Photo Essay: Celebrating Australia Day In New Delhi

While India was celebrating Republic Day, Delhi's small Aussie community did something different.

[Report and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Even as India celebrated Republic Day on January 26, the Australian High Commission in the leafy Chanakyapuri provided a low-key alternative: Australia Day. The High Commission's members-only Henry Lawson Club was lit in orange, while a classic Australian film The Castle - with comic lines best appreciated by Australians – played mutely on a wide screen television.

Guests had gathered in groups. Whites and reds splashed in wine glasses as arms gesticulated in argumentative conversations. Expatriate families munched on French fries, sandwiches and steaks as Cabernet Sauvignon flowed freely. A Japanese woman with red spaghetti straps rolling down her shoulders played billiards with attentive young men.

On the verandah mock cowboys and cowgirls jovially mowed down bad guys with mock pistols. Not far away two women appeared determined not getting distracted from their discussion about Delhi's best furniture showrooms.

But the number of guests was not impressive. This was unusual. In a story last year about New Delhi's embassy parties, the Delhi-based Outlook magazine had observed mad scrambling "to get on to the guest list, whenever there's talk of an embassy celebrating a national day, hosting a sit-down dinner, or having a cultural event."

"Where are all the Australians?" demanded a burly man in sea-blue Hawaiian shirt. "There are very few Australians in Delhi," replied another.

"But the embassy building is so huge," a woman exclaimed. Her companion, in crushed blue FCUK denim, sneered, "The people of the embassy don't live in real India. They get 24 hour power and water supply."

"Ask me. I live in Lajpat Nagar," laughed a passing blonde.

What’s it all about?

Meanwhile the next cluster went into twitters when an Indian guest loudly wondered about the history of Australia Day. A venerable old lady, in a brown tweed overcoat, uncertainly murmured of independence – a wild assumption immediately refuted. One suggested it marked the day in 1901 when the country turned into a federation. Another declared it was the day James Cook landed on the shore. Suddenly "yeah", "you got it", "that's true" started tossing up in the air.

They all were wrong. Australia Day celebrates the anniversary of Captain Arthur Phillip unfurling the British flag at Sydney Cove and proclaiming British sovereignty over the eastern seaboard of Australia on 26 January 1788.

"But India is so frustrating!" sighed a beautiful Sydney native. She had landed at Indira Gandhi International Airport that morning. "I'm coming here after two years and nothing has changed – bad airport, bad traffic, and filth all around." Her friend, on a ten day business trip - to interview students for a university enrollment programme – was busy talking to somebody else. First timer to India, he was still a "Delhi virgin" with no sign of "Delhi belly." Not yet.

"Last week I was in Beijing," the Sydney native continued. "Delhi can't even begin to be compared!" No one smirked. "Chinese are only good in making copies. Indians are intelligent and original. Yet things just don't move here. That is sad." She sighed again.

Suddenly there was a great blast. Everyone rushed out. The dark sky dazzled into a thousand sparks. It was a fireworks rocket. The party was ending.

Toast to the Kangaroos



Two Women, Two Cultures



Cowboy Session



Small Talk Moments



So, What is Australia Day All About?



Toilet for the Disabled, Not a Done Thing in Delhi



We Love Australia

Thank God It's Tuesday - Report From a New Delhi Gay Bar

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Murder, rape and homosexuality are punishable crimes in India.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

It was close to midnight at Pegs N Pints pub in Chanakyapuri – New Delhi's diplomatic enclave. Illegal acts were being performed close to the maximum security zone of the Indian Prime Minister's residence.

On normal days, Pegs N Pints is "normal" - strictly straight. But on Tuesday evenings as the clock struck ten, queers start trickling out of their closets. Lying husbands relegate pretty wives to dinner alone. Guilty sons fake extra tuition classes. Bored European diplomats exchange grey-colored blazers for black leather jackets. They all gather together in Pegs N Pints – New Delhi's only discotheque offering "gay nights on all Tuesdays."

