After gaining substantial confidence as a writer, I finally decided to write a bit of a description of the things I cherished in my life in Delhi. As compared to the magnitude of contention, happiness, and wisdom that was imparted to me by that life, this piece is quite small. However, it does justice to the simple pleasures of life that are immensely appealing to the people of the city, and the children born to it. More recently, I have been feeling suffocated and writing this simple piece reminded me why I have been so miserable.
When I moved to Columbia five years ago, the transition from New Delhi was extremely difficult. The streets are quiet in the daytime, but even as evening approaches here, one can only notice the rush of cars. Coming from a city with a population of fifteen million and counting, existence seemed void in this city, which I labeled as a graveyard initially.
In Delhi, each day overwhelms one with the ostentatious presence of life.
I would wake up to the cacophonous noise of the crow, if not woken up by the neighbor shouting at her son to stop wasting time and get ready for school. The vibrancy of the birds borrowed from the mornings lured me to the balcony where I would smell the mint and sage bushes my mother had planted in our little rock garden. Next, I would check our rose and jasmine plants for any new buds and would eagerly anticipate getting the progress report of the ones gracefully opening up.
The next couple of minutes were spent with the biggest dilemma of my life- whether to finish the glass of warm milk I had been standing with for about twenty minutes, or not. As I saw the neighbor’s son pour it down the drain of his balcony, I decided to gulp-in mine. This mistake was always regretted because by the time I decided to drink the glass of whole milk, the crème settled on top of it made me gag.
The walks to and back from the bus stop always felt as if they would never end, especially in summer. The soles of our canvas shoes (part of our school uniform) let the heat from the tar seep in and kept me wondering each day if I would be able to get away without a blister.
In the monsoons however, the walks back were always fun. We pretended to have forgotten our umbrellas at school and had much fun getting drenched in rain. In the evening, or on a Sunday afternoon, we would always make sure to spend plenty of time on the rooftops so as to not miss our chance to see the peacocks that often perched on eucalyptus trees nearby. On better days, we often prayed for the rain to fall down like cats and dogs so that we could block the rooftop drains and make our own little swimming pool!
The evenings were a ritual of simply getting out of the house and letting the smells of the street-side food vendors tempt you. It was hard to resist not indulging in our senses into the spices that came along with those heavily fried snacks. To complement the flavors, the sweet and sour tamarind chutney always brought about the best justice.
After dark, when it was finally time to relax and focus on homework and studies, there were always people celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary or their newborn’s birthday and the loudspeakers forced everyone in the community to be a part of those celebrations. One could call the cops, but only in vain to find out that the noise dropped to a minimal amount for the fifteen minutes they spent inspecting the neighborhood and then went back up to its original levels.
Transporting myself out of that urban jungle though, I find that I have found much peace in my new home as well. I can walk by the Congaree river for hours, just hearing it collide with the rocks and happily let the sun warm my feet. I can actually witness each turn of the season - observe the changing fall colors and “smell” spring.
The only sensation whose absence still tortures me is the monsoon season- lingering smell of the rain before it even hit the grounds, a splash from the puddles which destroyed my white school shirt every now and then, and the simple hope of gazing into the seemingly oblivious eyes of the beautifully shimmering peacocks.
Perhaps, it is my childhood I miss, rather than the place. But for now, I’d like to believe that going back will somehow simplify everything and I will reflexively run out as soon as it starts raining.
When I moved to Columbia five years ago, the transition from New Delhi was extremely difficult. The streets are quiet in the daytime, but even as evening approaches here, one can only notice the rush of cars. Coming from a city with a population of fifteen million and counting, existence seemed void in this city, which I labeled as a graveyard initially.
In Delhi, each day overwhelms one with the ostentatious presence of life.
I would wake up to the cacophonous noise of the crow, if not woken up by the neighbor shouting at her son to stop wasting time and get ready for school. The vibrancy of the birds borrowed from the mornings lured me to the balcony where I would smell the mint and sage bushes my mother had planted in our little rock garden. Next, I would check our rose and jasmine plants for any new buds and would eagerly anticipate getting the progress report of the ones gracefully opening up.
The next couple of minutes were spent with the biggest dilemma of my life- whether to finish the glass of warm milk I had been standing with for about twenty minutes, or not. As I saw the neighbor’s son pour it down the drain of his balcony, I decided to gulp-in mine. This mistake was always regretted because by the time I decided to drink the glass of whole milk, the crème settled on top of it made me gag.
The walks to and back from the bus stop always felt as if they would never end, especially in summer. The soles of our canvas shoes (part of our school uniform) let the heat from the tar seep in and kept me wondering each day if I would be able to get away without a blister.
In the monsoons however, the walks back were always fun. We pretended to have forgotten our umbrellas at school and had much fun getting drenched in rain. In the evening, or on a Sunday afternoon, we would always make sure to spend plenty of time on the rooftops so as to not miss our chance to see the peacocks that often perched on eucalyptus trees nearby. On better days, we often prayed for the rain to fall down like cats and dogs so that we could block the rooftop drains and make our own little swimming pool!
After dark, when it was finally time to relax and focus on homework and studies, there were always people celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary or their newborn’s birthday and the loudspeakers forced everyone in the community to be a part of those celebrations. One could call the cops, but only in vain to find out that the noise dropped to a minimal amount for the fifteen minutes they spent inspecting the neighborhood and then went back up to its original levels.
Transporting myself out of that urban jungle though, I find that I have found much peace in my new home as well. I can walk by the Congaree river for hours, just hearing it collide with the rocks and happily let the sun warm my feet. I can actually witness each turn of the season - observe the changing fall colors and “smell” spring.
The only sensation whose absence still tortures me is the monsoon season- lingering smell of the rain before it even hit the grounds, a splash from the puddles which destroyed my white school shirt every now and then, and the simple hope of gazing into the seemingly oblivious eyes of the beautifully shimmering peacocks.
Perhaps, it is my childhood I miss, rather than the place. But for now, I’d like to believe that going back will somehow simplify everything and I will reflexively run out as soon as it starts raining.
