Connecting Worlds

November has passed without a trace, without an inspiration for a story, an episode, an anecdote about Dilli.  But December is here now, bringing with it a wintry chill; the fiery rage of the city and its residents to be treated by beautiful winter mornings, boozy afternoon barbeques and late-night rooftop parties.

Yesterday, after a long week at work, I left the office to pop over to a nearby market to buy some socks. Since the market was very nearby, I chose a mode of transport which I rarely avail of in Dilli - the cycle rickshaw. Cycle rickshaws, once seen on every street corner in the city, have now been pushed away from the sprawling six-lane Ring Roads that are South Delhi's arteries. Though they are still the only mode of transport you find in northern Purani Dilli (Old Delhi), in the South, they are only to be found in and around the markets- shuttling families, college students and shop employees from metro stations to the market and back. I haven't always been comfortable with the idea of being transported around by someone putting in an immense amount of human effort, however I do understand that it is an important livelihood, and I don't weigh too much (ahem) that I need to feel guilty every time I get into one. My only policy is that I very rarely argue on price, because frankly, if the rickshaw puller is charging me less than a motor-powered rickshaw (which is usually the case), I would much rather give him something that is proportional to his physical effort.

Right, so I jumped into a cycle rickshaw, finished my shopping and needed to get one to return to the office. As I headed out from the market, one rickshaw puller hailed me over, and before I could ask how much, hastened me on as a policeman was trying to approach him. As we pulled away, the young man told me that the reason that he rushed me along was that the same policeman had taken 100 rupees from him earlier, to buy alcohol for himself. As he cycled along, he proceeded to tell me about how this was a regular occurrence, and how police officers hassled different people every day and extorted money from them. I took a good look at him. He wore a dirty black t-shirt with the Playboy Bunny on the back, and the word 'Playboy' printed across the collar. A mobile phone in his pocket was blaring out old hindi songs. He looked very young. He began to talk to me about his family, his life, his world. As if we were good friends. First I wondered if it was because he thought I seemed approachable. But then I realised, he just needed to talk about it. So even though the noise of honking cars and the songs from his phone drowned out most of what he said, I acknowledged what he said, because he just wanted someone to listen.

It took us 10 minutes to get back to my work. The ride would have usually cost 15 rupees, which is what I expected him to ask for. As I got out, I looked in my wallet at the wad of 100 rupee notes. I didn't ask him how much the ride cost. Without thinking I reached in, pulled out one of them and handed it to him. I told him I didn't want any change back. He looked at me first in disbelief, and then told me that God would bless me, and then he rode away. I don't remember this city making me feel that happy in a very long time. It wasn't about the money, it wasn't about me doing some big important thing- it was just feeling good about being able to do something in the moment, small yet meaningful. To balance karma.

My little moments of joy come when I can make connections between the disparate worlds that this city houses. And as I prepare to leave Dilli early next year for good, (yes, the time has arrived); and with uncertainty staring at me in the face once again, it's moments like these that remain for me important. That keep me grounded and humbled, and keep my mind awake and my fingers willing and ready to write. 

The After-Effects

It's a quiet Saturday night here in Dilli, and I'm in my room chatting with friends from different time zones, on difference continents- working in war zones, waking up and making breakfast, sitting at work on a Saturday afternoon.

At a very young age, I had the chance to step completely out of my cocooned reality in a metropolitan city in the south of India and step in to one of the biggest, craziest, multicultural cities in the world. My senses were assaulted- everything was a first: living on my own, working a part-time job, cooking my own food and yes, for the first time, being asked for my opinion.

What it did was to catapult me into a seriously privileged space- not in terms of money or power, but in terms of the collision of cultures and experiences and lives. It was intoxicating. Those important and formative years were filled with deep, meaningful, critical discussions over cups of tea, pints of cider, glasses of cheap red/white/rose wine-  about Egyptian activists in jail, Black History Month, Patrice Lumumba, corporate crimes by Coca Cola and wars in the Middle East. My eyes had been forced wide open, and the possibilites seemed endless.

Through it all, I always wanted to come back home. And I was lucky, because I had the ability to do that. For me, it was always about taking all of that and bringing it back here to India, where I could do good work, bring all that discourse into practice. The discourse was powerful enough to make me see the world in all its complexity, and to not take everything at face value, and to question most, (if not all) things. 

Time has passed, and I have left that world far behind, and we are all scattered. We are all scattered across time and space (very literally), each dealing with the everydays of living the kinds of dreams we had envisioned for ourselves. Since then, I have worked in the tiny villages and big cities of my country, thinking about problems, solutions, progress and change.

