Central Perk – not exactly.

Day 3: Connaught Place, Janpath – Check.

“Home is where the heart is.”, or vice versa, whatever.

I don’t know till what level is the aforementioned statement justifiable, but it certainly does not cast absolute comprehensibility when it comes to my case. Coming to Delhi had always meant a nostalgic experience for me; Citywalk, Chandni Chowk and Connaught Place – predominantly, the three ruling C’s in the city.
And most importantly, when shifting from one place to the other, no matter how tiny the time of stay is, replacements become inevitable – adjustments are the requirement of the hour.
Of course Delhi still holds its charm, especially on its architectural front. Meticulously structured stacks of ancient bricks that tower along the length of the city, Delhi’s beauty, as seen from the eyes of me, still remains undefeated.
It’s always fun to experience certain things that have been lifted from their indigenous holds and made to sit on a totally bewildering ground. As is the case, when I compare Delhi with Cardiff; 7 months, is not really a long time to forget about one’s hometown. The scorching blaze of heat, the succulent hustle bustle that runs throughout the road map of Delhi and a flowering exhibition of, by definition, cheap clothes has always been an integral organ of the city. However, NOW, doesn’t seem to be the case.
The map’s been, or should I say, is being reformed into a technically equipped arena of underground trains, or to say, the Metro. My first sauntering in the city – Connaught Place; not really what I anticipated. The maddening hustle bustle, the crazy bus ride, all kept aside, the city seemed devoid of its own charm! Honestly, any of following reasons could be descriptive: Being a Tuesday Palika Bazaar was shut, the inner and outer circle were being fed more by cranes and lorries than shoppers, and the Metro boards ran throughout the circumference of the Central Park that demolished the “view”.
And as an addition to the insult, it pricks me more than my parents, who’ve stayed here all the while I was enjoying the relish of a developed nation.
Having stopped at Wenger’s initially, ideally it should not have been hard to figure out the way to the inner circle. But owing to the incredible reformation that the city is being subjected to, with digging machines scooping out chunks of soil out of the ground, eating up the entire lane connecting the outer and inner circle, it got me lingering helplessly in my own city. The heat, for that matter, didn’t heal my wounds either.
The nucleus of Connaught Place, inner circle namely, was actually no nirvana as well. (By the way, whatever judgments I make have been seen purely through a relative lens, comparing them with the way I saw it 7 months ago. And more importantly, that was before I was exposed to conditioned temperatures and cleanliness.) Once again, the circle, as it’s shaped, was dominated by skeletons of rods and all the architectural jazz. A Metro board covering the Wimpy’s restaurant had to force its managers to flag a streamer crying aloud its name on its top, announcing to the people of its existence. Palika Bazaar has gone from being an easy to find market to being a virtual hidden treasure whose path, fenced by Metro boards on both its side, is a code breaking feast for all maze lovers.
Central Park remained the way it used to be – kids playing around, aunties hanging out with the sole purpose to bitch about the envelope of relatives around them, and people refueling their exhausted souls with a quick nap under the streaming rays of the sun.
Nevertheless, it was a short trip indeed. I somewhat regret for not going treating myself with the Kaventer’s flavoured milk; partially because I am anticipating another visit there soon, when I’d be covering Barakhamba as well.
I sincerely don’t know how much development can a nation like India, which has proven to be one of the fastest “developing” nations among the third world countries. But I do not expect a cyber café to shoot me with a bill of 60 bucks for spending 62 minutes, to be precise, to surf the internet. Moreover, a glass bottle of Mirinda has been upped by 3 bucks – from 10 to 13. AND, water sells as a more expensive commodity that aerated drinks – 15 bucks!
All roads may lead to Rome, but nothing is upbeat unless the wheels are DTC’s. And, there’s definitely nothing more enthralling than getting a corner seat at the end of the bus, with the window glass having been completely naked off so one can experience the overwhelming blast of an evening Delhi breeze slapping through your face. Without any intended offence, the bus ride remains to be the best part of the day. The “unaccustomed” car horns, watching AIIMS and Dilli Haat flying past and appreciating a bus rider’s skills for operating the opening and closing of doors on a busy road.
Wish we had that luxury in Cardiff.

And the wheels roll down.

Day 1: IGI touchdown – Check;
Day 2: PVR Saket Anupam Market – Check.

“The minute you land in India, you get this overwhelming blast of shit smell right up your nose.” - Russell Peters

I could never understand my fascination with the IGI Airport. Watching crowds of people appearing from the gate, brimming with pride, flashing their chests branded with international labels – a dazzling emanation from their glowing faces.
There had always been an indescribable overwhelming articulation that I’ve shared with every other person exiting from that gate, until I saw myself stepping out of it; a moment which is unlike any other, to be honest. Could be because it was the first time I went through the experience of returning from a foreign land, back to my old hut. And yes, the “invisible crown of glory”; sans the shift from a place where people offer politeness and generous “sorry” at practically the most unneeded causes, to a place where the immigration authority eye you because you didn’t fill up a form, it’s always a welcoming pleasure to return to the place that hatched you.
While walking through the corridor connecting the airbus to the immigration counter, I was bathing in an obvious sense of momentous pride. Frankly, I couldn’t get my head around the reasons for it, but walking down the immigration booth held a charm in itself.
Driving through the lanes that you may or may not have missed in the last 7 months is definitely nostalgic. However, it gets worse when the 7 month stay in a foreign land gets the better of you.
Contextually, it was Cardiff v/s Delhi. There are certain things that people just get used to living in the UK. And I’m not talking about the usual cleanliness, or the ‘spick and spank’ labeled roads, or even the deliberate impersonation of the western accent, but tiny things yet all the more worth consideration.
So on the first day I touched Delhi, I went to the local Malviya Nagar market to get myself a new number. As it turns out, I needed an ID along with it; apparently SIM cards aren’t free here. Having taken my passport, a couple of passport sized passports along and 200 bucks in my pocket (which is nearly 2.85 pounds), I merrily went to the market to firstly get my passport Xeroxed. Being conditioned to shopping in a land where the retailer hands over the change regardless of whatever denomination you present him with, it only dawned on me that a Xerox, which would cost me 2 bucks, is not feasible if I’m carrying two hundreds. Yes, it isn’t feasible. Reason – change has always remained a problem in Delhi.
A shopkeeper will not entertain you if all you want is a service of a couple of grains, while you’ve built a castle in your pockets. And what happened was the long walk back to the pavilion.
(By the way, parents: Your children may have spent 21 years in their homeland, but seriously, you expect your children to remember which switch connects to the light and which one to the fan after they’ve spent 7 months abroad? They wouldn’t have had separate geysers over there, nor were they accustomed to air conditioners, so don’t frown if you notice your expected picture perfect Indianness shackled along the edges.)
However, it wasn’t all sad, to say the least. A stroll through the Malviya Nagar market, Gol Chakar (a roundabout/starting point from the buses), Khirki Village, leading to PVR Saket Anupam Market was a sweet cherry on a bitter cake. PVR Saket, known primarily because of its movie theatre, along with the range of restaurants, music stations and ice cream parlours, was a treat to revisit. School kids rampaged the spot, to feed themselves with a breather after ending their board examination stint; couples hung out at the far end of the Bennigan’s lane, some holding hands in secrecy, the others looking for the perfect time to squeeze in a smooch; while the rest, like me, sauntering aimlessly.
Recuperating from jet lags, adjusting the stomach to a proper home cooked meal and the unending dog-barks seemed to be the flavours that I hoped would only get lost in time. But as they say, certain things are just meant to be unleashed into the air. Blah.