I of course agree to go. Thankfully by the time I arrive - late - the madness has passed and I do not have to look at steel almirahs, or wooden ones (what are cupboards made of nowadays?). Over coffee, tea and me (I am full of awful linguistic gymnastics when I write about Delhi... seems apt) we discuss religion and love, unnecessarily, in that order. She is fair, boring, fairly boring, and full of unfulfilled promise. She talks, inconsequentially, of culture, art, art and culture (I am really mauling this, aren't I?), laments not reading enough, says she feels illiterate, in a drowsy moment I agree. I talk of profit and loss, losing profits, in moment of treachery, NDTV Profit. Crack silly jokes which make none of us laugh. We talk of parents. Imagine. She says I'm glad we met. I immediately want to follow her home. It ends with me thinking of the way the starched churidar clung to the ankles. In Mumbai, it would have ended with a drink, or dinner, later that evening. In Delhi, it ends as the sun sets over the wannabe Akshardham Temple. The roads open under the wheels, there is that smell of traffic light-free Ring Road in the air, the scent of sweet-smelling mufflers (Coming Soon), there is that promise of, unfulfilled, freedom.
So the SMS comes in as I listen on to my mother sniggering on the phone. The fish curry simmers on the gas. One word - Habitat? Asked out in one word, is that good or bad? She says good or bad?!! Are you mad? Surely that's debate we've ended in our age? I drive to Habitat, memories of peaches and cream, black shawls in black autos clouding my path. She arrives from the automechanic, talking of unpaid phone bills and men who run stores. Shopkeeper, I sneer. I like him, she says. At the All American Diner, British school teachers complain of VAT, she eats the potatoes, leaves aside the salad and talks of why the BBC will never beat CNBC in India. She speaks of... I do not remember, by then she has bored me. I think she is talking of the Navratri. She is saying help me find good books. I, a little snootily, am suggesting Maugham, then, even more irritated, Safran Foer. When the shopkeeper calls, I am relieved, and run away. She wasn't what she used to be. In Delhi, you must run away from time to time. Delhi is all about keeping, Mumbai, of losing.
So, she is calling me from office, trying to save mobile bills. As usual, I am reduced to fighting on the phone. She is taking the auto and fighting with the auto-wallah. In Delhi, every five rupees is worth quarreling time, in Mumbai, time is money. She jokes about waiting for me on the road, laughs nervously, as all women waiting on the road post dusk must in Delhi, and jokes that passing vehicles are trying to pick her up. 'Is this what I have to do to meet you??' You have to give me a better rate, she laughs. I say 500 is all I have. We go drinking, she checks the music in the car, plays what she wants. We drink, lean and whisper, her family kept on hold. I drop her home, passing dark corners and by-lanes, she grins and rushes. Her sister is getting frantic. She skips across the moat between home and beyond, easily, as you must in Delhi. Never the twain shall meet.
So, she calls once. I have been praying that she would. I won't. I have much to say, and little. I stammer, stutter, I want to meet her. Says she knows (what?). She says we will meet on Sunday. I wait and wait, everything else fading away like the tar in the Delhi summer. She is the brainfever bird. She sings incessantly in my mind. She talks of fasting, feasting. She talks of loving married men (a joke?). She talks of being on TV, and getting bad skin. Of failing channels and channeling ambition. She puts me on hold, to talk perhaps to other lovers. She disappears as suddenly as she appeared. This is Delhi, lonely city, city of hot and cold, and empty streets, and tucking in bed. In Mumbai, we never sleep.
So, she meets me again and again at her house. Ignoring intense lovers. She swings between guilt and giggle. She talks of automatic cars and Earl Gray tea. She talks of disfunctional family and a childhood that haunts. She says these depression pills are killing my desire. She talks of food and guides. She lends books easily; her dog, she says scratches at her door when she has lovers inside. She is going to Bali to attend a marriage, going to GK to buy wedding clothes. She is going nowhere. She makes me laugh. I am normal with her, normal with her Delhi dysfunctionality - its focused, single-dimensional insanity. In Mumbai, we are schizophrenic.first published:October 17, 2006, 11:05 ISTlast updated:October 17, 2006, 11:05 IST
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So I am sleeping, the Jan Morris slipping out of my fingers like a Jan Morris idea of sexual identity. The phone, naturally, rings. She says I want to buy a cupboard. This is new. I (have you?) hardly ever been asked out for cupboard hunts. The skeletons inside are rattled, then begin to object vehemently. Which, says one, self-respecting skeleton ever wants to remain within someone who agrees to go cupboard buying? More importantly, can you ever hope to beget anything close to a micro skeleton with anyone who asks you out to hunt for cupboards?
