FIROZI AND FUSCHIA

First Impressions: 

Visiting apna Bharat, aka India after a gap of nearly two years, one cant help but crinkle  the nose a  bit at the strange smell that assaults the senses as you step out into the churning couldron of Delhi traffic. As I venture to cross the street toward the waiting car, I am horrified at the cabs rattling forward in our direction. Obviously, their drivers couldn’t be bothered that  a family with little kids is trying to cross over to the other side, just steps away. Mindful that I do not start to act like a head shaking, mouth agape NRI, I take this literally, in my stride. Now seated in my dad’s family car, my kids are being skittish. Unused to riding a car sitting in anything other than their assigned car seats, they don’t know whether to be pleased or apprehensive at this concession – here they get to place their little tushies directly onto the fake leather car seat covers. My eighteen month old,  on his maiden trip to India, insists on being belted in. Ayan, theolder of the two, is sitting docilely in place, as he is used to traveling by car in India. On his first trip back, he had many misgivings about riding in the car without his child seat. Now, he vies to sit in the front passenger seat all the time, knowing he cant even dream of doing the same in Chicago.

Marching in Tune: 

Once we’ve been home  a few days, and gotten over our jet lags -for a week, at three in the morning, the kids and I helped ourselves to whatever eatables we could find on the kitchen shelves and in the refirigerator

– we start to match our steps with the rest of the household. Now we’re singing in tune, not warbling away by ourselves at unearthly hours.

It’s a Mad, Mad World Out There:

About a week after I arrive I finally decide to take the plunge –  into the traffic – where scooters and motorbikes are wedging themselves into tight spaces in between the Audis,the  BMWs and the SUVs. It takes anywhere from one to three hours to get anyplace from my parents’ house in Gurgaon. And what drives a person nuts is the fact that  lane- driving is nonexistent, and I wonder why theroad people, whoever they are, have even bothered to demarcate the roads.

In fact,  even traffic signals are insouciantly ignored, and at night, the odd motorist who actually stops at a redlight is honked into motion before the signal turns green.

The Magic of Delhi

Well, I have finally made it to Karol Bagh now, and mercifully, the weather gods have been benevolent this year. Its mid-April, yet the sun does not glare down withthe expected intensity. It was a bitterly cold winter I’m told, and it seems that the colder-than-usual weather pattern is continuing – for now. Delhiites definitely do not spend the entire year pining for summer like people in Chicago do, and with good reason.The period from April to August can be scorchingly, unbearbly  hot, and when someone asks me whether I prefer a cold snap or a heat wave, I don’t miss a beat and choose the former. Well, this evening the weather is just perfect. Not cold, and not hot. This particular Karol Bagh by lane is right behind the main, crowded street where all the shops are. Even though it’s a Saturday evening, there are no throngs of shoppers here. There is an aloo-tikki walla at one corner of the street, and the aromas wafting up to me in the gentle breeze are simply divine.No screwing up one’s nose at these smells!  This street has some small unimpressive-looking eateries, that no doubt churn out the most scrumptious Punjabi food., a couple of jewellers, a few small shops, and homes above the shops.  Uncharecteristically,the men here seem happy to be chatting among themselves, and oblivious of  the women. Not that there are too many of them, for they would be busy scouring the merchandise in the shops one street away. And being ogled at.

But snippets like these it possible to unfurl in the mind’s eye what Delhi may once have been. For centuries past, Delhi has been a center of the Arts, culture, and all that is fine and high-bred. Wipe away the smog, and the crassness with one corner of the perfectly pekoed  dupatta of  the Delhi damsel,  and you will see that Delhi still has character. Its tehzeeb or manners are still intact, albeit eclipsed by the brashness that is now a given.

A trip to Chandni Chowk reinforces this line of thought. The paranthas at parenthewalli galli may not be all that spectacular,over-rated if you ask me,  but touring the restored Ghalib Ki Haveli in Ballimaran, where the great Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib once lived, loved and created, is surreal. Mirza Ghalib is acknowledged as a true Master of Urdu poetry. Yet his abode, this haveli, used to be in a shambles until not very long ago. Now, due to newspaper expose’s highlighting its misuse and pitiable condition, and the public outcry thus created, the Archelogical Society of India has carried out vital restoration work. It now has a small shrine dedicated to the great poet, with framed samples of his shayari, some original photographs, and interesting trivia adorning the walls.

Vintage Value:

Here, in Chandni Chowk, which means ‘moonlit courtyard’, one can hark back to the splendors of the Mughal era, the walled city of Shahjahanabad, which is now known as purani dilli. These used to be canals crisscrossing the entire market, and they reflected back the moonlight at night!

