Monday. Around five in the morning I'm awakened by the prayer call coming from the mosque few blocks away. Although I had closed all the doors and windows and turned the air conditioner on, the wail of the muezzin penetrates the steady lulling rattle and hum of the AC. The pink morning smog-sun of Delhi casts its rays through the blinds. I pull the blanket over my head to go back to sleep, but it's no use. The adhan-mixtape blasting from the minaret speakers has done it's job; everybody's awake and I can imagine the sikh family downstairs rolling in their beds, cursing the muezzin quietly. The kabadiwallah, or the scrap dealer, starts his round in the colony and the nasal, high pitched ”Kabadiii!!” repeated at intervals of machinelike precision fills the soundscape. Right after him comes the assortment of other wallahs, such as the chikwallah, aka the man who fixes your blinds, the fruit vendor, the wicker furniture salesman, and also recently, the bandarwallah, aka the dancing monkey man, all repeating their pitch in turns as they pass my house.The bandarwallah rides a bike with two monkeys and plays a loud rattling drum. If you give him money, he makes the monkeys dance for you. Another morning in Nizamuddin, one of the residential colonies of South Delhi.
It's been almost a year and a half since I first arrived in Delhi and I'm still having trouble absorbing the fact that I'm still here. After speding a year in North Delhi studying in Delhi university, I have now moved down south. North Delhi gave me a glimpse of a part of Delhi that many foreigners don't see due to its relative lack of interesting sights and activities. Yet it was an invaluable experience of mundane life in an unusual place. South Delhi, or New Delhi, with its posh colonies, malls and markets and landmark sights, exists as a completely separate entity in the mindset of the Delhiite, and everything above the central commercial hub of Connaught Place seems to be considered as something of an uncharted wasteland by many locals. I have migrated from the frontier to the heart of the city.
A lot has happened over the course of the last few months. I got a job, I graduated from university amd I moved to a new flat in a completely different part of the city. Graduating from university cut my final obligations to Finland and there was nothing compelling me to go back immediately. The economic downturn in Europe had hit Finland as well and the employment prospects of your average graduate of humanities were scarce. Getting a job in Delhi sealed the deal and now the city has become a home away from home. To me, it's still a place of very mixed feelings, ranging from giddy marvel and childlike curiosity to sheer uncontrollable rage and white-knuckled frustration. I don't fall into the most obvious pitfalls set for the foreigners in the city anymore, but Delhi life can still be a challenge sometimes.
Since my exchange year had come to an end and I had transformed from student to proper grown up, it was time to leave the International Student House on North Campus and move down South. After a harrowing quest of finding a flat somewhere, I eventually ended up settling in Nizamuddin East in southeast Delhi. Named after the famous Sufi saint Nizamuddin Auliya aka Hazrat Nizamuddin, who also died there, the area is best known to be one of the key pilgrimage sites of South Asian muslims. Every morning, busloads of sleepy muslim men and women from different parts of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh flock around the path leading to the Dargah, the sufi saint's tomb and shrine, dating back to the 14th century. The place has now also become a refuge for homeless pilgrims from Bangladesh, who have set their dwellings around the shrine. Groups of young muslim men - boys perhaps 15 years old sporting a handsome beard already - squat on the street corner sipping chai and get first row seats for prime entertainment as they watch the early morning commuters, such as myself, arguing with the autowallahs.
Since Nizamuddin does not fall close to any metro stops, I have to avail the autorickshaw service every morning to get to work. Dealing with the autodrivers is a daily necessary evil that has not become any easier during the year and a half. Even though my Hindi has slightly improved and my presence may not spell ”tourist” anymore, to them I still remain a firang with easy money written all over me and it is their obligation to try overcharge me. Doing otherwise would be sheer waste and almost a sin, it seems. Trying to find an auto from the Nizamuddin East main strip has become an every morning ritual. The drivers break right in front of me with a sincerely greedy smile on their faces, I suggest them a reasonable price or the meter, and they disappear as quickly as they appeared huffing in consternation, almost outraged by my insolence to even suggest such a thing.
Nizamuddin has a certain feeling of transience to it. In addition to the constant flow of pilgrims, the area is known for the Hazrat Nizamuddin railway station, which connects Delhi to several other parts of India daily. The station serves as an entry point to hordes of migrant labourers and seasonal workers who come from poor rural areas of surrounding states such as Uttar Pradesh and Bihar to Delhi to seek short term employment, while leaving their families behind in the small villages to take care of the small piece of land that they may own. Some of them come to the city right after harvest to earn extra income only to return in October, around Diwali, while others stay for good. Seeing the confused rural families sitting at the station fresh off the train is the essence of India's drastic urbanisation in process. There is a sense of promise in the air at the station. Anything is still possible.
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