Do You Know Who I Am

Delhiites are obsessed with being connected in high places. Cradled in the same family of obsessions such as good food, expensive cars and opulent houses is the fetish with ‘contacts’. One’s worth is not measured by one’s own individual achievements in this city, it is measure in terms of the people you know. Police officers, IAS officers, upmarket restaurant owners, concierges at 5 star hotels; all count. Everybody wants to be a somebody in Delhi, and one isn’t a somebody unless they know other somebodies.

Bump a car, cut someone off in traffic, and chances are that you will be hearing the words “Do you know who I am?” very soon, coming to you from a guy vaguely resembling an Australian frilled lizard striking a threatening pose. This is always a rhetorical question, as it is not possible for anybody to know every random person in traffic in a city of 14 million people. It is also a question which is best not answered by wise cracks. It is a question to be replied with an averted gaze or an even more menacing “Do you know whose son I am?” It is a common sight for Delhiites to witness such pointless arguments until a moment where either parties tires of the altercation and drives off in a huff, to the relief of the other party and the rest of the drivers stuck in the ensuing traffic snarl.

Each time anybody gets pulled over by a cop for violating a traffic rule, they step out with their cell phone in hand, determined stony expression set on  face and names whirring through the head as they try to remember which person would be able to get them out of getting a ticket. Denial, acceptance, phone calls and finally greasing palms are the 4 steps of getting back on the road. After all, only the least connected, dumb or incoherently drunk people pay the full fines for road violations in Delhi.

Not a single day goes without a Delhiite bragging about knowing some person of wealth or stature, or recounting tales of flouting one law or another and getting away with it because they know somebody who could get them off the hook. Driving back home late last night, I witnessed a man blind with rage, beating his fist on the window of a car in the middle of a crossroads. It looked like the driver of the car had haplessly blocked this enraged man’s way. Instant payback is a way of life here. The man probably felt completely justified for his unruly behavior, perhaps because he was connected in high places. That’s just how it is in the quirky capital.

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.