I of course agree to go. Thankfully by the time I arrive - late - the madness has passed and I do not have to look at steel almirahs, or wooden ones (what are cupboards made of nowadays?). Over coffee, tea and me (I am full of awful linguistic gymnastics when I write about Delhi... seems apt) we discuss religion and love, unnecessarily, in that order. She is fair, boring, fairly boring, and full of unfulfilled promise. She talks, inconsequentially, of culture, art, art and culture (I am really mauling this, aren't I?), laments not reading enough, says she feels illiterate, in a drowsy moment I agree. I talk of profit and loss, losing profits, in moment of treachery, NDTV Profit. Crack silly jokes which make none of us laugh. We talk of parents. Imagine. She says I'm glad we met. I immediately want to follow her home. It ends with me thinking of the way the starched churidar clung to the ankles. In Mumbai, it would have ended with a drink, or dinner, later that evening. In Delhi, it ends as the sun sets over the wannabe Akshardham Temple. The roads open under the wheels, there is that smell of traffic light-free Ring Road in the air, the scent of sweet-smelling mufflers (Coming Soon), there is that promise of, unfulfilled, freedom.
So the SMS comes in as I listen on to my mother sniggering on the phone. The fish curry simmers on the gas. One word - Habitat? Asked out in one word, is that good or bad? She says good or bad?!! Are you mad? Surely that's debate we've ended in our age? I drive to Habitat, memories of peaches and cream, black shawls in black autos clouding my path. She arrives from the automechanic, talking of unpaid phone bills and men who run stores. Shopkeeper, I sneer. I like him, she says. At the All American Diner, British school teachers complain of VAT, she eats the potatoes, leaves aside the salad and talks of why the BBC will never beat CNBC in India. She speaks of... I do not remember, by then she has bored me. I think she is talking of the Navratri. She is saying help me find good books. I, a little snootily, am suggesting Maugham, then, even more irritated, Safran Foer. When the shopkeeper calls, I am relieved, and run away. She wasn't what she used to be. In Delhi, you must run away from time to time. Delhi is all about keeping, Mumbai, of losing.
So, she is calling me from office, trying to save mobile bills. As usual, I am reduced to fighting on the phone. She is taking the auto and fighting with the auto-wallah. In Delhi, every five rupees is worth quarreling time, in Mumbai, time is money. She jokes about waiting for me on the road, laughs nervously, as all women waiting on the road post dusk must in Delhi, and jokes that passing vehicles are trying to pick her up. 'Is this what I have to do to meet you??' You have to give me a better rate, she laughs. I say 500 is all I have. We go drinking, she checks the music in the car, plays what she wants. We drink, lean and whisper, her family kept on hold. I drop her home, passing dark corners and by-lanes, she grins and rushes. Her sister is getting frantic. She skips across the moat between home and beyond, easily, as you must in Delhi. Never the twain shall meet.
So, she calls once. I have been praying that she would. I won't. I have much to say, and little. I stammer, stutter, I want to meet her. Says she knows (what?). She says we will meet on Sunday. I wait and wait, everything else fading away like the tar in the Delhi summer. She is the brainfever bird. She sings incessantly in my mind. She talks of fasting, feasting. She talks of loving married men (a joke?). She talks of being on TV, and getting bad skin. Of failing channels and channeling ambition. She puts me on hold, to talk perhaps to other lovers. She disappears as suddenly as she appeared. This is Delhi, lonely city, city of hot and cold, and empty streets, and tucking in bed. In Mumbai, we never sleep.
So, she meets me again and again at her house. Ignoring intense lovers. She swings between guilt and giggle. She talks of automatic cars and Earl Gray tea. She talks of disfunctional family and a childhood that haunts. She says these depression pills are killing my desire. She talks of food and guides. She lends books easily; her dog, she says scratches at her door when she has lovers inside. She is going to Bali to attend a marriage, going to GK to buy wedding clothes. She is going nowhere. She makes me laugh. I am normal with her, normal with her Delhi dysfunctionality - its focused, single-dimensional insanity. In Mumbai, we are schizophrenic.
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