A New Year, A Hidden Treasure

This week marks two months for me in New Delhi, and finally, finally, I'm starting to get the hang of things here. Or, maybe really and truly finally get a sense of humor.

I will admit, there are times when India still baffles and enrages me---like, when, today while trying to buy a three-ring binder for a student I am tutoring (more on my new glamorous career later), I was first ignored for 25 minutes by the shopkeeper who was texting on his cellphone and then proffered, in this order, a plastic sheet ("sorry, ye three ring binder nahin hai. ye sheet of plastic from 1964 hai. Please keep looking."), half an envelope that had been torn down the middle, and finally, the only three ring binder that was in stock, which had clearly survived both world wars and been digested by a camel at some point. Or, the occasional man who falls off his motorbike while craning his head in traffic to stare at me.

But mostly, I am finding that my relationship with New Delhi is evolving beyond the first (primarily abusive) stages into something more nuanced. I'm not sure if this is love, or even really a romance, but something good is happening and I like it.

I. Coronation Park

What I like most about Delhi is that it is a city of multiple personalities---none of whom seem aware that the others exist. One of these dichotomies is the difference between North and South Delhi. South Delhi, where we and almost all other members of the middle and upper class live, is fully engaged (if not successfully engaged) in the march towards modernity, while North Delhi lags behind like the ragged entrails of the past. In search of a bit of this, yesterday afternoon we set off for Coronation Memorial, once the site of coronation ceremonies and ascension celebrations in India's past life as a British colony, now an overgrown plot not far from the Yamuna River where the statuary ghosts of King George V and several Viceroies were dumped and forgotten at Independence.

We arrived at dusk, after a metro ride from Connaught Place in Central Delhi and a bicycle rickshaw ride down a dusty stretch of highway rimmed by crumbling one story buildings and banyan trees with the glowing pink orb of the sun slowly sinking in the sky. Soldiers lolling by a clearing alongside the road claimed the park was closed, but after a few minutes of pleading they allowed us in so long as they came along as escorts and only stayed five minutes. Lucky for us meant the typical variety of Indian army escort--two soldiers leaned against the gate, smoking beedis until they were overcome by boredom after three minutes and left us to this otherworldly gathering of statesmen in the jungle. A small black bird perched on King George's head and peacocks meandered like shades through the long grass as the shadows grew longer and longer. In the silence I tried to imagine the grounds when Queen Elizabeth arrived on elephant for her coronation as Empress of India, with throngs of well wishers and Britons in full regalia, but instead found myself wondering if instead of the Yamuna River we had crossed the Styx.

II. Diwali

I know what you really may want to hear about now is the monkey we accidentally hit at extraordinarily high speeds (it wasn't my fault), but as that is pretty much the entire story right there, I will now enchant you with a tale about Diwali in Delhi.

Two weeks ago was Diwali, the festival of lights and the Hindu New Year. What this means in practical terms is that local markets that would otherwise sell bangles, tupperware, and Hanes underwear rejected by the first world markets, convert themselves for a short while into a mecca of glitter--snow globes filled with glitter, terra cotta statues dipped in glitter, objects constructed entirely of tinsel, vendors with dried fruits and nuts, and, in the eastern version of the Christmas spirit, speakers blaring Bollywood music at every corner.

In addition to it being an ideal opportunity for your landlord and landlady to invite you for the world's foremost awkward beer drinking and temple attending, it is also an open invitation for anyone with opposable thumbs and a lighter to set off firecrackers---and apparently almost everyone meeting these humble criteria do so. While this did yield a priceless sign on the Delhi metro, "No crackers allowed", it was also an experience I feel prepared me to better understand the Blitz or everyday life in Kabul. Apparently, common sense as applied to the Indian teenager specifies that the best place for lighting something like an M80 or a string of bottle rockets is in the middle of a narrow street or under the carriage of a car, which never failed to make walking outside after dark a terrifying experience. It brought me back to the old days when I was terrified of being electrified randomly in Delhi, though the chance of losing a limb or experiencing grave bodily harm did seem genuine.

But this post is supposed to be about how I have come to enjoy living in Delhi, and it still is. We did not explode, remained ambulatory, and did not permanently lose our hearing during Diwali, and we were invited by our landlord and landlady, Uttam and Poonam, to a Diwali drink. This being Delhi where nothing is what you expect, we were served beer and mini pizzas while Uttam told us a long dramatized story about the various shunts he has had inserted throughout his body, and were then forcibly stuffed in the car and dragged to the local temple by Poonam, who we have been instructed to call Aunty and who, I do truly believe, treats us the way she treats her children, albeit perhaps when they are wayward or acting disabled. At the temple, a napkin was promptly tied on my head and I was instructed to light candles while Poonam prayed and Uttam complained that his calves were sore, and when it became apparent that I was inept even at the simple task of lighting candles with no wick and balancing them upright somehow in a line on ground outside the temple, I was relegated to waiting by the side holding a box of cookies. Oh, the holidays. How they bring even faux families together.