The Impossible City

Years ago, I picked up Suketu Mehta’s ‘Maximum City’ after the hype around it piqued my curiosity. Although not a fabulous literary exposition on Mumbai- the ‘city of dreams’, it did narrate fresh stories dipped in realism with a dramatic twist. I have always found the ‘fly on the wall’ perspective of telling stories very engaging as it makes the story or narration even more relatable. As a student of journalism, this approach was further instilled in our young minds by my earnest professors. So not surprisingly, I have been inspired to share my experience of living in India’s capital city Delhi in the only way I know how to- through my point of view. 

Why ‘Impossible’ you ask? Because this is a city that refuses to budge from its seat- whether it is a neta from his kursi, your neighbour’s old battered car in the parking lot, the cracks on the ceiling in your rented apartment, the accumulated fat on the friendly next door aunty’s waist, the dancing baaratis at a busy traffic signal, the narrow minded theories in the typical conservative North Indian’s mind...somebody stop me!

Breathe in, breathe out. But well, I must admit that two years of living in this city I presently call home (trust me it has been difficult giving it the status) has made it endearing in certain ways and strongly dislikeable in others. For reasons given below and so on and so forth:

Autos here think it is their birthright to overcharge the fare for whatever distance- short or long. So always expect to be fleeced every time you board one especially during night time. The auto meter is conveniently disabled and more like an unnecessary accoutrement. Who needs meters when you can strike an odd bargain every time a customer wants to hire your services? 

The divide between the business class and the white collars. So here we are comparing money and education both. The businessman is born in to wealth, usually lives in a joint family and has no official hours of work. Part of his job is to keep an eye on everyone around the neighbourhood, has the high-handed attitude of the nouveau rich and has three cars parked outside his house just to drive the point home. The lady of the house if usually portly, bored and saddled with immense responsibilities like arranging kitty parties, shopping at malls, gossiping about neighbours and bitching about their mother in laws. 

The white collars are identified by their 9 to 6 schedule, usually have a single kid or none at all and regular members at the local gym or salsa classes. They snort at the business class, dismissing them for lowly, classless and ill-educated individuals who don’t even bathe every day. The man reads Business Standard, the woman browses through Cosmopolitan, they take off for office in the same car to save fuel and usually party late in to the night every weekend. 

You have often heard non-Delhiites complain about the lackadaisical attitude of the locals as if they seriously don’t have much work and nowhere to go. Higher education is a choice you make and usually graduation is enough for the average middle class boy to be packed off into the family business and the girl to her sasuraal.

Food is usually limited to feasting on rajma chawal, chole chawal, dal makhni and matar paneer with lots and lots of rotis. Breakfast is alu paranthas, gobi paranthas and mooli paranthas depending on what vegetable is available in the market. 

Westernization is still at a surface level so yes, the world’s best imported luxury cars are in the market but the ones behind the wheel can’t pronounce Hummer right. Their notion of English music is Gangnam style and they still prefer Yo Yo Honey Singh any day. They wear Puma, Nike, Adidas and Reebok like second skin and are proud of the latest imported gifts from Amreeka, Caneyda and Southall, UK. Imported Whisky flows thicker than blood but ask them to dance and they start the bhangra angrezi beat pe!

Women unfortunately are slotted in to two types- the behenjis and the glamourous divas. And there are a whole lot of those who are simply in between trying to make the journey from being a behenji to a gorgeous (read modern, well-groomed, shapely) goddess.  

Navratras are a rage here. None of your garba dancing and fish feasting West Bengal and Gujarat associate with the festival. And so is Karvachauth- you see it’s all about loving your family errrr…traditions. Also, you will rarely find a Delhiite who hasn’t been to Haridwar/Rishikesh/Vaishnodevi or Badrinath once in his or her lifetime. Be ready to be labelled a philistine if you haven’t been to any of these pious places of pilgrimage. 

Because of the North Indian majority, if you are a South Indian in Delhi, people will usually demand that you get idli-dosa for them every day and while gorging on it, make fun of your language, dressing, accent etc. And God help you if you give back. 

Swearing is a way of life. You passed in an exam, swear. You failed in an exam, swear. You got through an interview. Swear. Someone banged your gaddi. Swear. Somebody almost banged your gaddi. Swear. You banged someone’s gaddi. Swear. Your friend got married. Swear. Your friend got ditched. Swear. A random guy on the road winked at you. Swear. A random guy on the road who you were ogling at, didn’t look at you. Swear. 

For all this and more, Delhi is a city that is one of its kind. And for all that people warn you about, it’s something of a phenomenon to be experienced at least once in your lifetime. Give it time, soak in the time-tested culture gradually trying to catch up with the times, and you will see emerging a lifestyle that is as energetic as it is lethargic, as mad as it is sane, as systematic as it is chaotic and in a nutshell, impossible to gauge and surmise in a blog post!