by Saurav Jha
It is surprising how quickly we settled into Paharganj, once we found a decent guest house (though it is not as cheap as we would have liked it to be). Major’s Den is run by a genial octogenarian army man. We’ve been assimilated into the subculture that is constantly, spontaneously, simmering here: the art of drifting. Like the soft bubbles of thickening full-fat milk, boiling for hours on low heat, the skein on the surface broken every few minutes by the noise and extravagance in the streets. Every stranger contributes to this slow process of reduction; every integer counts, however alone in that large disparate group of travellers from across the world, a community of sorts.
They’re all people who begin in Paharganj, after arriving in New Delhi, and in the initial intoxicated days rush about the country, doing touristy things, taking photographs, calling home with stories of high drama and great views. Then comes a time when the forts and mountains begin to get mixed up, hearts are broken once or twice, love is found and lost. Or none of this, but simply the uncertainty that was kept at bay by the novelty of it. All the fears of failure and success come back to haunt. And then, they regroup in Paharganj, take stock, plan a future course of travel. A certain lassitude descends on the soul – not a soul sickness at all, for that is what many have come to India to overcome in the first place, but a sort of soul curiosity that goes best with hash and dim rooms and few words. They end up spending long days over long weeks in Paharganj, with the few friends they have made along the way, as winter flares before the end of January and a grey pall descends on the capital. Sometimes it rains.
The grey streak is occasionally broken by irregular afternoons of brilliant sunshine at Connaught Place or old Delhi, when they (we) allow their (our) weary souls to give in to sudden effusions of energy and good cheer. New friends are made, new archaeological masterpieces photographed, great optimism about the future felt, classified and recorded in new diaries bought from any of the hazaar touristy shops. All in the course of a single day. And then, poof! The next day, they (we) wonder where all that action evaporated, wonder at the possibility of that enquiring mind, that sanguine spirit, with its meaningful thoughts and questions even existing in this context. Outside, it is still winter. Grey. Miserable. The streets are dirty in the way of Indian streets, casual litter being pushed around by busy feet. New hotels are coming up everywhere, and there is brisk construction work. Sand. Cement. Purposeful men hauling tools. Beyond the disrepair and chaos of the Main Bazaar, the tangle of electricity lines and the bumper-to-bumper traffic, signs of beauty in the architecture are tough to find. In a way, that helps. They (we) cannot absorb the outlandish beauty of tombs and mausoleums and rich intricacies of havelis just yet. Inside sun-starved rooms in hotels with bizarre names, there is only the certainty of drifting. It is enough.
And then, when hunger begins to gnaw, it is imperative that they (we), who have whittled things down to the most basic of impulses, step out and walk through the crooked alleys, emerge onto the familiar roads, and choose between the several budget options available in thalis. It is usually the most exhausting decision of the day.
46
When we finally get to Madan Café, we find Zvika sitting alone at a table for four. ‘Hey guys,’ he says at the same moment I say, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry!’
‘Where’s Motty?’ S asks.
‘He’s coming in five minutes he said. That was twenty minutes ago.’ Zvika makes a face. ‘I’ve already ordered. In fact, I’ve already had one banana lassi. You go ahead.’
We must manage our budget and stay in line. So we order plain thalis (at forty rupees each, they’re frightfully cheap).
‘Motty,’ Zvika begins in a tone of annoyance, ‘is always late. He takes so much time to take his bath, get ready, choose his clothes, wear his shoes.’
‘Tell me about it.’ I nod in commiseration. ‘I was ready half an hour before your SJ even stirred out of the bathroom.’
S doesn’t respond.
Madan Café is a tiny rectangular space with a narrow front where barely five tables fit. Outside, there are a few tables on the pavement. It is very crowded at lunch hour. Fortunately for us, Zvika had come in time to claim a table. There is a now quite a mob at the doorway, peering in to see if there is any place available. A few of the faces are already familiar to us. A party of African American women we have spotted on other days too, fifty-somethings with rich smoky laughs that leap out of the cafes and restaurants where they sit. One Israeli girl with three guys. Several lean Europeans.
