The other Delhi

The other Delhi..........

I always boasted in front of my friends and family back home in Assam about my knowledge of the streets and localities of Delhii, which has been my home for close to a decade now. I ranted on and on about the magnificent malls in Saket, the ambiance of Connaught Place, the taste bud tickling food of Old Delhi, etc.

How self important I sounded! Yes, you would not know what it means to eat good street food unless you ate the 'bhalla-tikki' at Natraj near the Old Railway Station, or the incomparable 'Daulat ki Chaat' near Jama Majid. You cannot just drop in at the Olive in Mehrauli (where my magnanimous boss treated me to a fabulous lunch the other day); you need to book beforehand. And who knows? You might be lucky enough to get a glimpse of the 'page 3' crowd. And how can you call yourself a connoisseur of the city when you have not yet visited Karim's near the Jama Masjid? All said and done, ask for my unsolicited opinion me if you want to visit Janpath, Karol Bagh or even the obscure but excellent boutique in Mehrauli which I have frequenting for the last seven years. A midnight sojourn to Daryaganj for an ‘overloaded meetha paan’, the enchanting market of Hauz Khas, the new fashion jewellery store at South Ex., etc. Care for a stroll in Dilli Haat, which is a stone’s throw away from AIIMS (where I work)? Ah! Yours truly thought that she knew them all.

But strange is life and even stranger are its ways. On a sudden impulse, after a sizeable doze of Sunny Leone breathing down for close to three hours in the upmarket multiplex down my neck (thanks to Pooja Bhatt), I pleaded with my husband to take me around Delhi for some fresh air, atleast to get rid of Leone’s ghost. I thought it will be nice and cool and relaxing to go for a drive in the dead of the night. But how wrong I was!

A drive towards old Delhi and in minutes we were in GB Road. Some signboards declared the name as Swami Shradhanand Marg. And then the reality dawned – we were in the most famous red light area of Delhi! My husband’s fear lay elsewhere and he did not share my enthusiasm. What if the police patrol cars which were roaming in abundance take us for people with ‘wrong’ intentions and put us behind the bars, he asked. But my thoughts lay elsewhere. I remembered renowned writer, the late Indira Goswami, frequenting this place for her writings. She must have stood where I stand now and wondered about the life behind the dirty curtains and beyond the stained staircases. Yes, she was a brave lady; she had the guts and the conviction to see and feel the life of the numerous sex workers who live here. This is a new Old Delhi, another world, another life. The nonchalant policemen were strolling like khaki waifs in an abandoned alley. The pimps, some as young as my youngest brother, stood waiting for customers. Suddenly, I saw some commotion in a distant corner. A pot-bellied middle aged man was dragging a teenage girl towards the street. I, already inspired to the core by the atmosphere (I remembered the kothis of Lucknow that I had seen in the movies), started to go towards the poor soul to save her. By then my husband had had enough and he dragged me back to the car. 

Yes, I sat on that dark night in a dark corner of this dark city and realized that life was not like it was portrayed in the Hindi flicks. No matter how much I try, it’s not easy to be the change I want to see (Sorry, Mr. Gandhi). It takes more than courage to be an Anna , to be a Medha Patkar, to be the author of a dozen best-selling books and go against the norms of the society and live life on one’s own terms. Here I was, a mentally and physically fit woman in my early thirties, unable to take a single step to help the teenage girl. And like me, the spineless policemen too were just not bothered; they have other respectable denizens of the national capital to save.

Life is hard in these parts. The dilapidated buildings say it all. Miffed upon by the respectable, abandoned by family and friends, looked down upon by the near and dear ones and into a profession which I would call unconventional, these women must be living life the harder way. It’s not easy to barter one’s body (and sometimes soul) for money, but as the wise men say, life goes on. I will not be able to describe my state of mind at that point of time now; but I guess, a woman will understand. 

A few minutes later my husband directed the car towards the Hauz Khas village. Ouch! Life was fun there. A pretty girl-woman (how else do I describe a girl in her teens who looked like a matured woman) wearing a peacock blue short dress was the picture of a fairy tale princess, in the arms of a non-Indian who looked like a drunk baboon. Was she drunk too? I wondered. Of course you should not bother yourself with all this, my husband admonished me. Yes, how should this bother me? She is neither my sister, nor my daughter. May be she is into drugs, may be she has no siblings to be in home with. A man who looked as if he came from the Middle-East was playing the guitar. It was a soft tune of some music which I had never heard, but it was mesmerizing. Yes, music knows no barrier. In no time a cluster of young people hived around the man. All were taken up by his music, all were strangers, all were friends. Yes, a new face of Delhi this is! A new world, a new night.........

I felt a bit better . But it was short-lived. Just in front of Dilli Haat a man was lying in a pool of blood. It was a gory sight, a grotesque example of the indifferent world we live in. Our car stopped near him. I told my husband, may be we can help? We wanted to. Just then a fleet of four cars ( all expensive) came to a sudden halt. There were boys (yes, not men. They were so young.). Two got down and started to pick up the ‘body’. “ Ma’m, better push off. No use.” One of them shouted at me. I was starting to look like a ghost , or was I feeling like one? Who are these boys? Philanthropists? Terrorists? Police? “ Hey man, let’s get rid of this soon. It will be morning in a couple of hours.” And they drove away. Yes, a mannequin who prided of being a doctor stood like a statue. My husband consoled me that we could not have anyways helped him; he was already dead by the time we saw him. And what about his family? Will they worry for him? Will his photograph be published in the ”Missing” section of tomorrow’s newspaper? Or will his story be telecast in the most popular crime show of the television?

We decided that a cup of strong coffee was the need of the hour. Where else to go but the COMESUM in the Nizamuddin Railway Station? As newcomers in this city in the early years of the last decade, this place held a special corner in our hearts. Yes, COMESUM was beckoning us to its welcoming arms. But things seemed different. Was it because of the entry gate that was different now? Or was it something else. A few men with alternate orientations were partying. Not that I have anything against them ; I too support their cause. But if the ‘making out’ by a boy and a girl in a public place is improper, why should this be an exception (and mind you, it was not limited to necking, kissing and hugging)? Oh COMESUM! You too seem strange to me now.....

And after returning to the comfort of my home in the wee hours of the morning, I remembered a few lines which I had read somewhere many many years ago, “what we see and what we seem , is but a dream, a dream within a dream”. I do not know you Delhi, I admit. But I will try to acquaint myself with some more aspects of this unique city. Till then...............