Bye Delhi ?

Two books that read recently are of successful bloggers. Sidin Vadukut of whatay.com made his debut with Dork. Arnab Ray of Greatbong.net has published “May I hebb your attention pliss”. While Sidin’s book is fiction, Arnab’s is a compilation of his posts. Both are roaring reads.

The handful of readers of this blog tells me that it is not so much fun to read it any more. We read for entertainment and not to know your weighty, considered opinions on matters of great import, they say. The reason that I am not sounding funny anymore, as I explain it, is that there is nothing funny about life anymore. But I am hoping to leave Delhi soon. Looks like I might end up working in a strange place, with no family, doing menial work. I have chosen to cut short my tenure in Delhi with the intention of joining Missus and Chathu in Chennai. Looks like that won’t be happening (I mean the joining-up-with-the-family part). But in a few days/ weeks I will be certainly bidding farewell to this city.

I have spent 5 long years here (except for the 11 month break in Australia). My Delhi is not the culturally rich, architecturally resplendent city with a life peppered with evenings of plays and literature societies. I have lived the life of a middle class Babu. I reach office at 9 AM -which is something very few Babus do- when I reach office the cleaning crew is busy cleaning up and is wondering what is this guy doing here so early. As I enter the building, I often try to fool the security personnel into thinking that I am a senior general. I am sufficiently grey and hairless to fool others into thinking that a wealth of experience has added to my rank. I try a different body language, a different walk, salute, expand my chest. But they are rarely fooled. They can see that I am a civilian Babu with slightly above average height and a funny walk.

I go home in the evening at indefinite time. I tell friends that I go to Office like a soldier- all disciplined, dressed, and in time. I go home squeezed dry like a civilian. In my spare time, I watch TV- shows like Tech Toyz, Highway on my plate, the week that wasn’t etc- shows that neither increase my general awareness nor broaden my perspective. The meals in between are insignificant. Finally, I curl up in bed with a book before going to sleep. Weekends are cooped up at home with more of the reading, except for a fortnightly visit to Eloor library nearby. We haven’t entertained friends or socialized much- except with a few notable exceptions. I have given the miss to the winters of Mushairas, plays, cultural societies, visiting Art galleries, thumping feet at Rock shows, chilling out at lounge bars or Barista pubs and eating out at new restaurants in posh localities that Delhi is famous for.

No sirree, I am not regular at India Habitat Centre (I am a card carrying, fee paying member, but have gone there only twice in four years), Gymkhana club or India International Centre (only as a guest a few times when friends invite me for lunch). It is not because I didn’t want to do any of these things. I really can’t use the alibi that I have to bring up Chathu. He is really growing up unmonitored by indulgent parents and grandparents. I really have no excuse that I can’t afford these pastimes since some of these are not all that expensive pastimes. I have no excuse that I have no time, because the weekends are free and I don’t burn the midnight oil in Office (except for a few days in end March for meeting targets). But from that summer 22 years ago, that I got into a train to attend the civil services interview, I have been haunted by the feeling that this is one city I can never really belong to.

Slowly I am overcome by a feeling that life in Babudom is transient. Survival in life’s choppy mess isn’t easy in our blessed land. I should be happy to be alive. I have built my safety net and remained smug in my cocoon. Often I think of spicing it up a wee bit with hectic socialising, party late into the night, plonk my life’s savings on obscenely expensive hi-fi equipment, find a paramour, go on a cycling-cum-camping trip to Rishikesh, start playing the guitar all over again, re-discover philately… But alas, there is a fear of the unknown, a sense of comfort in the pattern that life has fallen into. So it is really no fault of Delhi. The city could still claim to be the throbbing-with life capital with old world charm. If anyone recommends Delhi for its’ many splendoured life, give it a serious look. My word’s no good. But it helps to be rich in this city…remember that.
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Just as I finished reading Basharat Peer’s “Curfewed Night”, a book that I wanted to read for many months now, word comes that a Kashmiri Doctor came first in India’s Civil Services Examination. I felt a strange sense of pride in my country. Elsewhere in this blog, I have been critical of the exam, its’ obverse caste system of slotting those with a few marks less into the forgotten cadres and dying departments. The fairness of it is remarkable. Some would argue that a liberal dose of luck helps. You need to slog and work it out. Life isn’t great after you get in, though.
Curfewed Night is a book that can put you in an introspective frame of mind. The author gives the subject of Kashmir a very personal treatment. Entwined with many pleasant memories of his childhood and the violent and conflict ridden days. I think all Indians should read it to understand how the average Kashmiri thinks. The book gives insights into how conflict zones turn perfectly normal individuals into monsters.