Once the crowd clears up a bit, we can see him. ‘Finished combing your hair?’ Zvika asks as Motty walks to our table after greeting the owner of the cafe – he’s always doing these thoughtful things – and pulls up a chair. He ignores Zvika and shakes our hands with genuine pleasure. He begins to study the menu. I notice his hair has been brushed beautifully and pulled back in a gleaming ponytail. Self-consciously I run my hand through my hair, bundled up in a scrunchie and roughed up in that lazy last half-hour in bed.
Zvika has immediately begun chattering about his favourite subject: the latest developments at the Chabad House in Paharganj, where the twins have now become regulars. The rabbi’s kids, who remind them of their nephews and niece; the atmosphere of tranquil calm around the kiddush and sabbath rituals; the regular dinners to which the rabbi’s wife graciously invites the boys. Since they have done the whole important-monuments-and-old-Delhi-and-shopping gig already, their Paharganj days have been freed up from touristy anxieties. It is the Chabad House that keeps them involved now.
We listen, smiling, commenting, sipping water, wishing our bloody budget extended to fresh pineapple juice, which the people at the next table are consuming in gallons. The sounds in Madan Cafe – the strange languages mingling, plates clattering, the owner shouting to the boys who work there – are familiar background music to us, a foil to our conversations.
When we returned from Mathura and met them for dinner, the twins were already full of stories about the Chabad House. It happened in a circuitous fashion though, this sudden intrusion of religiosity in their lives. On their second trip to Rishikesh, at the Kumbha Mela, the boys hung out with lots of people curious about religion. These chaps were always asking deep questions, half-seriously, half-stoned: What is man’s position in the world? What does religion do in society? What should one meditate upon? What does karma exactly mean? What is freedom? What is the true meaning of sex? There were these words that everyone used all the time, consistently disagreeing with each other’s interpretations; there were these confusing discussions that never got very far. But on the other side was something simple: the faith they witnessed. At the crack of dawn, when the mist hovered like fine cotton wisps inches above the water and the cold sent shivery fingers up people’s spines, they’d see old people taking dips in the Ganga. That article of faith. Did we see?
We’d nodded, and Zvika’s eyes had shone. ‘It got me thinking. Then when we came to Paharganj, a few mates took us to the Chabad House. And you know, it is nice to talk to the rabbi. There is another rabbi visiting from the Andamans, you know? His wife is going to have a baby. They have come to Delhi for the baby to be born. I’ve been chatting with him, you know, young guy, and think about it – there is a tiny Chabad House in the Andamans. Just the rabbi and his wife. So lonely. Life is so hard for them. Yet, there they are. Something to learn from this.’
Motty had nodded along, but not said much. He was still processing things, finding out for himself.
The food arrives. The boys are having brunch stuff – French toast, yogurt and cereals, lassi, fruits. S pounces on his thali. I look mournfully at mine and say that tomorrow, nothing doing, I will eat a pancake. Motty says, ‘Don’t worry, Dippy. Afterwards, we can go to the German Bakery. Their coffee is nice. I’m not ordering any here.’
‘What are you guys doing this evening?’ Zvika asks.
‘I’ll start working on my article,’ S says. ‘I’v
e finished reading up for it.’
‘I think I’ll read a book,’ I demur.
‘You mean, you’ll buy a book,’ S says, unpleasantly.
‘Yes, I shall,’ I tell him heatedly. ‘I have some independent means.’
‘We’ll be going to the Chabad House to help with some preparations for a party they are throwing next week.’
‘Oh, that’s nice.’
‘So, after the party,’ Zvika says, ‘shall we plan our day out?’
‘Absolutely!’
We plan to take the boys on a journey through the Delhi we know, though we’ve not fixed a date yet. In Paharganj, one leaves things like date and time fluid till the very last moment. In any case, it’ll have to be on one of those happier, sunnier days.
Zvika insists on paying at Madan Cafe. ‘We owe you guys one,’ he says. ‘From Jodhpur.’
‘In that case, cake’s on us,’ I say happily.
