Delhi Diaries
First penned in hasty cursive ink, now breathed into pixels.
Who: My first time in North India.
What: Three journal entries.
Where: New Delhi, North India.
When: A warm 2024 November.
Why: Inspiration strikes any time.
How: A little notebook and trusty pen that followed me like shadows.
“World To You”
Context: While waiting for a train in New Delhi, finding meaning in the mundane.
There is so much to see, even though there is nothing to see. A lady in a mesmerizingly sparkling tie-dye blue saree pulls her small, bewildered child by hand. An intoxicated man is angrily pushed off the train by a station employee, stumbling with each step. Lean dogs weave between people’s legs, and an adolescent boy donned in a bright red polo shirt raises his sandal-clad food to kick one, in which the dog runs away before impact. The usual.
The train station brings together people of all walks of life, only to separate in numerous directions. I sit on a dark purple bag, and rest my cheek on my wrist.
People come and go. Some walk, some run, some limp, some stand. And there’s always at least one person who does something one doesn’t expect or even think of. A man carrying five huge bags as a solo traveler or a frail grandma pulling a medium-sized suitcase with great trust in its nearly dilapidated wheels, seconds away from tripping on uneven pavement. Like a movie — or a train wreck — looking away is simply not an option.
I look at people and they look at me too. Sometimes it becomes a competition of who can break eye contact first. Most of the time it is a glance and then moving on to our respective lives. Village women carry large bags on their heads effortlessly. Families bid heartfelt goodbyes to each other, final hugs before departure. Fireworks in the distance — Diwali festivities continue.
Under the night sky, only fluorescent train station lights illuminate the platform. Even if one comes early, their train number could be anywhere, prompting rushes of people frantically trying to find their correct placement before the train takes off, leaving everyone else in the dust.
The more one observes, the more that is unraveled. Even if one shuts their eyes, the sounds of chattering people, muffled speaker announcements, distant fireworks, train screeches, and shuffling fills one’s ears. All senses are engulfed. A smell of pollution — or worse, depending on where one stands. Security is virtually nonexistent. Never alone, every direction provides new characters to spin a fantastical story about. Sitting in one place, the world comes to you. ❖
“Winter in Summer”
Context: Observing attitudes and behaviors of locals in Delhi, from the American paradigm. For the way of life is different.
I love it when people smile. When mirth comes from their eyes, and their mouth spreads into a delightful grin. A crinkle at the corner of the eyes, pulling at the cheeks. A flash of teeth and perhaps a gleeful chuckle. A glow on the face that illuminates and spreads warmth. A real one.
Haven’t seen one in a while since landing in Delhi. One might manage to pull one out from a restaurant or shop worker, very rarely, and that looks like they are held at gunpoint. “Service with a smile.” Minus the smile. And a lot of the time I discovered to my dismay, the service too.
Perhaps it is understandable with the generally tough living conditions, labor-intensive circumstances, and cultural norms for the average person. And also my own experience being raised in the U.S. with Hyderabadi roots where smiling was a normal part of everyday life, accompanied with optimism, and a side of romanticism to keep life exciting. So while it may be eye-opening to me, it is simply how things are in this place, which I learned to adapt to and understand.
Still, it is over 90 degrees outside, but it feels like winter. Chilling gazes, cold shoulders, frozen, expressionless faces. So the blue moon moment when one stumbles upon a real smile, it is summer once more. Transforming a person, and a moment.
An elderly lady who stares at me with her gray hair in a neat braid, a gentle smile.
Accidentally photobombing a photo of the Red Fort with a peace sign, a glorious smile by the ultra-focused cameraman.
The jolly crew working at Pizza Hut who can’t help but grin as they hear an attempt at Urdu-Hindi dialogue in an American accent, and nod in understanding.
And the cold front settles again after. It is always cold in Delhi. ❖
Opposing perspective — The Desi View:
A foolish girl smiled in the auto rickshaw, to whoever passed by. Was she stupid? What is there to smile about, to random strangers? Clearly she is not from here. This is a great opportunity to make some money on these foreigners. Children approached her rickshaw, selling roses. ❖
“Hotel Sweet Hotel”
Context: Returning to Delhi after a trip to another part of India, and returning to a hotel where I spent many nights. Written while in the taxi.
A peculiar sense of home, in a place I do not call home. It is as if taking a break from where I spent so much time just visiting, developed a soft corner in my heart. The ever-lingering pollution, congested traffic, questionable shop keepers… aside the lush greenery in unexpected pockets of the city, delectably spicy food, and jaw-dropping historic architecture. Like family you accept its flaws and enhance its beauty. Perhaps there is something that always forms when you dine, sleep, and breathe the air of a place. Or perhaps we yearn for familiarity, to be part of something from the inside. So even as a nomad, we do not wish to be nomads. ❖
— Saamia Bukhari