The Delhi Chapter : Page 55

The next morning, I woke post 9, for the first time since I came to Delhi.

Wore a mauve-coloured, crepe kurta with vegetable prints running all over it.

Whether the prints were blanched with turquoise or aqua-marine, I still can't tell.

[ Have always been little colour-blind. Thanks to the genes.

So twin shades for me are always disputed.  ]

I customarily wore some kohl like a stencilled pattern over my lashes.

[ And it being a day-out, outside of office (for a change), I (as any girl my age would tend to) kitted out a little more. ]

Wore a few multi-coloured pastel shaded cloth bangles.

And turquoise stones for earrings that dangled like little glazed morning dew drops.  

****

As planned, I met Purnima outside INA metro station at noon.

And when she bought us two entry tickets (Rs. 20 each for adults) and took me into the enclosure of the elsuive Dilli Haat, I could feel that dent on my cheeks, and a smile aching to erupt under the seeming nonchalance of my lips.

Dilli Haat.

Dear God, where do I begin?

[ The minute I saw it, I knew exactly what Purnima had meant when she said, "Dilli Haat is SO you." ]

Imagine a riot of colours.

A celebration of art.

Heart-winning indigenous handloom.

Things made of earth.

Jute. Wrought-iron. Wood. Skin.

Mind-bending Madhubani.

Tussar, crepe, silk.

Silver jewellery.

Hand-made diaries.

Jholas, mojris, jutis, lamps.

Kites, pots, miniatures, rags.

A fiesta for anyone who cherishes colour.

And art.

[ Much like a better part of me ]

The Delhi Chapter : Page 54

The entrance façade of our office ghetto was littered with an assortment of street-side food sellers.

Momos, Dosas, Chaats, Paranthas, Sandwiches, Maggi, you name it.

And the grub that you got for the kind of price there.

Yum, is not the word.

[ It often made for low-cost lunch for us interns.

Or a quick-break in the evening, to half-fill the stomach. ]

I went up to this oldish man, whose hair (more salt than pepper) looped out of a somewhat egg-shaped head.

It looked like grey wires were plastered to his glossy skull (smelling suspiciously of Coconut oil).

This man made tea (of the piping-hot variety) with the most orgasmic aroma of Cardamom.

[ Which tasted even more delicious on a Delhi, November evening. ]

Also, he cooked up a storm with something as artless as Maggi.

[ A dish even my brother could prepare. ]

But the incredibleness in the hands of that man, was just something else.

I can’t explain.

Maggi with burnt garlic and roasted tomatoes and eggs and baby-corn and baby-mushrooms and carrots and chillies and capsicums and a zillion and one other things (leaving out the lettuce).

Making it the best Maggi any hands I knew had ever made before.

****

There already was a necklace of people surrounding his evidently popular stall.

And once I drank up my cup of tea.
And polished my plate full of heaven (worth Rs. 20).

[ Sitting on a quiet rock by the kerb. ]
I slowly started ambling towards my first weekend in Delhi.

****

A chilled sheet of charcoal.

A walk with a clot of fog.

A quivering jacket pocket.

A wind starting up.

Strokes of a Saffron sunset.

A shimmy of sizzling leaves.

A perfect November evening, was finally served up...

The Delhi Chapter : Page 53

As the day slowly died out, and we collected our stuff.

And walked together down till the tube.

Purnima inquired, "So what of Delhi have you seen so far?"

Me: "Not very much man..

Just CP, Janpath, India Gate and Saket..

Those three malls stitched together.. You know?"

She: "Yeah.. So you haven't been to Dilli Haat yet, is it?"

Me: "Nope.. What's that?"

She: "It's like this make-shift 365 day carnival, bang in the centre of the city..

Dilli Haat is SO you man!

You, for one, should definitely visit the place..

And I promise it'll become your favourite hang-out in Delhi..

Take my word for it.." (she snickered)

Me: "Dilli Haat is so me?

What's that supposed to mean?" (I asked with a curious smile)

She: "You'll know when you go..

Hey! Tell you what..

What you doing tomorrow?

Let's go there and grab lunch together?

I'll show you Sarojini (Nagar) too..

The two are really, really close..

Yes?"

Me: "Umm.. Cool..

Okay.. Sounds like a plan to me.."

She: "Done then.. INA Metro station.. Yellow Line.. 12.30 tomorrow?"

Me: "Works."

[ She smiled and vanished into the jumble of people scooting up to the platform to take the tube ]

The Delhi Chapter : Page 52

Bodhi knew Purnima was around just for a month.

[ For one of those wind-swept summer internships.

Essentially to bide time during the vacation. ]

So his assignments for me were different.

And so were his communications.

With me, he was the tyrant.

The despot.

The Stalan.

Lynching me for making the slenderest mistake. 