Here's the sad part. Being part of that world has had after-effects. That world convinced me that the work we talked about doing- work that is cognizant of the inequities that exist everywhere, that challenges dominant systems of class and race, that recognises the post-colonial nature of development- actually exists.  That world convinced me that I could expect to meet hundreds of people who had this intersectional lens and understanding of issues, in the course of my life. That world convinced me that everyone thought the same way that we did. That world convinced me that I had so much to contribute, and so many places to contribute to.

But this world waits for noone. We have jobs to do and mouths to feed. We have lifestyles that we have become accustomed to. We have societies that we have to fit in to. And the shouting turns to whispering. We turn the volume down and we try to find those spaces that we think we can fit into the best. And we are left with a big spoonful of reality.

I'm left with a whole new set of questions now, which I know I'll figure out and answer eventually- about my career, my life and the things I want to accomplish within it. My friends will log on and off during this time, and I hope to meet them at points in the middle. 

And though my prognosis seems grim, one of the better after-effects of my education so far has been that I'll never stop thinking this way. I'll always be a sceptic/thinker/writer/(self-defined) activist, whatever I do and I think I'm mostly content with that.  

Udaipur for President

Two old Indian couples with faux British accents, discussing the incestuous sexual escapades of the Rajahs of Mewar, in a restaurant overlooking the Pichola Lake.

Three old-men deep in conversation about the best (and least controversial) way to divide property amongst their children.

Twenty-something boys in tight jeans and white Puma shoes blaring out strangely-accented French, Spanish, Portuguese to red-faced European tourists at the maginificent City Palace.

A visibly too-young-to-drive motorcyclist, speeds past dressed in his Eid whites, while his friend calls out 'Eid Mubarak, Bhaijaan'.

This is Udaipur.

Travelling on my own, I hear so many conversations. Some accidentally, some not so. It's been quite a while since I decided to travel alone, and possibly the first time in India- my own country. But I really had to get away, and Rajasthan had always been on my list. So I took off to Udaipur- a city I had heard so much about.


Everyone had to double check. I make no sense: Alone. Indian. Woman.


'Are you Alone?'

'Ticket? Just for you?'

'One glass or two?'

'Welcome? Namaste? Hindi? English?'

Confusion aside, I satisfied all my appetites in those three days- from the tourist with audio guide, to the Lonely Planet Cafe customer, to the pilgrim at the 18th Century temple. I milled around (fairly) unnoticed at Udaipur's  local Bada Bazaar, bought Fairtrade cushion covers, drank awful and then amazing coffee, spent three hours at a friend's organic, health food cafe, and took a seventeen rupee bus-ride out into the Arravallis. Safe to say that Udaipur has me sold.

My favourite part (as always) were the stories- those that I read on the peeling walls of the 'restored' havelis that are now museums, those that I heard at the sound and light extravaganza at Bagore ki Haveli, and of course, those that I conjured up about 17th and 18th century women and men, their opulence and their excesses.

And as I left this magical city further and further behind, and the skies opened up and let down the rain, the reality of the world woke me up and I landed not so softly back in Dilli.

Monsoon Music

A sheet of rain- I'm wet.

I can see patches of green- I hadn't noticed them for months while they were hiding under layers of brown dirt.

The days and nights are blurring into each other as my work has overtaken my life.
I feel like a top that just can't stop spinning, and I'm afraid that when I do, I'll topple over.

But that music keeps helping me- that music in my ears. It reminds me of the days I used to plug in and walk past the Bangladeshi shop in Kings Cross on my way to Russell Square, of the days I blared it out loud in my little apartment in Brighton and the days I drowned out the Dilli traffic on the long commutes to work from Malviya Nagar.

The music helps me shut it all out, it lifts the emotions that have twisted up inside me, and spreads them evenly throughout my whole body like butter on toast.

Yummy

Talking Back

This time last year, I wrote this post about the importance of stories. Today I'm reminded of how important words, the building blocks of these stories, are to me. They have been my weapons to hurt with, my sugar to sweeten with, my rain to cool with, my friends to share with.

They've been my food and water and air.

I'm not sure what I would do without my words.Over the years, when I've been in the jungles of Bageshwar, or in the malls of Saket, a paper and a pen have been all that I've needed. And my heart and my brain have poured out on the backs of bills, old visiting cards, pieces of paper handed over to me by confused waiters at restaurants. And when I'm done, I'm almost always happy and relieved, and feeling like there has never been a better friend at that point of time than that piece of paper, or that keyboard and computer screen. But the truth is, my words can't ever disagree with me. They always show me what I want to see- they can't talk back. And for a girl like me, for whom talking back and speaking up is just so goddamn important, I'm beginning to realise how much of my conversations end up being with myself.

