Bon Appetit!

Enquire of any Delhiite worth their salt where the best Chinese is served in town, and they will promptly tell you the name of some tiny van stationed under a tree in some market. Yes sir, the best Chinese isn’t cooked in the spick and span kitchen of any upmarket restaurant, but in dingy alleyways behind these vans. Just park your car up front, place your order, recline your seats and enjoy.

As soon as you approach one of these food joints, the senses are assaulted by a horde of stimuli. The flaming wok, the noodles tossed high up in the air, the searing heat of the naked flame and the cackling sound of frying chicken; enough to turn even the most satiated passer-by into a raving hungry man. Place your order, and a man with deceptively thin eyes will hurry to fulfil your wishes and sate your hunger, while another takes your payment and slides into a drawer the size of a pencil box you would never notice if unknowledgeable of its exact position. The food magically appears through tiny back doors within minutes and is served piping hot.

Word of advice though, don’t try to peep into the cooking area, you might lose your appetite for Chinese food for the rest of your life. Hygiene isn’t what these places are famous for, and it should not be expected. In any case, most Delhiites have the digestive tracts worthy of bears, able to digest anything and everything. A little dirt never does anybody harm. Carry with you an extra bottle or two of water as well or you might very well find yourself dashing to the nearest general store for one. The food served is not for those with delicate palates. Most preferred by youngsters because of the value-for-money food and quick service, they dish out all sorts of Chinese dishes, ranging from momos, chili chicken to five different preparations of noodles.

Be it the extremely famous momos of Lajpat Nagar, or those served at Hawkers in Vasant Kunj, one thing common between the two is the liberal use of red chili, assured to make anybody run for water. There is nothing within the borders of Delhi that has not been modified and adapted to suit the city and its dwellers better, and Chinese food is no exception. The chow mein has departed a long way from the original stir-fried noodles it is supposed to be. With generous helpings of Indian spices and paneer, it has now morphed into a sub-cuisine-Indian Chinese.

If you haven’t tried it yet, it is highly recommended that you do now, and treat yourself to a surprisingly pocket-friendly meal that leaves the taste buds tingling. Bon appetit!

Only In Delhi.

21 Guns/ Doodle Me Some Patriotism

A riot of colours. The occasional wail of a crying kid over the general hubbub of a large crowd. The heady smell of the essence of patriotism on a bright sunny morning. The collective enthusiasm of thousands of people lending the air a festive spirit. Rajpath, 26^th January 2012, 63^rd Republic Day of India. The celebrations held each year on the grand and iconic Rajpath to commemorate the adoption of the Indian constitution in the year 1950 are a spectacle unparalleled by any other in the country.

The grand parade is preceded by the Prime Minister laying a floral wreath at the Amar Javan Jyoti as homage to the martyrs who died for the motherland during the freedom struggle from imperialist rule and in the subsequent wars, followed by observance of two minutes of silence. The thousands present at Rajpath are joined by millions of people in their homes as the entire country sincerely pays silent tribute to the martyrs. The program proceeds with arrival of the President and other dignitaries, unfurling of the national flag - the tricolour, singing of the national anthem and a 21-gun salute, followed by giving away of prestigious awards like the Ashoka Chakra and Kirti Chakra. Following this, begins the parade.

The parade constitutes a display of might by the various divisions of the Indian paramilitary, including the showcasing of the latest weapon systems and marches by troops and their bands with the President taking the salute. One of the most indispensable and interesting features of the parade are the floats presented by each state of the country. The floats are a melange of colours, depicting little aspects of the culture and individuality of each of the states in an innovative and engaging manner. All in all, it is an extravaganza which doesn't fail to instil a sense of pride and patriotism in even the most cynical of citizens.

Patriotic music and heart moving films were the theme of the day, generating an emotional teary response from most patrons, including me. Although we would like to believe otherwise, we do not live in an ideal peaceful world, a fact re-imposed on my conscience by the presence of several check posts stationed along the city’s roads. Crawling along in the minor traffic snarl caused by one of these check posts, tense and irritable, I started wondering if we would ever be able to completely do away with such precautions and security measures. Probably not. But the next moment, I looked up to see two carefree, happy children in the back seat of the car in front, dancing and waving at me. I waved back, and indulged in the childish activity of pulling faces and poking my tongue out at them. Delighted, they excitedly returned me the favour. As a space opened up in the next lane and I hastily pulled out, waving goodbye to the kids, my sober mood lifted and my faith was restored in humanity. I end my day on an optimistic note, hoping this year is as colourful and upbeat for everybody as the Google doodle for the day.