We leave Madan Cafe and begin to walk, in twos, through the heavy traffic on the main road. Cars honk, cows react to the honking and bumble into carts selling CDs and DVDs, Motty gets nearly knocked down by a car and I scream at the driver in colourful Hindi, the sun pops out suddenly and my memories scramble. I do not know which day this is. It is funny how conversations can be spun forever between people who have become comfortable enough to share silences. Some days, one of us is annoyed in general, or at another. Private fights are transposed on to innocent conversations in the group. Other days, we work towards our group energy in such harmony that we could be a case study for a management class. Every day is rich in detail.
The beaded bags and fancy lampshades that are mounted on storefronts dazzle in the slanted sunbeams that have softened the gritty face of Paharganj, make even the rubbish look nice. Hawkers sell earmuffs and sunglasses. A beggar zones in on us, looks at the twins, and says something in Hebrew. ‘He’s asking for money.’ Motty turns to us. S slips him a five-rupee coin. He shakes hands with the twins in turn while they compliment him on his Hebrew, and we start walking again. ‘We’ve been told to not give to beggars, SJ,’ Zvika says. ‘Is that wrong?’
‘Hmmm,’ S sighs. ‘Look, it’s true there are rackets, and it’s also true there are addicts who beg to facilitate a drug habit. But you know what? It’s like every other complex moral conundrum. If you feel like giving, just give. Don’t follow these guidebook rules.’
‘There is a mystical angle to this,’ I pipe up. ‘There’s a poem by a famous Hindi poet that I remember every time I turn away a beggar. The poet looks into the eyes of a man asking for alms, and wonders whether it is perhaps the Buddha himself in disguise. If he refuses, the guy will turn the Buddha himself away. In any case, gods in India pay visits either as beggars or as animals. So there. You can’t be cruel to either.’
‘There’s your Buddha,’ S says, pointing at the beggar who had just made five bucks from us. The guy is now badgering a mild-looking Korean couple who stand under the red awning of a shop, feverishly turning the pages of their guidebook, hoping for some advice. The beggar amps up his Korean a notch or two and the couple practically sprint. He waves at us cheerfully and squats outside the shop, chatting in Hindi with a hawker who sells maps of Delhi.
‘Can we go to a cyber cafe for a moment?’ Zvika asks.
‘Sure,’ we reply, and follow him as he darts into one of the innumerable galis. The Main Bazaar Street is a long stretch and, like the veins of a leaf, there are thin, bent alleys that branch out from the main road, and then, sometimes divide into even narrower by-lanes. The sun has driven people out of their rooms onto the streets, and the restaurants are thick with the sudden profusion of good cheer and sanguine energy moving in its viscous way, from one end of the street to the other. We enter the cyber cafe, and Zvika, who is a regular, begins to check his mail. ‘I might have some work stuff too,’ says S and after presenting an I-card to a young boy – barely fifteen – who is manning the desk, finds a machine. I roll my eyes at Motty, and the two of us hang around by the door, talking about this and that.
A short bald man wearing round glasses and sporting a butterfly moustache enters, looking surreptitious.
He comes and stands close to the boy at the counter.
‘I am from Bengal,’ he announces.
He looks at Motty and me and, out of a sense of deference perhaps for my ladylike sensibilities, lowers his voice and asks in English, ‘Is there a urinal anywhere close by?’
The boy at the counter, in a tomato-red sweater, returns a blank face.
The bhadralok holds up the little finger of his right hand and whispers, ‘Where can I do small work?’
The boy remains blank. I suppress my giggles and wonder if there is a way I can delicately tell him to go to one of the restaurants. In any case, why is this gentleman in this part of Paharganj? Maybe he stepped out from the station and got a little lost.
In sheer desperation, the bhadralok rephrases his question with one pan-Indian word.
‘Peshaab?’
‘Yaahaan nahin ho sakta,’ the boy in the tomato-red sweater growls. Can’t be done here.
The bhadralok is embarrassed at being shouted at. He shuffles out of the cyber cafe in penguin gait.