As I look around me at the choking streets, the ominous tangles of electrical wires clumped overhead, and the utter lack of sanitation, I feel bad for what could’ve been. In the west, history is preserved, polished and peddled to tourists; milked for all its worth.And here in our country, vintage is kabaar, or trash.

 Mixed Bag:

In the course of the next few weeks I visit the posh Ambience Mall in Gurgaon, the crowded Lajpat Nagar Market in South Delhi (where I get so antsy at the idea of elbowing my way through the masses of shoppers, that I buy a couple of plates of the mouthwateringly yummy moon daal pakoris with chutney and grated mooli, and get into the car, shopping be damned), and Janpath. Now going to Janpath, haggling with the stallowners, and getting branded export surplus clothes at throwaway prices is a very college-student thing. Artificial earrings, mirrorwork jholas, and grilled sandwiches washed down with cold coffee. These were things we did when we went AWOL from LSR, choosing an afternoon at Janpath or Dilli Haat over the sleep-inducing drone of the post-lunch  Political Science lecture.

Revisiting Memory Lane: 

But me, it’s as if I’m stuck in time. I still make sure that I go to all mystudent-day haunts, and embark on these shopping jaunts. And by the time I’m done indulging each and every nostalgic bone in my body, the six weeks have flown by. It’s time to pack my bags and head home (?) to Chicago. And, as always, I arrived as Apprehensive American, and am going back as dyed-in-the-skin Dilliwaali. When I got off the plane, I was all pastels and grays, now I’m firozi and fuschia!

Starlight Evenings, Good Food, and the Company of Friends

Growing up in New Delhi,   power outages, were (and still are) commonplace.

‘ Light gayi’ meant everyone getting out of their homes and onto the neighborhood streets. It was a legitimate excuse for us kids to snap shut our textbooks, and  head outdoors; An excuse to take a break from the endless studying (or mugging) for the never- abating  slew of  tests and exams –  weekly tests, semester exams, finals, and whatnot;   we really had to study  very hard.

So it was hardly surprising that, as soon as the electricity went out, the entire ‘colony’ (housing complex) would be plunged into darkness. But definitely not our spirits.  Hand pushed ice cream carts with their trademark striped canopies would trundle up the street.  The chuski sellers , with their crushe- ice popsicles bathed in thick, sweet colored  syrup, were equally in demand.  We children would beg our parents for the few rupees it cost to buy ourselves an orange bar, a ‘cola’ bar, or the pricier indulgences – a choco -bar, or the mango-duet. Mmmm, my taste buds have certainly not forgotten.

 The younger kids busied themselves with games of tag, hopscotch, or hide and seek.  The teenagers, too cool for these childish games, would just ‘hang out’ . The girls would stroll hand in hand, giggling and swapping  secrets. The boys would saunter about cockily. The parents, knowing that the kids were near by  and safe, would chit-chat among themselves. The ‘uncles’ would invariably discuss politics. Their opinions and pronouncements on corruption, the upcoming elections, and the maladies afflicting the State of India, were bandied about in deep, all-knowing tones. For each man considered himself no less than a total authority on the Indian Political System and the “gorment”. The aunties would be discussing their bais or maids,  or the sabzi vaala (vegetable vendor) and his  tampered-with weighing scale. Sometimes these batti-less  evenings turned into impromptu potluck dinners. All the mommies would bring out what they had cooked for that evening’s dinner – a daal or a sabzi, a mutton or chicken dish, or a pulao. The rotis would be pooled in too, and always, the verandah of the ground floor flat would become the venue. We kids would be told to bring in the plates, katoris (bowls) and spoons from our respective homes, and the feast was on!  Every household’s everyday, homemade fare would be pooled together to make for a sumptuous spread. As Mrs Khanna’s  rajma chawal was spooned onto glistening stainless steel dinner plates, or Mrs Aggarwal’s aloo ki sabzi  (potato curry) was scooped up with fresh made phulkas, everyone  got to dig into food that tasted different and therefore yummier  from the  daily fare served up in their homes. Never mind if all Mrs Mathur had cooked tonight was khichdi;

Teamed with another family’s raita, and some tangy lemon pickle, it was lip-smacking.

And then, as suddenly as it had ‘gone’, the electricity was back on. One  could hear a collective cheer of “aa gayi” (it’s back),  and everyone  hurried  back indoors, albeit reluctantly. Tonight, the party was over. But never mind, we all had the utmost  faith in our  permanently beleaguered government-owned  electricity provider, the Delhi Vidyut Board.  Come tomorrow evening, it would surely deliver – another power cut, and another impromptu evening with the neighbors.