Monday Musings - 35

From where I sit, I can watch the sun fall upon a patch of green, in a jungle of concrete. Cars swirl too and fro, on the NH8. The wind carries brown dust, and occasionally a woman walks by. It is not a town for women, Gurgaon. At 4 pm, if you decide to walk, while the sun is out, a car will stop beside you. A man will roll down his window, and have something to say. If you look away, he drives away.

And, sometimes, he won't as much as stop to get your attention. Just a whistle, or a word, or a glare will do. This is by day. Come night, a deathly fear creeps into your heart. Sunset brings with it all kinds of stories, you want to keep away from.

Some days, even sunrise won't bring respite. You clamber up a bus, only to have comments passed around by men seated around the bus. It doesn't matter that there are other women in the bus. It doesn't matter that the bus conductor hears, and won't say a word. And, it doesn't matter that there are tears in your eyes.

You just lace your heart with ice, and take on the day. For more often than not, it's a beautiful day. There are exhibitions where pretty things in Jaipur Blue, and long earrings come together. There are food stalls where kebabs are burnt brown. There are theaters, where you watch well, theatre. A play is entitled, "Nothing will Happen Between Us." In it, a young man says, "I think love is overrated. I have decided to become a conscientious objector."

Then, there is music, and there is a hint of rain in an otherwise clear sky. And, there is a throng of women at Central Market, Lajpat Nagar. Cycle rickshaws gather, and wonder which newcomer to con. Chai is now Rs. 8/-. Gardens are now galore, left by default, left by History.

And, there is, you learn, hope. Hope you anchor by faith well-vested, not misinformed. Ah, I am a mind in many places this Monday.

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Monday Musings -34

I thought I found a house. That is until I went there again, and discovered 'bachelor boys' in the extension next door. The next time I visited the house, a ghostly girl appeared on an extra bed. She was just visiting, the almost eerie landlady claimed. I began to succumb to nightmares involving its grotesque all-wall cupboard that opens into a bathroom. Still, I went there again. On the rickety stairway (that I was willing to make do with) there were cooked aloo and onion peels scattered. Food, if you please?

I ran. I ran across ten lanes of houses clung together and found nothing. They were too small, or too filthy, or surrounded by construction workers, or at the end of a dingy road. The house hunting had now moved a whole block away. Pretty, serene, but desolate. Patches of dark to welcome me home, every night. Not a market to dekko. And, a landlady (with a live-in lover) and a hickey on her double chin.

Welcome to DLF City Phase 2. We've run out of patience, and they've run out of truth. We find a lovely first-floor house with an open terrace and five doors. 'No boys,' the old, sleazy owner states. Before he decides to ogle us over, and hand in a little fact: the owner has the keys to what would be my house. We scoot.

And, arrive at an 'independent' all girls accommodation. An old uncle and his wife, live downstairs. You can live here alone, he claims. And, exercise on the terrace. And, boil milk on the gas. But no men, and no guests allowed. Not your father. And, not an uncle who's come to help you hunt for the place. "Beta bas doodh khareed lo, garam kar lo, aur pee lo. Yehi shaant.'

An educated doctor seems to join the moral police too. A lovely room that overlooks a garden, cannot be taken. Because the owner has a time restriction. You cannot arrive after 9:15 pm. Please note these are on rent, not paying guest accommodations.

By now, it is time to give the next un' a little rude-talk. "This isn't Mumbai, this is Gurgaon. It is different from your Bombay. Be discreet," he asserts. My mother stomps his hypocrisy out of action. "Rather be loud and honest, than discreet," she says. Then there are owners who promise to be parents, "We will ensure she doesn't do anything wrong," they say. And, owners who will insist on their privacy even if it means you walking through a tunnel without lights. They won't let you have yours though.

We find a place without the moral police. A little compromise of a room with a bathroom the size and shape of a bit-sized train compartment. In our procrastination, we lose the offer. It is a good thing, I reckon. We are left with one option- a tiny house-extension with a room, and a kitchen, and a terrace. There are no owners living below, and there is no moral police. Heck, the bathroom isn't a dingy compromise either. Perhaps, that could be a home, I think?

Although, I've lost faith, and I've lost hope this Monday. Perhaps houses are like life itself, you learn to fall in love with them. And, perhaps the British, make-my-morning kinda cab companion was right: "House hunting is the most soul shattering experience in your life. Even in London."

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Monday Musings -33

Yesterday, I was at the 19th Delhi World Book Fair, held at Pragati Maidan. I spent the afternoon browsing books spread over acres of land, and stalls and shelves. There were books bursting out of make-shift stalls at a twenty-five percent discount. There were books from around the world. Israel and India and France and Pakistan. There were books in all languages. And, there were books on all subjects- Fiction, and Science, and Technology and Education, and Spirituality and Management. I confess: I was salivating.

And, reveling in the endless space this city has. What a glorious city to walk in – Delhi. You can go as far as your feet take you, and still be far away. There are wide roads, and big houses, and huge open spaces set against lines and lines of bit-sized food stalls.

Or, in some instances, the neighborhood hole-in-the-wall, a big-sized Tibetan restaurant. We tuck into a generous helping of fried rice and chicken with broccoli. Then, we set off to discovery this city again.

And, what a delight it is, I think, this Monday. What a delight to discover Delhi, just as I am reading William Dalrymple's City of Djinns. I stumbled upon this book, by chance - in my rusty old garage- the book documents the life and lanes of the city of Delhi.

Interesting to note, isn't it. That if you allow it, books will come by at the right place, and right time in your life. And, if you allow them, friends will come by at the right time, and the right place in your life...

No amount of chai, downed whole, over sunsets and moonshine, can allow that to sink in. Allow the incredible journey that is life to sink in. Occurrences and places and people strung together. Almost surreal. Almost strange. Life, it could only be orchestrated.

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