47
It is night and, one by one, the shops are closing their shutters and winding down for the day. We are waiting outside the ATM for S, who is in the queue. We are horsing around as usual, making fun of Zvika. A rickshaw-wallah asks Zvika something. He’s on the road while Motty and I are on the pavement. ‘No,’ Zvika says. The rickshaw-wallah sidles closer to him. ‘No, no,’ Zvika says. The man scuttles off. Zvika mutters rude things under his breath. ‘Oof, these guys,’ he tells me, ‘always saying ganja-coke-charas-women, you want? Anything you want? So annoying.’
‘No one ever asks me anything,’ I say morosely. ‘You guys are so lucky. Your hair. Your noses. Your clothes. You fit right into Paharganj. Whereas they just consider me an aunty, a day tripper sort.’
S emerges from the ATM and, as is his manner, begins to rush us. ‘Let’s start moving. C’mon. You guys are slower than some very sick monkeys.’
‘Shut up. We are boring. Nobody is trying to sell us drugs or anything,’ I inform him.
‘Don’t worry, Dippy.’ Motty pats my hand comfortingly. ‘One of these days a man will come and take you to a corner and say in this secretive style, books-books-books-books-80 per cent off. Any book you want!’
‘Haha, very funny,’ I say, not smiling in the least. Zvika and Saurav have begun enacting this tableau on the pavement. How I go into a shady corner with a shady guy and return with two Marian Keyes for the price of one, once-read, no ink marks. Huh!
Eventually, even our never-ending bye byes end, and we call it a night. We turn left from the ATM and walk down through the dark streets to our hotel. There are groups of thuggish chaps lurking in corners but by now we are used to them. There are other regulars one spots: the Japanese couple in colour-coordinated clothes who live in the hotel next to us; the Indian businessmen in safari suits and shiny shoes who come regularly to the bars and then walk to their cars parked near Major’s Den; the British chap who buys dinner for these two urchins in one of the restaurants (I hope he is just a well-meaning gora assuaging some vague guilt and not a paedophile, but one can never be sure. He always makes me a bit uneasy. Then I feel guilty for being cynical. Then, again, I re-revise my opinion and wonder if I should speak to the kids once or look for their parents. In the end, I do nothing.)
We get back to our cold blue room. We change and get into bed. I read for a few hours while S works on his article. It is peaceful at night, and by now, almost like home.
48
The German Bakery in Paharganj is owned by Alam from Dhanbad district, and since it was established at the outset that S’s mother and my grandmother were both from Dhanbad, the bond that results is, by Indian norms, extremely strong.
We spend hours in the bakery, although, bound as we are by the budget, we can never order magnanimously. (The boys too are on a budget.) Sometimes it’s just the two of us; often, all four. The room is an inverted L. There are several tables in front and, by the wall, a large glass counter which showcases the cakes of the day. The chocolate cake is my favourite, replete with home-made buttercream icing, exactly like the one my mother made when I was a girl. The baker is a Nepali guy who plays fantastic chess. If he is not busy, he might play a round with guests. Next to the glass case is a window to the frenetic kitchen from where food arrives, accompanied by regular shouts. At a right angle to the kitchen window are a desk and a chair where Alam sits, poring over accounts. And behind Alam, you climb two steps to a plinth-type place with a low coffee table surrounded by cushions. We like it best if we get the coffee table.
It is raining. It was drizzling gently when we idled on the streets, enjoying the wet breeze, watching a few hippies get into a big fight with each other, but soon after we step into the German Bakery, a cold curtain of rain begins to sluice down. It’s afternoon, but so dark outside that it seems nigh evening. We woke up late today – and then S took his own sweet time – so the coffee and cake I order are literally my first meal of the day. S gets a chowmein; Motty orders sandwiches; Zvika opts for a cheese paratha.
‘Are you going to tell us that story today, Zvika Hillel? Finally? The weather is perfect.’
‘Which story?’ Zvika asks innocently, though his eyes twinkle and I know he knows which one.
‘Let’s see, not the one about how you got into trouble in the army barracks,’ S says.
‘Not the one about the pineapple,’ I add.
‘What’s the pineapple?’ Zvika interjects, utterly confused. (There is no pineapple story.)
‘But the one about the girl,’ says Motty. ‘We’ve given you enough time to mope. Enough space. Now tell us.’