Only In Delhi.

It's Freezing

The famous Delhi chill is here to stay, regardless of what the infamous MET department has to say about it. Although the celebrations of Lodi declared that the end of winters is near with grand bonfires across the city, nature seems to have other things on her mind. Delhi continues to wake up to chilly mornings blanketed by dense fog. Those who can afford it, sleep in, while the rest of the poor souls get out and continue on their routines as usual.

Delhi plays with its inhabitants’ feelings and emotions like a cat playing with a ball of yarn. One day would be a warm sunny day, raising hopes of its 14 million inhabitants as they get out of their quilts and looked forward to spring. Alas, all hopes are shattered on the frost covered ground into a million tiny pieces, with the mercury nose diving the very next day. The chill is such that it penetrates to the bone, helped by the sharp stinging winds which bring down the collective morale of the entire population. One can however, protect oneself from the chill, but then has to contend with the evil twin of fog. It is a natural phenomenon which delays and derails daily life in the metro. There is little else worse than cold, damp, dreary days with dense fog which refuses to lift till 1 pm. Traffic slows down, jams run for several kilometres, hundreds of trains run delayed, sometimes up to 24 hours and scored of flights get delayed, diverted or cancelled. Mighty Delhi is brought to its knees by the fog each morning.

The cold is such that it sends most residents scurrying indoors at sundown for a warm cup of coffee or a bowl of invigorating hot soup. Fortified thus, some venture outdoors well protected by layers upon layers of warm clothing to meet with friends and enjoy the chill. The less fortunate of Delhi’s inhabitants however, face the evil twins of biting cold and fog out on the streets, a place which knows no mercy. With minimum temperatures dropping below 5°C, life becomes a continuing battle with the forces of nature. There is an acute shortage of winter shelters for the homeless in the city, with reports of existing ones being destroyed by clueless agencies such as the MCD over relatively petty issues such as permissions lost in gratuitous red tape. Benevolence is not dead in the city, and it is in this spirit that many kind hearted people distribute blankets and give away old clothes to the poor & destitute to try to alleviate some of their suffering.

Although the cold is the same for all citizens, its affects are felt differently by the people depending on their economical strata. Within a span of a few meters, the divide is blatantly apparent; with young women claiming that all the layers of clothing makes them look fat to a homeless person trying to cover his body with the rags he possesses and wordlessly curling into a tight ball, accepting his pitiful condition as a part of his life. Here’s hoping that the cold releases Delhi from its clutches so that life can resume its course of approximate normalcy.

Only In Delhi.

My New Shoes Cost A Bomb

“Delhi is all about show-off.” True words. Spoken by a friend of mine laced with contempt, I found those words to be one of the truest spoken about the city in quite a few years. Delhi may or may not be a lot of things, but one of the things that is indisputably true about Delhi, is that it is all about show-off. If your neighbors do not see you carting in that huge TV, it’s right next to worthless. Delhiites whole heartedly believe in making others aware of how much they spent on that watch, or those boots.

Display of wealth; inherited or earned, lawful or unlawful, momentary or permanent, dominates the minds of delhiites around the clock. It permeates everything, ranging from where you live, what you drive, what you drink, where you dine, to what brands you wear. Delhiites are happily riding the smartphone wave, posting the name of the high end mall where they are dining or shopping on facebook, foursquare or BBM etc., along with the location tag to give it the seal of authenticity. It matters not that this information is posted online on a phone bought on one of several credit cards that everybody owns, or that the dinner they are about to consume will add a few more thousand rupees to their ever increasing debt heap. Delhiites enjoy, they never worry.

A true delhiite will know that they cannot afford a new car or a winter coat or even a fancy dinner. They will know that they should wait for the first week to start before splurging, but they would still go ahead and do it. The trouble with waiting for the first week is that most people are cash strapped by the second week itself. Who can abstain from shopping for two weeks eh? Delhi is heaven for the credit card companies, the consumers keep accumulating debt to try to get ahead in the rat race. Everybody here has a rich friend that they try to match but never can.

Irony of the entire scene plays itself out in the flea markets of the city. Everybody visits the flea markets and everybody acts like the biggest cheapskates in the world. The same girl who wouldn’t flinch at paying 2000 rupees for a piece of clothing at some store in a mall would haggle fiercely to get the price of a similar item here down by 20 rupees. It’s only about show-off, it doesn't need to cost a bomb when they can avoid it. Everybody is a cheapskate at flea markets, irrespective of their hordes of wealth, or lack thereof. If you want to distinguish the truly rich people from those who are pretending to be thus, look out for those who pay the first price demanded for by the shopkeeper at the flea market.

