To those not from those parts, the stench of various things, unpleasant, on the platform at New Delhi Railway Station is something that strong memories are made of. But, one of my early strong memories of Delhi is not of the smell, but of the same railway platform. Sixteen-years-ago, I stood there, alone in every possible manner, giddy with the promise of a new life on my own and the absolute terror it also brought with it; in a city far far away from anything that was familiar to me.
I came to the city with no significant material possessions worth mentioning. Most of which was contained in a duffel bag, a rolled-up mattress and a plastic bucket. I knew nobody in the city. I did not know what to make of it other than that it was an escape from what was known and familiar. The few who were known to those who were known to me, did not inspire much confidence. And it was not like I was the most social of the species to begin with. To not use the family’s network was a choice that was easy to make.
Thought of as a lover, the city jilted and romanced in unequal measures. Eight months of agony in its extreme weather is offset by the month and a bit more of magic on either side of winter. It is tough love at its toughest. Life in Delhi is a constant test of how accepting you can be of things you really dislike and yet love it whole and soul.
As the years rolled by, I became much more angrier, cocksure and even more inconsiderate than what I was when I moved there. I practiced denial with a passion and dedication that would put the most extreme of cults to shame. I went nuts in a million ways, and yet, I could not find a single way in which I thought I was in the wrong. Through all of that, and much more, the city found numerous nooks and crannies to hide the oddity that was me. If anything, I became even more of an oddball in the years since.
The magic of early morning bike rides on the Mehrauli – Gurgaon road when it was still a single carrigeway. The discovery of the watering hole called Turquoise Cottage in 2002 and the many years spent there after that. The early years spent on DTC route number 615, from Minto Bridge to Poorvanchal Hostel. The squalor and the simplicity of the days living in various villages in south Delhi because I could only afford the rent in those places. There are a thousand memories from the past, and yet, the city in them exists in that form only in my mind.
The city had moved on and so had the people I knew in it. When memories of a past long gone become the only relevant points of reference to the city you live in, it becomes tough to escape the truth that your life in that city has run its course.
I do not remember when the connection broke. It was, maybe, my discovery of the inexplicable magic called The Himalayas. It was, maybe, the relentless and repeated ritual called the burning of bridges in my personal life. It was, maybe, that the city has just gotten too big for my liking.
As someone who is highly resistant to change, even the comfort of familiarity could not keep the charm of Delhi alive for me in the recent years. A stint abroad was considered, places in the Himalayas were scoped out and the move seemed just around the corner. Love, unexpectedly, happened and plans changed. I spent another indifferent year in a city that I barely identified with anymore.
The final days in the city was all just a blur. While leaving it, my material possessions amounted to a lot more than just what I had when I moved to Delhi, but not significantly more. Even as an interim thing, it felt liberating to not own too many things once again. The flight from familiarity induced moments of panic at regular intervals, but what remained mostly was relief, that I could finally say goodbye to Delhi.
Since then, five days have passed and we have driven over 1500 kilometers. I can hear the waves crashing on the beach and the pleasant cacophony of numerous birds outside. It is only now that I can afford the luxury of being able to stop and reflect. The lack of familiarity of the future often scares me, but the past reassures me that I was equally or even more scared when I moved to Delhi in 1999. And yet, it embraced me and helped me survive and thrive. More importantly, this time, I am not doing it alone and that amounts for more than a lot to be grateful for.
In closing, I am no longer sure whether this post is about Delhi, me or the move. Perhaps, it is a mix of all that. Perhaps it is about the inability to express something as complex as that arranged into a neat series of thoughts. Perhaps, it is just simply about life — the longing, the loss, love and the inexplicable joy of living and experiencing all of that.