Evening in Mukherjee Nagar

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It’s cruel how quickly the seasons change. One week I was sitting in my boxers, sweating profusely while drinking ice water (which promptly turned to hot water in my hands). The next, the sky has turned an even hazier gray, and the mornings are less than tepid. So I suppose that the weather has not changed too much, except that the difference is excrutiating without hot water.
Thus, my mornings have become a painful foray into Antarctic chills. I wake up, having covered up from the fan above me, which is used to keep the air moving and, my roommate claims, and to keep the bugs away. I sleep out in the main room, which I decided to do back in July. This was when the thermometer was topping 100 degrees at night, and Stated that if we were not going to get air-conditioning, I was going to sleep where it was coolest. I dragged my mattress out of the bedroom and onto the open tile floor. Three months later, I’m still sleeping out here, mainly because my wooden bed frame has sufficed as a terrific junk collector. I now wake up in the morning feeling a little cold, and usually must get to class within an hour or so. Our landlord claims the hot water geezer is broken, although I suspect that he never had any intention of it working. So I jump under the shower and back out in staggered phases, accompanied by lots of shouting and shaking. I never knew that showering could be quite so unpleasant, and were it not for the sensitivities of my roommates, I would not shower the rest of the trip. I’m dreading the actual “cold weather,” which I’m told is “very cold.” When I ask how cold, most Indians just shiver and say “very cold” a second time.
At night, it’s a little different story. There are not as many people out. There are still the wandering dogs and the few men straggling home. The quiet is really only broken by a few lingering Diwali firecrackers. I am fascinated by the appeal of the fireworks. They are now, it being after Diwali, usually set off by a lone enthusiast, who quietly walks from their apartment to the street without any sort of excitement, lights the firework with a bored expression, then watches it explode. They then turn, without so much as a smile, to go back in the apartment. It’s as though it were their morbid duty to wake me up at two every night.
There are also the random “parties” (I don’t know what else to call them) that erupt from neighboring apartments. They consist of blaring music with heart-thumping Indian beats and repetitive rhythms, along with lots of flashing lights. I took an evening stroll not but an hour ago to see what the deal was with the music playing. I found two older Sikh men standing outside of their apartment with their arms folded. Balloons lined the porch. A dj was flipping records behind them. The inside of the house was dark. The two men just stared at me as I walked past. Some party.
There are also more tender scenes that take place after the sun has gone down. There are girls returning home from the library, stacks of books folded in front of their chest. There are cows lying in dirt piles with their heads on top of one another. There are bicycle rickshaws rolling tiredly down the street, their drivers looking for one last fare. The night is always an event in Delhi, even in Mukherjee Nagar, if only for the swirling array of people, animals, and weather that push to find a place to rest among the hazy streets.
I’ve spent much time perusing the photos on travelblog.org, at first feeling a wave of excitement as I marveled at the diversity of environment and the millions of adventures waiting at the traveler’s fingertips. Lately, though, the pictures have all looked the same, as all are noticeably missing my friends and family. A wide blue lake among mountains was once an uncharted and exquisite wonder. Now it’s just a lonely lake. I guess the evening is also when I have the most time to reflect. It’s when I feel the most homesick.

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Comments

[Dad]

Cold Showers
Is there someplace on campus where you can get a warm shower?