I flew into Delhi with vibrant memories of the mountains that I last saw from high above the clouds. As I parted ways with the shrinking mountains, rivers and the trees, until it disappeared, somewhere deep inside, it hurt.
I had seen and lived with these all through my life. But I had never realized how much they would mean to me. The departure was painful. And thinking I would not see this country for the next two years of my life, I was fighting hard to hold back tears.
Almost nine months down the road, I have learnt to live my life the Delhiite way. Not to say that I have forgotten my roots or embraced a brand new culture. At best it can be termed as adaptation.
Amidst the heat and bustle of incessant traffic, damp and polluted air, it seemed as if the last nine months were an eternity in itself. A momentary freeze of time and space. To my charm and chagrin, more so to the latter, my first experience with India was terrible. Or rather terrifying.
Perhaps, what Robert George David, the mafia turned writer, described in his book, Shantaram, (the first book I picked up from the streets of Delhi) about the overwhelming beauty of India, did not quite seem to get into my head. Rather, I felt that what he called beauty was just as appalling to me in the beginning.
It was after living here, after getting to know and understand the complex city culture, that I realized the writer was not so much wrong as he tended to over do. The streets that once appeared so obnoxious and filthy; the beggars at every next corner who would nag you to death; the daily exchange of banters with the auto drivers and rickshaw pullers; all that I dreaded and despised, suddenly seemed so normal. So natural. As if I had lived here for ages.
India is not a land of snake charmers. India is not always the land of rogues, cheats and pickpockets. Just a few of them may be, from the millions. Quite Negligible. It was here my preconceptions were demystified.
There is much more to India than what we are accustomed to think of. So much more than what meets the eye. In a metropolis like Delhi life can be difficult. It is. But I am growing to love it. Every bit of my stay here. It has a charm of its own, a romance of its own albeit without those trees, mountains and the rivers, and that quiet serenity back at home. I do not know what others feel or felt. But I love Delhi. And I hate Delhi at the same time. Delhi sometimes is lovely. Sometimes, dreadful and gory. It is fun and drudgery as well. Rightly, it is a city of paradoxes and endless contradictions.
You can meet the best of humans here. Or the worst. From people driving posh sports cars to destitute, homeless ones. You may have a beautiful life. Or no-life at all. Delhi has it all.
After I came here, it occurred to me that I had come closer to myself. I do not know why, but often I feel I am one among the millions who walk the streets everyday here. One face, one mind, one lost soul among a strange crowd. Life is no longer simple, calm and happy-go-lucky. It is a rush. Every body is rushing. Every body is shouting. Everybody is doing one thing or the other. Everybody is fighting for survival. To keep alive. I am being a small part to it. No mater what.
But often, how I miss the silent stillness of home. Somebody rightly said, the idyllic Himalayan kingdom is a country forgotten in time. By this did he mean something more than just these words. I wonder. The land of thunder dragon is sleeping peacefully, untouched by the paranoia of the modern ‘rush.’ Life is simple up there. So let it be. Let it be a fairyland, as the world likes to think. With birds, bees and flowers, rainbows and clouds, with lovely sunsets and sunrises. If it is magical, let it be. I miss home, in its entirety.
I miss those red chilies, those doma pani, and those rounds of special courier at Om bar. Those sleepless nights at BT. Those revelries, those beautiful highland lass; those moments of life, I miss them dearly. And many more.
A deep contemplation however reveals that I had missed so much at home too. I would have missed, had I not come to this part of the world, an experience of a lifetime. I had nearly missed the joyrides in a rickshaw; the experience of troubled pleasure traveling in the obnoxious traffic. The fearful joy of getting run down by the Blue line (killer) buses. I had nearly missed the sweet Indian tea. I had nearly missed the blazing wrath of summer, lecherous ogle of strangers, the paranoia and the frustration of living here.
When I will finally go back home, I know I will not blame the turtle speed life up there. I will not blame the B-mobile network congestion. I will not blame the long queue in the hospital. I will not blame politics is dirty. I will not blame when water does not run in my taps. I have seen worse things. Home is where the heart is.
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