job of chronicling all of his journeys through pictures and most impressively, through his words. Those two hours felt like I had been transported. We dived in. I felt like I began to understand a little bit of his grandfather’s life- and I felt privileged. Over pages and pages of pictures, postcards, maps, invitation cards and written word, a part of his world and his life unraveled. The politicians, the soirees, the parties, the meetings, the ceremonies and did I mention, the parties? Group photos of strong, serious-looking men in uniform staring unemotionally at the camera were interspersed with personalized menu cards written in French, and tickets from Cabaret shows. A world away from anything I had ever seen before. The historical context, though not explicit, was evident. Different countries struggling to liberate themselves from autocratic political systems, war was not an anomaly and colonialism’s footprints were far from fading away. His experience was conditioned (and maybe even driven) by all of this context; so unbelievably different from thousands of his countrymen.

After wrapping my head around the context, what touched me the most through all of this was his eloquent written word. Most pages were filled with his handwriting, narrating incidences and explaining circumstances of his travel, work, family and adventures. And that’s when it hit me that you know what; sometimes a picture isn’t worth a thousand words. Sometimes, you just need the words. You need the words to express your thoughts and your feelings and your point of view. You need the words to help young people from a different generation flipping through your images to understand where you came from. You also need the words, because sometimes, words are just so damn powerful.

There are so many stories that need to be written and remembered and read and understood. Isn’t that what history should be all about? I’m sad that none of the people from my family in my grandfather’s generation had the opportunity or the privilege to put all of their lives and experiences down for me to indulge in like I did today. My friend, you are lucky. Hold on to those images and words- you’ll find yourself coming back to them over and over again in your life, I’m sure. 

Sigh.

My neighbours kids just called me aunty.

Finding my space

Old Delhi Railway Station. We meet again.I used to frequent this station a few years ago-  it was the mid-way point between my home in the south and my work in the hills. I was back again, this time on my way to Lucknow, to attend a meeting hosted by a partner organisation. As I got out of the metro at Kashmere Gate, the Delhi I remember from all my previous trips came rushing back. Note to self: must not succumb to South Delhi brat tendencies.

As I walked into the station, I was just in time to hear the announcement that my train would be delayed by four hours. Great. Incidentally, my last planned trip to Lucknow by flight (to visit the same organisation, mind you) ended in me flying all the way there and back without touching down, because of fog. I was determined to get to Lucknow this time. However, to kill four hours at Old Delhi was something I wasn't really prepared for.

I saw a sign for waiting rooms and ascended a seedy flight of stairs. Half way up, I encountered two homeless men sleeping on the landing. I carried on. As I reached the waiting room area, I walked into the ladies waiting room. It was empty apart from three men giggling in a corner. I moved on the 'Upper Class Waiting Room', guarded by an ageing railway employee. She swiftly informed me that because I was a single lady, I had to wait in the Ladies Room. After a general argument, I was allowed to sit in the 'upper class' room, along with a few people dotted here and there, mostly sleeping.

Two hours down and a dog trotted in, looked around disinterestedly and trotted out. Silence. Three hours and a cat emerged from the restrooms. A monkey scuffled down the hallway. At 1am, the announcements resumed.

I left the waiting room at 1.30am, hearing the announcement for my train. As the train pulled in, the crowd surged. A child was crying, looking lost, but noone noticed her. I was so tired, I just wanted to sit on the platform and cry with her, but I too carried on. I eventually decided not take the train, because I was going to miss the meeting I was going for, and took the call to head back home. At 3am, I got home, tired and a little bit disturbed.

In my five hour tryst with the Old Delhi railway station, I realised just how in-your-face this city can be, all the time. I'm not really sure where else in India (or the world for that matter) you can see a BMW pull up in the station and spew out a family on the way to theirholiday  home in the hills, side by side with hundred of people sleeping on the platform for over a day, waiting to take them on another gruellingly long journey.

I'm increasingly struggling with my own place in all of this. This is occupying a large portion of my non-work related thoughts these days. How do I reconcile all of this ridiculously blatant inequality? I work in an organisation that attempts to 'bridge the gap'. However, there are times when I question the ways in which the gap is being bridged, and the intentions with which this is being done. Today I went for a music concert, where a youth organisation had worked with and trained a group of street kids from a Boys Home in Delhi to perform a half-hour set at the show. They were brilliant- awesome and inspiring, and I was filled with emotion- it was so very powerful. However, at the same time, as I watched the audience and the six photographers poking cameras in the kids' faces, I thought to myself for a split-second- what are we doing here? Why do I feel so uncomfortable about this?

I don't have the answer to all these questions, but what makes me feel slightly better is atleast I'm asking them.  Delhi seems so black and white to me, and increasingly so every day. It's hard to find my space here for now, especially since my preferred shade is grey. 

TEDxChange @ TedxDelhi- the ‘community’ epiphany

I wasn’t really sure what to expect before attending my first ever TEDx event in Delhi a couple of days ago. My job decided that it would be a good opportunity for me and a colleague to attend it, especially since the focus was on maternal and child health— not an area that we specifically work with at our organisation— but definitely relevant to our broader themes of engagement. After arriving and registering at the not-too-shabby venue, we were ushered in by crisply dressed, TED-branded personnel and settled down to witness what was ultimately a highly standardised, well-orchestrated and flawlessly executed ‘show’.