Delhiites are big show-offs, and proud of it. It’s a trait that will not change in a hundred years. The metropolis is a huge melting pot of people from all over the country, belonging to different castes, religions and backgrounds. In the modern day, such things have started losing significance, especially among the youth. A subculture has emerged among the spendthrift, plastic money toting youth which cuts right through all pre-existent social barriers and unites everybody; and it is all about show-off. Do not be surprised if you meet somebody for the first time and they throw the price of their brand new shoes in your face. Assume an expression of mild surprise, fuss over said shoes, pay them a compliment and move on. It happens.

Only In Delhi.

Give Me A Rupee

If you are jolted out of your reverie by the sound of a sharp clack on the window of your car and turn your head to find a dirty snot covered staring at you, you know you are at a traffic light in Delhi. Every few minutes as a few hundred vehicles roll to a halt at a traffic light, a sudden maniacal buzz of activity takes over the road. Scores of children swarm the street and start begging, selling poor quality kitsch or rubbing the windshields of the cars with greasy rags which in reality leave them dirtier than before. Seen from the comfort of an air-conditioned car, one beholds a chaos like none other, with people zigzagging between the cars, narrowly missing being crushed by rolling cars and bikes while balancing insane amounts of merchandise. All this is seen with the quality of a TV commercial with the mute button pressed. That is, until the window is rolled down and a cacophony of blaring horns, cries of the beggars and the wailing of babies assaults the ears.

Begging is an extensive industry in Delhi, with organized begging being practiced on each road, street and market across the city, with revenues running into several crores of rupees. Beggars have perfected the knack of annoying people into giving them money, be it on the road or in the market. Most people just give them money to get them to stop beating and scratching their precious gleaming cars or to get rid of them in crowded marketplaces. One child literally did a headstand on my shoe a few years while I stood in queue outside a movie theatre. Trust me you, trying to count my change with a kid stuck to my shoe was not an easy feat. People, especially Delhi’s women are repulsed and terrified by beggars, a fact which is well known and exploited by the latter. A couple strolling through a market are the victims of choice for they are the people who want to be bothered the least. Men throw money into the eager hands of child beggars to the sound of blessings towards the longevity of the couple. In reality, it is done just to avoid them running their hands up their girlfriend’s legs, a sight seen much too often in markets like the PVR Priya or PVR Anupam complexes.

It is indeed sad that nothing is done to curb the menace of begging in Delhi, it is now as integral part of the city as is the January fog. When children should be at school, gaining education and working towards a brighter future, thousands are forced to beg each day for their livelihoods. Although most Delhiites only see them as the menace they indubitably are, some do feel their plight. Unfortunately the average Delhiite finds himself powerless in the face of such a malignant problem. He just sets a stony expression, tosses out the occasional rupee, rolls up the window to his car, shrugs and drives off.

Only In Delhi.

White Is The Best Colour

I spotted a little kid taking a leak today. At the mall. No, not in the washroom, as any sane person would expect, he was relieving himself in the balcony, in full view of roughly 20 other people standing around. The most disturbing fact about the whole spectacle was that he was being supervised by his mother. “Dirty Indians.” say you? Nay, this pair of mother and son was westerners.

Westerners enjoy an exalted position in the Indian society. Nothing facilitates one to jump a long queue outside a crowded night club like white skin combined with an American or British accent. Absurd as it may sound, racism is still rampant in Delhi, even after 64 years of freedom from imperialistic rule by the British. What never ceases me to surprise me is that Delhiites constantly bend over to be trod upon be westerners. In fact, it is this attitude of the natives that inflates the ego of westerners who seem to think they are above everybody else. The attitude arises from an obsessive infatuation with fair skin. It’s an infatuation we share with the rest of the nation. There would be a few countries where the sales figures of fairness creams beat the ones for India. As a result, those with fair skin automatically acquire the status of a demi-god.

In my opinion, it is better to be a westerner settled in Delhi than a VIP. It goes without saying that they do no wrong, hear no wrong, and speak no wrong, true Gandhians, if I may. If ever you wish to see a bully who never grew out of it after high school, come to Delhi and witness them in action. What is surprising about this phenomenon is the disregard westerners show towards public etiquette and the supreme confidence with which they flout rules. While I’m sure they would never be caught dead spitting in public or jump a light in their own country, they happily indulge in such activities here. ‘When in Rome, do as the romans do’ gets modified to ‘when in India, spit like the Indians do’.

