Last February I came to Delhi not really wanting to visit Delhi; I justwanted out of Nepal. I needed to live where the phones could not be cut off on awhim. (Nepal’s king had just executed his coup). Delhi was an hour’s flightaway. I had friends here. No visa needed. It was an obvious place to flee.
I stayed my first night at a good friend’s, then another friend arranged forme to move into the house of a stranger. She turned out to be a therapist."How do you feel?" she would ask over tasty dinners and Indian wine, and Iwould say, "I feel a bit displaced." "Tell me more," she would say. AndI would.
Most of my family lived outside Nepal, as did my partner. I did not want to goback just yet. So I looked at a barsati with a lawn terrace in Defence Colony, amarble cavern in Vasant Vihar, a waterlogged room in New Friends Colony, alittle studio in South Ex, an austere few rooms in West End, a chandelieredmonstrosity in GK-II and a Nizamuddin East room with a view onto the trainstation. Nothing seemed right. The agent grew despondent and stopped returningmy calls.
My true home was my laptop and a smart, super-efficient cyber-café in KhanMarket. I had not realised how vital connectivity had become to my life till theking cut off the phone lines. The Khan Market cyber-café kept me alive as awriter: I drafted all my articles, stories, notes and letters there, whilereading news of Nepal and liaising with compatriots over the internet, chatting,swapping fresh information, hurling political invective: "The bloody king atemy dog, yaar."
Soon, more and more Nepalis arrived in Delhi to sit out the coup or just take abreak. One centre of Nepali activism cropped up in Jangpura, another in YusufSarai. JNU became a hotbed of republicanism. There were demonstrations beforethe Nepal embassy, talks at the IIC, pressure group meetings, press releases,lectures, seminars, endless gatherings. Many of my compatriots gave up all theirtime to these.
I kept more aloof, for I had a novel to write. Even in settled times the realworld can be treacherous to the imagination, claiming to feed it but drawingresources away instead, starving it. One 46-degree-centigrade summer day Ilooked over the handful of pages I had punched out over five months and decided:my time on this earth is limited. So are my skills. I am an inept activist but adevoted writer.
So. My Delhi narrowed down to a laptop (with broadband) and the company of a fewpeople who were safe, already known to me. My Delhi narrowed down to my writingtime.
Eight months on, when people ask if I like living in Delhi, I say I wouldn’tknow. I’m just in transit, waiting for a flight back to my life.
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This piece first appeared in Outlook Delhi City Limits, 15 November,2005
