A day in Delhi: Stories of India
We met for the first time at the Delhi airport on a hot May morning. I don’t remember the overbearing heat though, nor do I remember the congestion or the pollution or pretty much any specifics about the city, where we spent a day and a half before taking a bus to Manali and the mountains. It was my first time in such a different environment and culture — I had never been outside Europe — but I wasn’t overwhelmed by that. Despite my fascination with India, I barely paid any attention to the city. I only had eyes for Vinod. I’m an avid photographer, but getting my phone out and taking pictures was the last thing on my mind. Except for this one random snap after he asked me if I wanted to click some photos, and before I completely forgot all about it again.
I remember taking the metro to reach Central Delhi from the airport. I think it was cheap, but at least it was a very easy and quick way to commute — or maybe it just felt like a matter of minutes, while I was ecstatically holding hands with my boyfriend for the first time. Having tested this again, single fare token is about 40rs with longer distances and it may take somewhere between 20 to 30min to reach your destination.
From the station we took an auto to reach our final destination, the hostel in Paharganj. Vinod was leading me by the hand, searching for a good driver who wouldn’t overcharge us, because of my white skin. But that ended in quite the disaster with us being taken to a “tourism office”, where we were offered a variety of options for accommodation, activities and service. For a nice, small fee of course. I was so happy to be there with my Indian boyfriend, someone who knew that the district wasn’t closed for the public and could decide we’d take off to find our hostel on our own. It was just so easy to let him take care of all the practical details, as he knew how everything worked and was priced in India in reality. And I was just glad to ignore those things and focus on him, instead of the surroundings, and watch how he dealt with everything. However, I did quickly learn how to deal with all kinds of situations on my own in India, having learned from the best from the very start. I guess I did pay a lot of attention to everything he did, he he. — Be sure to have an offline map of the area you’re in downloaded on your phone, so you can see the exact routes to your destination. Keep a cool head and insist you know where you are going. Autos very rarely are more than 150rs for drives less than 5km, bicycle rickshaws maybe 20–60rs.
I remember Paharganj, the striking difference from the more modern parts of Delhi I had just seen. It felt like I was stepping into another world with Vinod, into a fairytale, which I had told him I had always believed India to be. He guided me by the hand in the middle of all the bicycle rickshaws, the colourful people and small shops in the narrow lanes and I felt like life was a movie. I remember fruits everywhere and the scent of spices in the air. I remember our first chicken biryani we shared for lunch in a cozy, yet kind of fancy, hotel in the area. I remember the mangos, my favourite fruit, he bought me for a very low price and how we couldn’t stop ourselves from eating all of them in our hostel room. I remember the sweet, sweet juice dripping down my chin and feeling astonished if this was what the fruit actually tasted like, at least a hundred times better than those pathetic things we get in Finland. I remember garam masala, the scent which I had always imagined India to be made of. We bought a small pouch of the masala for me and ever since there hasn’t been basically anything that I don’t add the spice into. You should always be so lucky to buy your fruits and spices from the streetside, it’s much more affordable and the quality is just beyond the store-bought versions! And always share your biryani with a partner or a friend — I mean, I could eat the whole bowl myself too, but I’d have to be rolled away from the table afterwards… And sharing is much more fun!
I remember a park somewhere near Paharganj, where we were basking in the setting sun and strolling around to enjoy a touch of nature in the middle of the big metro life. Even though unable to hold hands or have any kind of PDA to avoid staring, I remember the feeling of not being stared at by the men, but by the apparently irritated women. Had I taken their man? I didn’t care, but kept gazing at my man all dewy-eyed. I would be jealous too, I thought.
Along the wide and congested streets, I was too nervous to run across the perpetual lines of motor traffic, but Vinod would always take my hand and lead me to the other side safely. I remember feeling so exhilarated by that, as if we were stealing these quick moments of rebellion, when the touch of his skin would make mine fire up. I remember somewhere further away, close to the government houses, where a big street was closed due to some security measures, but where we got lost anyway and found each other completely isolated from the surrounding crowd, and were able to walk hand in hand and share a quick kiss or two. And I remember the breath of fresh air and the smell of rain on the auto ride back to Paharganj, such a rarity after a long and extreme heat wave. I held my hand out the auto and felt a few drops on my skin before Vinod pulled my hand back. Do not stick your hand out in the traffic, unless you want to lose it.
Don’t you want to take any pictures? In the photo it was late evening in the backpackers’ heaven of Paharganj, where we stayed at Smyle Inn, a low-budget hostel with friendly service and decent rooms on a dark alley next to the pictured spot. On request they’ll quickly arrange you an Indian SIM — ID information and a photo required. And there is an excellent small shop right opposite to the hostel with delicious mango lassis — you always find the best food in the small, shady shacks. Though I didn’t really care for the included hostel breakfast and can’t remember for the life of me if they had AC. I only remember the fan in the ceiling, and staring at it at bedtime feeling overwhelmed. OMG, is this really my life? Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?
There are a lot of issues in Delhi, there’s no question about that. Gang rapes. Pollution. Racism. Corruption. Wastelands. Heat. Malnutrition. Poverty. Conservative society. Inequality. Arranged marriages. Religions. Beggers. Scammers. Thieves. And there is a lot of good about the city too. But I don’t remember any of it. I only remember the love and happiness, the fleetingly beautiful moments. To me Delhi represents a fairytale and I can’t wait to get back there to get to know the city itself too.