A few months back, I parked my car in the underground parking of a mall, walked up to the lift lobby and politely stood with my arms raised at my side while the guard frisked me. A white gentleman walked up, ignored the walk-through metal detector as well as the guard and went directly to the lifts. My sensibilities inflamed, I enquired of the guard if it weren’t his responsibility to frisk him too. The incredulous look that earned me convinced me of one incontrovertible fact: A white man can do no wrong.

Only In Delhi.

On The Road

I spend an average of 100 minutes each day driving. That's 3000 minutes a month, 36500 a year. In other words, I spend a little over 25 days each year driving. One of the seemingly insane sacrifices all Delhiites make is this, spending inordinate amounts of time on the road.

But one must try to analyze this in a new light. Driving in Delhi is not a laid-back chore, not even a boring one. In fact, it is full of strenuous activity. Not only does it help in building foot muscles as a result of manipulating the pedals a thousand times per traffic jam, it also provides the vocal chords several opportunities for exercise. Swearing at other drivers on the road is an activity Delhiites derive extreme pleasure from, whether the mistake was theirs or anothers, is immaterial. A helpful tip: swear away to your heart's content, but ensure your windows are rolled up, lest you find yourself embroiled in a roadside brawl. Such things are not uncommon in the city and do not usually end well.

Another opportunity this endless driving in the city provides drivers, especially solitary commuters, is that of some time to be alone with one's thoughts. With today's rapid pace of life and intense schedules, people are able to find very little time to be with themselves. Commuting by road allows people to indulge this activity, providing several minutes when one is free to dream, plan, introspect and observe.

Each day I observe a homeless man sleeping under the meagre shelter provided by the overhang of a flyover. Matted hair, torn rags for clothes, defeated eyes. Each morning as I slide into my car, I dream of getting a better one. Each day when I cross that man, I try to imagine what he dreams of. Perhaps a hot meal, or maybe a bed. I saw him today too, while I was cosy in my heated car, he was sitting on the sidewalk, nibbling at a piece of bread in the biting cold. One day last week, I couldn't spot him on his usual stretch of pavement, and assumed the worst. I was hugely relieved when I saw him again the next day. I guess I've developed some sort of connection with the man without once talking with him, if such a thing is possible.

There are a lot of peculiar things to observe on Delhi's roads, ranging from monkeys clambering on rooftops, women scolding their husbands, to cows ruminating in the middle of the street, impenetrable january fog and typically delhi-esque; a crater bang in the center of the road after a single winter shower. If you're driving anywhere in the world, especially in Delhi, control your anger, calm your nerves and take the opportunity to observe and enjoy the mariad sights the roads have to offer.

Only In Delhi.

Us Optimists

On the chilly, foggy morning of the 5^th of January, I found myself stuck in yet another traffic jam. Traffic jams are a grand tradition of this city, no matter how wide the road, it will succumb to the sheer volume of commuters on one day or another. This particular road I was stranded on, this stretch at the very least isn’t usually subject to traffic jams, and yet, here I was. The reason? Half the road has been dug up by the authorities for some pipe-laying work. It’s cordoned off, and excavators and cranes are hard at work. I have full faith that the work will be completed soon; for 'soon' is as good a time frame as one can expect in this city for such things. I also have full faith that the same road will be dug up again inconveniently soon, probably by some other authority, for some other work.

The trouble arises from having too many departments trying to manage similar tasks. Trust me; we have a whole plethora of them looking after our roads and civil infrastructural needs – CPWD, MCD, NHAI, PWD, and DSIIDC to name some. The saying, “too many cooks spoil the broth” stands in silent mockery of the situation in this city. The departments have absolutely no coordination and will often blame each other for shoddy work. In case of a mistake coming under public purview, the departments happily engage in a game of blame shifting and mudslinging. I think their collective motto stands thus: Has it been done? Well, dig it up and do it again!

The irony of the situation is that I don’t particularly resent the traffic snarl. Not only have I accepted it as a near-natural phenomenon of everyday life, I actually feel safe in the middle of a hundred other cars. On a day on which visibility is under 10 meters, the gashes in the road are a death trap for any non-suspecting driver. Why the authorities undertook such work at such an unsuitable time beats my understanding, hopefully somebody somewhere knows. The traffic jam reduces my commute to a crawl, but at least it makes it highly unlikely that I will drive into a huge pit. Here’s the typical optimistic delhiite speaking, looking for the silver lining in every cloud.

