Random Musings 18: Dilli se hoon BC – How living in the capital changed my DNA

Three years after moving to this city, I noticed that I now suffer from a severe case of Dillitis.

In The Departed, Jack Nicholson’s Frank Costello – while explaining realpolitik – exuded: “I don’t want to be a product of my environment, I want my environment to be a product of me…”

Clearly, he wasn’t speaking about Delhi, because after spending enough linear time here, it’s evident that all denizens become a product of its Punjab-meets-British nepo-bureaucratic environment.

Three years after moving to this city, I noticed that I now suffer from a severe case of Dillitis. Delhi-6’s title theme plays in my head rent-free, though one does wonder why the capital suffers from a congenital heart ailment (Iske baye taraf bhi dil hai, iske dayein taraf bhi dil hai).

Every city is defined by its condiment. If Bombay runs on a never-ending supply of schezwan sauce and Calcutta puts kasundi on everything, including Marx, Delhi is defined by veg mayonnaise that you will start lathering on momos.

Other symptoms of Dillitis include:

1) Giving fist bumps to everyone – all of whom vaguely look like a clone of Karthik Aryan designed by a Salman Khan fan – in the gym. It is actually a pandemic to the extent that you start fist-bumping everyone, including the owner of the salon you frequent and the PM.

2) Becoming overtly obsessed with politics of all kinds, from Lok Sabha to PCI elections, and your mental health is directly proportional to your candidate winning or losing.

3) Addressing all male buddies by suggesting they engage in sororal coitus.

4) Referring to all fights as kalesh, which isn’t a North Indian way of saying clash. Dilli’s kalesh culture comes with its own peculiar rules of engagement that are more complicated than the rules of cricket, as laid down by the Marylebone Cricket Club.

5) Realising that while the spirit of Mumbai is only vague words to soothe Stockholm Syndrome, the spirits of Delhi are to be discovered in L1 in Gurugram.

6) Realising the gustatory superiority of butter chicken, a dish that tastes fantastic on everything, including pizza.

7) Appreciating the deep sacrifice Virat Kohli – despite his inability to hit boundaries for 30 overs against the Aussies – has made for the nation by abstaining from chole kulche.

Jokes masquerading as symptoms apart, Dilli feels like heaven – albeit slightly smog-filled during winters – compared to Bombay.

For starters, there are actual seasons, and for half the year, you can move around the city without losing half your body weight in water. Winter also means it’s saron ka saag and makki ki roti season, a dish that is the culinary equivalent of a very warm Punjabi hug.

After a week in Delhi, you will start wondering how you managed to survive in Bombay at all, where commuting to work every day ought to be a Khatron ki Khiladi episode. Or where going to meet friends was out of the question since every suburb is in a different time zone. Or the size of your apartment was smaller than the bathroom in your Dilli flat.

Of course, Dilli has its downsides.

At times, it’s an overgrown bureaucratic village that shuts down every time a politician has an overenthusiastic bowel movement. And it was literally hell on earth – fit for neither man nor beast – when the G20 summit was held here, and the establishment shut down food deliveries so no one could order anything to get away from the millet-based hors d'oeuvres. Justinder was so horrified that he went home and started a full kalesh.

The city’s signs are also a reminder that its menfolk, in particular, have to be reminded about the concept of consent from time to time. One sign I’ve come across, time and again, states: Stalking is an offence. As if the men of the city need constant reminders that one shouldn’t follow a random woman. Or the pervert will have a sudden change of heart after reading a sign.

Or signs that say: This autorickshaw respects women clearly because it’s too much for the men to do it. But of all the signs, my favourite is the one that hangs at the DDA Sports Complex in Saket (whose badminton court could fit the whole of Andheri) that reads: Firearms strictly not allowed.

Because violence is so inherently part of the kalesh culture here, men need constant reminders to keep their Subhash Chandra Bose away.

However, living in Dilli also should come with some warnings. For starters, never assume the identity of a person or who they are related to. It’s often a shock to learn that the person you’re talking to is the third cousin of Amit Shah’s wife twice removed or is Devesh’s brother-in-law.

The point is, mind your tongue unless you want to find out the real reason the city’s administration needs to put up signs demanding a ban on firearms.

All jokes apart, as a writer, I believe we are the sum total of every author you read and enjoy. So, when you read Nonsensical Nemo, you read a bit of Jug Suraiya, a bit of John Le Carre, a bit of Vivek Kaul, and a bit of Frederick Forsyth. And, of course, Nishit Chandra Dutta, whose letters, from when I was 9, have provided intellectual stimulation. Maybe some Kafka, maybe some Wodehouse, maybe some Camus.

In the same way, every place you live in leaves an indelible mark on your personality. Chhapra taught me to appreciate the finest form of music known to man. Calcutta taught me that if you grow a beard, people will take you seriously. Bombay taught me the indomitable ability of the human spirit to adapt to any circumstances, including the worst human conditions known to man: Kurla at peak hour.

Either way, Dilli is the city to be in if you want to live in a metropolis, prefer wide roads and a functioning public transport system (thank you, Sheila Dixit), and it’s an even bigger luxury if you happen to have a penis. Chalo gotta go. Just spotted a few young men, and I need to inquire about the patriarchal nature of their parentage and whether they prefer sororal relations.