Or turning in some blunder of an assignment. 

Often making tasks feel like bootcamp. 

Just so I learnt how to function under the quicksand of pressure. 

Literally teaching me how to hold a pen.

And use the right words, to write.

Labouring to make me better and better. 

Time after dizzying time. 

And most of all, standing like a wall behind me and my work. 

And growing me up, one day at a time.

****

It's funny how in life, the things that are most expensive

[ Such as lessons taught to you by your mentor ]

Come without a price tag.

Because if Bodhi’s lessons actually cost as much as they were worth 

I’m sure I wouldn't ever be able to afford them.

The Delhi Chapter : Page 51

Before I could blink, the watch was done.

My first week at Ogilvy was over.

[ Easily my best week, in many a day. ]

On Friday, I wore a black churidar, and a Khari printed Emerald kurta.

A pair of silver jhumkas, a lenient line of kohl.

And some bangles to garnish the hands.

Purnima and I, (like I mentioned before) were as different as it got.

Chalk and cheese.

Water and oil.

The first week, being the first week, and us not being acclimated to the pace of the place, left us hamstrung with a zillion tasks to do, through the week, around the clock.

And stuff to even carry back home.

Copy books and notes and assignments and things.

Which of course, meant no hanging out, post office hours.

[ A process, as it were, to internalise Advertising literally into our systems.

An exercise to virtually inject the craft into our veins. ]

Purnima was set her own assignments.

I was given mine.

A few happened to correspond.

More often, they did not.

Which of course, meant we couldn’t ever brainstorm together.

Or help each other with ideas.

Bodhi was very strategic, like that.

And caught us, instantly if she ever directed my script.

Or I, helped her crack an idea.

[ Holy mother of God knows how ]

The Delhi Chapter : Page 50

I can't lie I wasn’t terribly distracted that day.

Especially since he caught me studying his frame from a distance.

And smiled me back a small (but warm) smile.

Which accentuated his strikingly high cheek bones.

I kept, down the day, wanting to turn around.

Go up and talk with him about things.

[ But when a guy who looks like the way Khurram did, it wasn’t a cake-walk to muster up the guts. ]

That day passed like quite a sweet flash.

With more cool campaigns.

With more new assignments.

And more advice from Bodhi’s watchful shadow. 

That kept manifesting at my terminal.

Every now and then.

To disapprove my arduous blood and sweat.

Crumble and toss my thoughts in the air.

But most of all, to smarten me up.

[ Something I always knew.

In one flap of my heart.

Notwithstanding his stick and tongue. ]

****

He somehow always made me feel like a bookstore.

Round the bend of some narrow, old street.

Where the ones that cared, no matter how occupied.

Would always steal a moment and come to stop by.

And spend at least a minute at the shelf.

Before they slipped back into their hyperactive lives.

Because they could tell that if they did not come visit; the bookstore would terribly miss them, that day.

The Delhi Chapter : Page 49

As I reached the office, my corner looked strikingly fuller.

Seemed like a bunch of them were back from some shoot.

Then I suddenly remembered Jonathan’s advice to me.

To 'catch hold of' someone by the name of Khurram.

To take me through the different softwares.

I remembered the seat he'd pointed at.

Diagonally behind mine.

And as a reflex, I happened to turn around.

And check if the seat was still untaken.

As a matter of fact, it was not.

A boy (maybe I could call him a man) wearing an apple-green, bleached pull-over and royal blue jeans was sitting on it.
Chit-chatting with the others (presumably from his team).

A Tissot watch with a chocolate brown strap, and a pair of beige suede shoes, clearly gave away where he came from.

[ Not to say that it didn’t speak volumes about his terrific taste. As well. ] 

So a + 1 to him was justified.   

He wouldn’t be a day older than 26.

Had an open face.

Easy-to-read eyes.

A general air of intelligence.

A stunning smile.

And a rather sharp assertion of a nose.

So yes, was the best-looking boy I saw in Ogilvy.
Or in all of Delhi, since I came.

Even that.

[ And if a boy who looked like that, sat diagonally opposite you in your office.
It clearly didn't help your case.

Or any of your campaigns, for that. ] 

The Delhi Chapter : Page 48

My dad always wished I turned out just like maa.

[ As it so managed to happen, like a lousy xerox. ]

With a dab of a nose.

Clear brown eyes.

Straight black hair.

A big, hearty smile.

He wished me to become a little bit of him.

Head-strong.

Sporty.

Emotional.

Animal crazy.

And yet.

He always gave me the freedom a perfect dad would.

Wishing me to become, mostly me.

****

I realised, perhaps for the first time since I came.

That we were separated by much more than meridians and map lines.

They in their lives. Me in mine.

[ Since I was three, I had my own room, they theirs.

