New Delhi: A Sensory Explosion

A shrine where Tara's grandmother does her daily pooja; the candle burns all night. Image: Tara Subramaniam. Delhi in the summer is never quiet. In the morning, I'm woken by the daily yell of the trash collector, "kabardiii, kabardiii." At night, it's the constant whirring of the fan overhead, accompanied by the underlying hum of the air conditioning unit, working in unison to combat the record heat. Only when the power cuts out, as it tends to do several times a day during the hottest hours, is there silence, if only for a moment before the generator clicks in. Even at 3 am, as I find myself face to face with jet lag, alert as ever, I hear a woman's distant chant, haunting and clear.

The streets have their own symphony. As I head out to my internship at The Indian Express, one of India's oldest papers, I'm greeted by the squeal of tires and a responsive series of horns, some long and pompous, others shrill and to the point. After skirting through the first intersection of many, the soundtrack of horns, both far away and right up close, is constant, aggressive and only somewhat effective.

Spread of the Indian Express, where some editing is done manually. Image: Tara Subramaniam.

India operates on a different rhythm. On the first day of my internship, I was told that people arrived by 12, so to be there by then. My boss had left for vacation after briefing me the previous day and when I arrived, I was possibly the third person in the whole newsroom. Half the lights weren't even on. And, not wanting to make a bad first impression, I didn't want to use the company laptop to browse Facebook or watch Netflix. The other writers didn't know the wifi password, because their desktop PC's were connected via an Ethernet cable.

Lunch became the best part of my day (as I continued my transformation into a mere cliche). I ate with two editors at the News desk with me. They caricatured Indian culture, introducing me to slang not exclusive to teens but embraced by working professionals as well. How, in Delhi, it's acceptable to call strangers “bhaiya” (or, brother), as a sign of respect even, but in Bombay it's seen as a derogatory term for foreigners and immigrants from other cities. In Bombay, colleagues are dude and cab drivers are boss, and it's normal to hear a, "no can do boss" tossing in the wind. In Delhi, casual observations or exclamations are punctuated by "yaar" like the off-hand "ben" and breathy "ouai" preferred by French natives.

An autorikshaw at Janpath, an outdoor strip mall/permanent flea market. Image: Tara Subramaniam.

It's not just the noises that define India for me. Outside, the odor of petrol mixes with the thick clouds of dust, succumbing to the heady smell of incense and a hint of rose talcum powder once one heads inside. The contrast between the external and the internal goes deeper than the olfactory nerve can handle.

Delhi should come with a giant label that reads "don't judge a book by its cover." India suffers from a plethora of misperceptions spawned in large part by the media. No, not all Indians are as pale and tall with as perfectly clipped accents as Priyanka Chopra nor do all cities look like the seedy underbelly of Mumbai as portrayed in the Oscar-winning Slumdog Millionaire. That's not to say that there isn't a drop of truth to any of the stereotypes; I've seen my fair share of cows wandering the streets and children, maimed or otherwise, begging at car windows. While on the outside, the country may seem backwards, everything isn’t as it seems.

View from the highway (aka DND flyover) of the Yamuna river. Image: Tara Subramaniam.

The importance of keeping up appearances translates differently over here. A building by which I drive on my way home looks like a decent candidate for the “Beautiful Abandoned Places” Instagram account, but a quick up-down reveals it’s soon to be a hospital. Some of the oldest and most authentic stores, even some of the more modern, western-centric ones, have facades that would be scoffed at back home in the U.S, considered run-down.

I used to the think other countries were like oysters. Take France, for example. It’s people are stereotypically seen as cold, rude and stand-offish. While this may be the case for some, if you make an effort to bridge the gaps and truly get to know them, I, alongside many, many others, have found that the French can be truly warm and welcoming.

However, India, at least Delhi, even more aptly embodies the analogy. Sure, other nationalities may have a less than stellar rap, but in India, it takes dedication and effort to push through the sensory distractions and reach the heart of the country-- its vibrant culture, the extreme hospitality of its people, and its unique mix of old and new. And sometimes, even attempting a heavily accented Hindi in lieu of rushed English goes a long way in finding the small boutique that sells SIM cards tucked behind a fresh fruit stand in a building that looks like it’s fallen apart one time too many. Sure, on the outside, Delhi might seem loud, or old-fashioned, or smelly, but if you ignore, for a moment, the sensory distractions, you can experience the true life of the city.

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