Today, someone voiced surprise at the lack of love for Delhi on this blog. Yes, I said, I had posted some gushing praise and was embarrassed and erased it from all existence. But since I’ve been here over three months and my love for life in Delhi hasn’t abated, I think it’s time. See the bottom for caveats.
Side note: I co-run an actual development blog for my company now! Here is a link to my first piece. There may be fewer development musings here now I do this as a job.
The best time of weekdays is the evening. As the sun begins to set over the lake, the weather dips below 100 degrees (Fahrenheit) and I leave the office. This is the season squirrel-sized baby monkeys learn to walk on the grass; their less-cute parents carry tuberculosis and fight dogs. There’s an ancient, imposing fort and heat wafts from the manmade lake even after the sun goes down. Children play cricket in the park; the elderly stroll. One day, a group of teenagers walked past with a tiny puppy and nudged him in my direction when they saw how happy I was.
I write poetry while walking every day, but by the time I reach home I’ve forgotten it. Cars and autorickshaws and pedestrians all dodge each other; the right of way goes to the one with the least fear. Flowers cut in the morning blow across the ground, and there are small parks with playgrounds and trees in every block. Sometimes I stop at the market for snacks. One café near my house has the best ginger lemon tea I’ve tasted. Sometimes I stop at the sweet shop for samosas or fruit cart for fresh mangoes.
Weekends have been wonderful. I don’t schedule work. The associates at my company have near-weekly happy hours. I play football. I am so grateful for the people I knew before and the people I’ve met, who’ve made settling in easy, who’ve added me to dozens of WhatsApp groups, who’ve translated and called Ubers and walked me home in the middle of the night, who’ve invited me to arts events and board game nights and house parties.
But most of all, I’ve loved being able to do things alone. This has been the first time in nearly four years that I’ve been comfortable being with myself – I realised this after a seven-day-long trek in the Himalayas without internet, phone service, or anxiety. I spent last weekend at the National Museum looking at ancient sculptures and jewelry and thousands of miniature paintings. The next day I read more about all of the civilisations and empires whose art I’d seen. I’ve been learning Hindi, every day understanding more, every day looking into my textbook or conversations, sounding out the letters on the subway walls. Being in Delhi is like being five years old again, poring through Western history books and marine animal fact files and marveling at how little I know.
In my three months in Delhi, I’ve been to the best flute concert I’ve ever experienced. I’ve seen the musical version of a legend; stumbled upon a fashion show at an art gallery; come across ruins in parks and the sides of busy streets. This weekend I wandered through my neighbourhood to an Asian food store and a bakery with mango tarts. I went into the small clothing stores and dumpling restaurants lining the alleyways and decided I would never go to the mall to shop again. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt such awe at little things – the vast number of brands of shampoo and Hello Panda the neighbourhood grocery store can hold, the bright colours of blankets out to dry, the taste of a kathi roll, the murals on the metro station walls, the fall of leaves at an intersection in the fading light.
While life in Delhi isn’t the easiest, every day here is a gift. I could keep writing for hours, but I won’t bore you anymore. Come visit, and you’ll see.
Caveats
I often feel guilty about saying “I love living in Delhi” and have the urge to caveat it with the following: I live in a posh area of South Delhi and spend most of my time here; I am rich and privileged; I benefit from the manual labour of others; Delhi has many, many problems with treatment of women, poverty, and pollution. This is all true.
BUT I would be equally rich and privileged if I lived in Paris or Berlin or Rome, it would just be less obvious, and I feel like I’d be less afraid to post something about how much I loved living in Europe. I don’t know what that says about me or the world, and perhaps what this blog needs is some unabashed love for a city that doesn’t get so much international love.
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