Safdarjung soirée

The air feels different now than it does in the heat of the day when it is crisp, dusty, and the lanes littered with locals while the night owls from my neck of the woods choose to laze around in their small apartment buildings cramped against each other in the colony occupied by victims of The Partition who now make a healthy living thanks to the first wave of students who came looking for better education, some for a better life, some just bored and stay on working night shifts and odd hours that ideally should not make biological sense but here in the chaos of the city, the metropolis, it works,

and many others stay on long after they’ve got their degrees and now hang on pursuing trivial vocational courses in institutes with the word ‘International’ ‘American’ prefixed or suffixed to their names because home beckons, but the heart is not quite there yet and an excuse is needed to linger on here otherwise daddy dearest will stop sending money that has not been earned, and some of those faces that still linger on working strange hours have a hint of familiarity to them while others seem unfamiliarly familiar as the question: “do I know that person” quickly zips by, and then there are those visionaries who saw that possibilities to conquer a market filled with people who yearned for the taste of home without actually returning home and quickly set up shop selling shoots, stems, and cigarettes, and others followed suit opening restaurants cooking and selling food that not too many years ago was prohibited from even being cooked at our homes, I remember and now, this,

This change that has come to this small part of this large racist city where being Black or someone with East Asian features can get you killed for nothing other than being you, in this same large city in this small part there is a change while the lanes remain the same- small -and overhead electrical wiring that is a major safety hazard and an accident waiting to happen and yet, there is a change as,

The taunts and the judgemental looks have gone away and some of them even dress like us now, wearing the kind of clothes I never would have imagined ‘them’ a decade back, and some eating at restaurants that do not serve naan and tandoor but most still play safe and stick to Tibetan food, perhaps rolled up flat noodles is still more palatable to many than fermented soybeans will ever be as it was always bound to be the first introduction to food that wasn’t deep fried but was adventurous enough to claim bragging rights for the next time they are there with other uninitiated to act like they ‘know their stuff’ and

Probably have that one friend who introduced the group to this food that can never be cooked under the watchful eyes of their mammi and pappa who will end up having a heart attack to see pork, beef, and food that is all manners of strong odour being cooked in the same kitchen and kadhai where the palak paneer is cooked for nani ma

“But why are you so angry?”, I am asked a few nights later, and I say “I am not holding onto personal anger but only angry over the things that I should not be” and then I tell her I am angry about things this country should not give me reasons to be angry about but almost on a daily basis it does, whether

I am lazing comfortably back in Arunachal on the worn out faux leather sofa in my TV room watching journalists morph into high-paid pseudo-intellectual pundits praising the prime minister or

A prime minister turn into an actor while an actor turns into a journalist, and hence, I say,

“I will be angry about all these things,” and I turn away to way back to my night through the dark alleys that don’t remember well so I jerk out my phone and ask for directions which lead me through ways that are unfamiliar because they end in dead ends until a sense of familiarity sinks in again and I

Remember the road wherence I should be treading and I am back on the path and no sooner does the foul odour of the garbage basket(?) calls me home telling me that I am close and as I turn I see a brother, a homeboy, a tribal from that part of the woods agitated as his friends try to calm him down when by this time I am near an autorickshaw and a bunch of local smart alecks are telling another of their kinds to calm down asking him if he really wished to fight him and trying to make him understand that he would be beaten black and blue to which even he admits that “yes, that is true” but by now I see another bunch of locals who aren’t smart alecks as much as they are smart asses, I know because one of them asks if the others want to get in on the action and pick a fight with “those chinkies”- “THOSE CHINKIES”-

I am not angered or agitated because it is well past bedtime and I am intoxicated, as are the five of them, and to express my anger over that racist comment which I had grown so accustomed to in seven eight years ago taught me to be on guard rather than be on the offence, and as I climb up the godforsaken four flights of stairs I wonder if this place has changed at all…