Crossroads

There is a lady who lives in one corner of the major intersection on my way to work. Every day, when I get caught at the signal, I catch a glimpse of her daily routine. She is old, and alone. She has an assortment of clothes, blankets and knick-knacks piled up behind her. She has a plate and a glass, and a broom as well. When I arrive at the signal, she is usually in the process of sweeping the area around her with her broom. She pours out water from the plastic Bisleri bottle into her glass, and under the meagre shade of the sole tree, she takes a sip. She pulls out her plate. I've never stayed long enough at the intersection to see what goes on to it,or if anything does at all. 

A couple of years ago, I thought I had grown up. I thought I had made all the decisions that would help me begin my life, and that FINALLY, I had 'graduated' from young person-hood. I've come to the realisation however, that  I've had that feeling every year, since I was 11. I was the 12 year old lecturing the 21 year old and eventually the 21 year old who had figured everything out. Now though, I'm the 26 year old who has finally realised that I've got very little figured out.

Shudder.

Apologies. My stories about the city have dried up with the summer heat.

I'd love to..

..climb up a tree, find a good branch and hang upside down till my face turns red.

There is a window

There is a wall.

There is a wall between me and a house, with chickens and a mother swatting flies away from her sleeping baby.

This city is full of walls. Full of people who build walls around themselves. Ourselves. We become so safe within those walls. And yet so uncomfortable.

In my work, I get to travel, not just to different parts of my own country and the world, but sometimes, to different parts of this city. I went to Dwarka today and met some young girls who chatted and shared their stories and lives for a few hours.

I stood against the wall, as my team spent three hours asking them about their schools, their families and their lives. We were just visitors. My life in my little south Delhi suburb was so far away. My life was so alien from these people who share this city with me. I felt so far away.

But then I realize something-  there is a window. There is a window through which I can call out and peek and listen and learn.

In this sweltering heat, in this season of irritation, I'm reminding myself to keep reaching out through this window. 

Saying something about summer

The water has gone into the fridge. I've finally turned on the ceiling fan in the apartment I moved into four months ago. The auto drivers are beginning to get cranky. I'm beginning to get cranky. The winter cold has left without a trace and a thin layer of dust has settled everywhere. Yes, it's true- gearing up for my second Dilli summer. Groan. 

Having grown up in a city which has a single season throughout the year, I've always taken the heat for granted. It was always an unquestioned reality in my life- I never had to wear winter uniforms for school. I never owned a blanket till I moved to another country. I never woke up to cold, foggy mornings, sipping cups of chai. It was hot, and there was nothing more to it. 

The second big move I made was to a city (well rather, a country) with supposedly four seasons, but in reality, with only one, that everyone living in the city universally but hesitantly acknowledged - rainy. The weather was so very monotone, in a most depressing way. And though there were intermittent periods where rays of sunshine poked out of the clouds, it was never long before the one-note weather returned everyone back to their routines. No prizes for guessing which city that is. 

Here in Dilli though, the seasons change loudly and without apology.

And as they do, my mood is reflective. Actually, scratch that. My mood is always reflective (yes, yes, I know you're nodding vigorously). I've realized that last year at this time, I found everything about this place so daunting. This year, fighting with this city has really taken a back seat (well, so far, at least). Dilli is now just a backdrop, a place where experiences happen- and that's perfectly ok. I'm happy to meet it wherever I can, and to take in the new experiences, and at other times I'm happy to step back and let the normalcy of life take over. I think this new approach comes with some growing up as well- and for the first time, an attempt and need to prioritize. I can't say its not challenging, but putting my own happiness and well-being first (well at least taking baby steps towards it), is helping me- whether that be through guitar lessons with my landlord's son, taking an evening off getting lost in Chandni Chowk or letting my parents buy me some much-needed furniture for my house. 

Summer is here, yes yes, time to move along with the times, and get along with life. Though I have to say, the thing I like best about my life now (well, at least what I acknowledge now) is that there is always something to look forward to. And there always is, really:)

Settling Down

Sneeze. Or in my case 'ACCCCHHOOOOOOO'. It's winter

Stare.

Blank page.

Dilli- you used to inspire, anger, frustrate, confuse, surprise me.

Where did you go? Or did I leave you behind in my quest for comfort?