And then when I grew up, I went away to Bombay. ]

And yet.

To know that we were still this close.

And yet.

To know that I could go back to them any day.

And yet.

To know that they were always there for me. [ Even if I was not. ]

And will still continue to be there. No matter what.

Just makes me feel blest.

Always.

****

Truth is.

We're all magpies looking for shiny, new things.

But when the old ones that really matter the most.

Tend to stay tight, and keep close.

Makes me feel, it’s all good.

This life is alright.

We’re getting to where we should.

We’re on the right flight.

The Delhi Chapter : Page 47

The next day, I woke up early again.

And took my time, own and sweet, to get turned out for the day.

[ As I was always comfortable doing. ]

So I poured myself in the direction of my balcony.

And felt a rich, golden slant of sunshine.

Trickling in to warm me up.

A November morning.

A thick, cool breeze.

A jar of crackers.

A cup of tea.

I sat cross-legged.

With a sun-burnt dream.

That, of becoming a writer.

Some day.

Like a paper rocket softly singeing the sky, my thoughts somehow always tried to mount up.

Ride the winds, and fly.

It has a strange congruence with neatly stacked words.

A rhythm of notes; now low, now high.

****

As I got dressed and started walking through the service road to take the tube, I looked up at the sky.
There was this quest (as it were), to reach the top of the world, through the crosshatched veil of trees and shrubs.

I started thinking, for the first time in a while.

Of the merry-go-round of a childhood gone by.

Of my mother.

And dad, of course.

My parents and I, have always been thick.

And when I was small, my relations often used to ask me these two chronic questions:

-  "So who are you closer to? Mum or dad?"

-  "Who do you think you look like?"

[ Questions, I never tried to answer. ]

The Delhi Chapter : Page 46

I went up with him to his terminal.

He set me my next assignment.

My first ever Ad campaign.

He: "Why don't you work on a mouth-freshening gum?

Which is your favourite?"

Me: "Umm.. Center Fresh, I think."

He: "Cool. So go ahead. Knock yourself out. Think up a series of three print ads on Center Fresh by the end of the day.

Brief basically is, it's a mouth-freshening gum. So think of how you'd put an idea, and lace a thought around it.

To tell people how the gum camouflages all the bad odours from your mouth. And so on.. You know.. You get the drift.."

Me: "Ah.. Ya.. I should think so.."

****

He turned back to his laptop.

His spine, like a hard stick of discipline.

I started ambling towards my desk.

The string of his words hanging loosely in the air.

****

I kept going to Bodhi, every now and then, down the day, with my basket of ideas.

And he kept slashing my pages, with the knife-cuts of his words, time after dizzying time.

"Think about the brief," he softly said.

The brief.

Which felt like a tangled wire looping out of my head.

****

I stopped draining my ideas onto my laptop.

And took a walk to the end of the corridor.

Looking on blithely at the world inside.

And the afternoon office sizzle.

And spent the rest of my day in the library.

Away from the noise and bustle.

And sundown later, after a deluge of crummy ideas, 'the one' good one whizzed out of my head.

Rocketing and exploding.

Like a ribbon of gold.

Burning a hole.

Into the blackness.

Of a tired, labouring mind...

The Delhi Chapter : Page 45

I stepped out.

The day smelt good.

I’d maybe even call it beautiful (if only it wasn't for the topsy-turvy start).

I knew I had landed myself into a pickle.

And had no idea what I was going to tell Bodhi.

The man was not one to let slacking pass.

And every excuse that came to mind, seemed like a bloody bad save.

****

Anyhow.

By the time I reached office, the man was already in.
Of course.

I was expecting to be admonished and yelled at in front of the whole office, for showing up late on an important day.

[ Actually had a good mind of sprinting in like Usain Bolt, and slinking into my dark corner before he could lay his eyes on me. ]

But Bodhi already seemed to know I was a wreck that morning.

Asked me to first stop apologizing, ‘calm the fuck down’, take a deep breath, and then take a walk with him, down to the canteen for some lemon tea. And some fresh air. [ In that order. ]

[ I never really fancied lemon tea. But when your boss offers to make you some (especially on a day when decide to oversleep and show up late) you don’t exactly have the gall to say no. ]

He chit-chatted with me about my backstory.

Spilled out some of his own, on the table.

Guessed I’d hardly had any breakfast.

And then bought me a chicken and cheese sandwich.

Basically, did all a perfect senior would do, on an important day for a young starter.

To calm her down.

To open her up.

To start a bond.

To smile her up.

*****

Honestly, I still have no idea why he’d done that instead of scolding me.

But well, that’s Bodhi for you.

[ His mind to me, always seemed like a metaphysical riddle.

Something I just couldn’t crack.

Like a song within a song within a song.

A thing unpredictable, from the start. ]