Though I still am haunted by the nightmares of self doubt.
I always thought that Bombay was the city which highlighted the kind of disparity which it is so very hep to talk about, but Delhi takes the cake. It really does.
It is hard to imagine how the pedicured and manicured mutts of Chanakyapuri live in the same city as the not so pedicured and definitely not manicured hounds of [say] Bhogal. Here, the truly beautiful mansions on Tolstoy Marg can just about be glimpsed over them high walls while in the crowds of Bhaison waali galli, each lives life in the open.
It takes a while to get used to the accent, thats for sure. For example, when asking for directions, the “Metro” is actually the “Maai-tro” and “JNU” becomes “mnmnmnu” or some thing like that. Takes a while to get used to.
I like the people here though, filled with life and just a little bit of aggression. I like how the curses can be used as such dear. dear terms of endearment.
I like the fact that people over here know what a real parantha should taste like.
I also like the fact that if you are a little bit lucky, then you can hear the mad, mad roar of a Gallardo chasing down a city road. Bright yellow one at that.
As I walk on the path I may have [mistakenly] stumbled upon, I think I will make it just fine.
It would be pretty nice to have a little AC though. That and a panjaab di kudi to make them paranthas