Only In Delhi.

That Lady In My Life

She stares out with a distant look in her eyes, lost in deep thought, oblivious to the rest of the world. All I can see is her tough profile as she ponders matters unfathomable. I should have been reaching for my camera to get the movie-perfect shot; instead, I opened the bolt of my screen door. No, she isn’t nobility, and no, she isn’t a model. She is, in fact, my maid. The sound of the scraping bolt is her cue; she returns her gaze from the horizon, takes off her slippers and gets into action. The queen has arrived.

I, just like thousands of Delhiites are slaves to our maids. Without them, we can’t clean our houses, wash our utensils, have clean clothes or in a lot of cases, have anything to eat. It’s not like they do a very good job of any of the aforementioned things either, it’s just that they do it, and we can simply laze around. Sometimes, I get confused as to who’s the servant and who’s the master. The thing with Delhi’s maids is, you cannot expect them to have a fixed time, all you can do is twiddle your thumbs while you wait for her to arrive and clean up your mess while giving you dirty looks all the time. And god help you if you dare to try and supervise them, be it out of fear of thievery or a desire to get better work out of them. They look back at you with disdain as if you are the thief in their territory, and will fail to spot that dirty spot on the floor right in front of their eyes no matter how clearly you point it out to them.

I wonder who was that first Bengali lady who decided to make that epic train journey to Delhi to settle down here and scrub other people’s floors for a few rupees. She started a grand tradition, which seems as timeless as it is indispensable. If you ever have the chance to employ a newly arrived maid, you will notice her complete ignorance of the local language. You will try to explain to her how you expect the household work to be done, and she will speak something in her own tongue which you will be unable to make head or tail out of. Yet, it is a system which manages to work beautifully, in a hugely beneficial symbiotic manner. The maid gets trained while you manage to get squeaky clean floors, clothes and utensils. That is, until such a time till the maid hasn’t been delhiized. If it’s her first Diwali in the city, she will bow her head in genuine thanks as you give her a bonus in cash or kind and think of you as the kindest person on the face of the earth. Give her a few months, and you will notice a constant degradation in the quality of her work and any subsequent bonuses will be snatched out of your hands without so much as a murmur of thanks.

I just thought of eating a bowl of hot soup to beat the chill, pulled out a bowl and found a fine layer of vim on the inside. I don’t know how many kilos of vim I have consumed over the years, but it hasn’t killed me yet. In any case, I can’t live without my maid anyway.

Only In Delhi.

The Man With The Baseball Bat

31^st December 2011. The last sunset the year will ever see. Like all self-respecting cities around the world, Delhi dishes out hundreds of party goers ready to spend a night of wild revelry, dancing their way into the New Year in a haze of adrenalin, sweat and alcohol. A heady mix under the most tame of circumstances. Delhi’s corrupt police force pulls up its socks, tightens its belts and gears up to catch and punish the drunk drivers. TOI reports 484 drivers were challanned, of which 388 were drunk. There were no fatal accidents, which is something to be thankful for. Personally, I can’t grasp how this was accomplished. First-hand accounts from friends tell me there was no checking along routes which are usually policed rigorously on any other night. The drivers were not subjected to breathalyzer tests in a few cases, and in one particular case, one officer shamelessly demanded for his palms to be greased just because it was New Year’s. Perhaps it was his way of seeking retribution for having to spend the chilly night manning a barricade.

Either way, I was safely ensconced at a friend’s house, grilling chicken all night long with a few close friends and having a good time. Come morning, I started the short walk to my home, to see a man walking along the road swinging a baseball bat with a menacing look in his eyes. Giving him as wide a berth as possible at the same time trying to be inconspicuous was a tough task, but I managed. The obvious question arises, what would a man be doing with a baseball bat at 9am? Trust me, I discreetly looked to see if I could find any blood stains on it, but I couldn’t. It can be argued that we should believe in his good intentions and give him the benefit of doubt, perhaps he was heading out to play baseball in a country where almost nobody cares about any sport other than cricket. Or, perhaps he was out seeking revenge for some brawl from the last night, I’ll never know.

My new year began with an ominous sight of a man walking down the street dangerously swinging a baseball bat. I truly do hope it’s not a sign of things to come in the New Year.

Only In Delhi.