First up, Manoj Kumar, CEO of the Naandi Foundation, took us through the findings of his ‘HUNGaMA’ Report (note: this is actually a gimmicky acronym for ‘Hunger and Malnutrition’). Through the course of his presentation (with photos of ‘communities’ to boot), Kumar took the audience through the preliminary findings of the Report, which aims at providing up-to-date and real time data on the nutrition status of children in India. So what made this report different? Kumar’s assertion is that for the HUNGaMA Report, the traditional logic followed for carrying out a study like this, i.e., moving from data→information→knowledge was turned the other way around. The ‘stories’ of women were heard first, from which information was gathered, and data extrapolated. I’ll reserve my scepticism for after the release of the Report.

Peter Singer, another CEO, this time of an organisation focussing on innovations in the developing world, for me was one of the strongest speakers of the evening. His style of speaking was clear, coherent and engaging and he took us through some fascinating innovations popping up all over the developing world, including a low-cost incubator substitute making its debut in India. Though he touched upon the importance for developing countries to ‘help each other out’ through sharing innovations, he unfortunately did not get into the nitty-gritties of how governments can effectively foster innovations, which to me is a key challenge for the spread of innovations in the global South. In my opinion, the dialogue needs to move beyond the ‘oh yes, these are amazing new innovations happening in poor countries’ to ‘what are the specific steps through which innovation can be encouraged and fostered amongst all levels of society in the developing world?’

When Vishwajeet Kumar compared his feelings at the beginning of a five month immersion in rural UP to that of an amateur scuba diver jumping into the sea for the first time,I wasn't sure what to expect. His speech about neonatal care came to the one conclusion that he seemed to think was absolutely ground-breaking— the ‘community’ is part of the solution. Genius. Haven’t we been saying the same thing in the development community for the past forty years? Nothing ground-breaking there.

Finally, a woman arrived on the scene— Sushma Devi, an ASHA worker from Babaganj Village. The cringeworthy Feroze Gujral (hostess for the evening) took us through a horrifyingly uncomfortable ten minute interview with Sushma Devi. Sushma Devi delivered some lines about her work and managed to (not-so-nonchalantly) drop in the name of the PATH’s Sure Start programme that had clearly sponsored her presence there. As I looked at these two women— one, clearly intimated and possibly terrified of standing up there in front of an audience she could not really relate with and the other, a New Delhi media-savvy socialite, dressed to the nines— I hung my head in defeat. Surely, neither of these women understood the first thing about the other, and it didn’t seem that TEDx was the right forum to foster that understanding. I almost hid under my seat in embarrassment when Gujral asked ‘What can we do to help you?’ Are you serious? It was patronising and tokenistic. The ‘we’ she was referring to was just as reductionist as seeing Sushma Devi as part of the ‘they’. Sigh.

Lastly, the brand ambassador for TEDx— a crisply dressed Melinda Gates— was up. I was hoping that the evening would end on a high note. However, the presentation felt rehearsed and was devoid of any really fascinating content. She did not however, miss the opportunity to insert the now ubiquitous word amongst donor circles- scaling up- in her presentation. The high point: her cool magic slideshow. The low point: Saying Nitar Kumesh for Nitish Kumar, the chief minister of Bihar. Dear oh dear, we Indians have such complicated names. The epiphany: ‘If you want to have impact on a macro-level, work at a micro-level’. I guess it’s about time the Gates Foundation got there.

So, all in all, my first experience with TED— disappointing. Yes, I do agree with the fact that ideas need spreading, however, in a forum that clearly wanted to spread the message that listening to the ‘community’ is important if innovation in the health sector is to be successful, the tokenistic presence of a village-level health worker only served to reinforce the fact that this ‘community’ is still seen as something that ‘we’ still don’t put on an equal ground. Consolation prize: free food

A Letter

When I moved here over two months ago, at the beginning of a new year, I remember thinking to myself- this is going to be insane. I'd done the whole living in a big city on my own before, but never in India, and more importantly, never in Delhi. I panned out the next few months in my head- I would hate it at first, I was sure. Then I would begin to like it and wonder what all the fuss was about, then something would happen and I would realise- yes, this is going to be hard.That's where I am right now with my nemesis, Delhi. So, I write this letter to you, as a fresh start, a new beginning (albeit two months too late).

Dear Delhi,

You are a swine- and stubborn as hell too. Just when I think I've got the better of you, you strike me down for a week with your viral infections, that almost sends me back to square one- defeat. But then, I remind myself of why I'm here- not just to start a new job, but to try and understand why people for hundreds of years have been drawn to you. And I swallow my pill. 

How do I understand you? I try to make some sense of the stories mostly, that make you what you are. Of the barefoot young boy who sells Open Magazine (which probably has a story about him in it) to me at a traffic light. Of the young gay couple talking about prejudice towards their identities and coming out to their friends. Of the chowkidhar that raps his stick past midnight in my colony. Of the taxi driver who is too afraid to tell me that he's lost his way because he is new to the city. Of the 11th grade test tube baby. 

There are so many already, and as I struggle to weave them together, I struggle with my feelings for you. You don't mean much to me just as yet. Right now, you are just this- a melange of pictures that I have seen. But to be heard, Delhi, to be truly heard, you and I will have to meet somewhere in the middle. I hope we can, I really do. 

Love, 

A dilli-dallyer