Camouflaged as private parties hosted by a certain "Mr. David", these unofficial "gay nights" remain dependent on word-of-mouth publicity. Despite requests, no one from the bar management was willing to be quoted. The secrecy is understandable since gay sex is forbidden under the Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code and is punishable with imprisonment.

A The Times of India report on serial killings in Mumbai casually mentioned cops questioning a man sitting at Chowpatty Beach "if he was a homosexual, the latter confessed and was brought to the police station."

Inside the Den

It was an unkempt place. The wooden counter was scratched, the beer glasses chipped, and the restroom out of order. But nobody cared. No one minded the expensive entry charge of 400 rupees. This is one of the few watering holes for wealthy gays not willing to risk interrogations by cops in shady parks. Beggars could not be choosers.

As the evening progressed, the crowd started filtering in. The dance floor was downstairs and a boy with a teasing smile was girating to Shakira's Hips don't lie. Roving eyes were coming to rest at him. His smooth chest and gelled hair shone in the blinking strobe light. He shook his shoulders, moved his flat belly, waved his arms and flung his feet. He took leaps, invited others, hugged someone, moved on to the next, never staying at one place for more than a moment.

He seemed unattainable.

Queer Queers

The public had come in groups but some were with lovers. Many were alone.

A venerable gentleman made his beer bottle bob up and down in sync with the pulsating beats of music. A young man in a brown corduroy jacket shook his head in pleasant disbelief. A middle-aged person danced with no dance partner. A male nymph, in a corner, jiggled while gulping whiskey. While an awed waiter, picking the used glasses, looked helpless.

After Some Time

Meanwhile sighs, moans and desire had filled the smoky atmosphere upstairs. Boozing men were huddled on a long sofa lined against the wall. Some sat on the laps of others. On the balustrade stood men-uncles staring down on the fancy fairies of the dance floor. Two hours were left for 2 am – the closing time. Beyond it lay a barren week before the thrill of kissing in public could be relived. Every moment was precious and to be lived to the fullest.

Last Dance

Soon the clock tick-tocked to 1 am and the music became louder. Bollywood chartbusters were replayed. More vodka bottles were opened. Kisses became desperate. Dance vigorous, squeezes frantic, embraces hungrier. Foot tapping wasforceful and eye contact more enduring.

Some of the boys, who could only be call-boys, started walking up and down the stairs to offer last-minute deals.

1:30 am: A grasp among the happy people. Cinderella's hour was ending. Lonely looked lonelier while the lovers hugged tightly. Those in groups held hands, forming a circle. Haughty boys, till now too choosy, caught hold of anybody looking decent and still single. Everybody wanted salvation from the bodily desires.

2 am: Doors closed, gate shut. Re-exile into the cold straight world. Car engines shuddered, headlights switched on, making the night fog glow orange. The fantasy had ended. Till next Tuesday.

Epilogue

A kid, leaving the bar, overheard saying on the mobile phone, "Papa, I'm studying at Vaibhav's place. Will be home in half an hour."

Eating Butter Chicken in Kake Da Hotel - The Pains and Pleasures of Street Cooking in Delhi

Greasy food, rude service and unclean setting - an account of a meal taken in the legendary dhaba.

[By Mayank Austen Soofi]

This account is based on the recollections of a meal taken during the summer of 2006.

We were standing outside Kake Da Hotel at Connaught Place in New Delhi. Moaned over by food critics, the legendary eatery – its name implying ‘Uncle’s Restaurant’ in Punjabi - is supposed to be a carnivore's delight. Amateur gourmands drive great distances to feast on its celebrated Butter Chicken.

But Kake Da Hotel was a mere shack beside a smoggy highway. Worse, it was summer and the restaurant was full so we had to wait and perspire outside with many others.

A bearded man at the entrance, likely to be the Kake's version of a maitre d'hotel, was assigning numbers to the waiting diners. He would call out the number each time a table was cleared. While expecting to be summoned inside any minute, we dwelled on the mythical history of this gastronomical landmark. It was said to have been founded by a Sikh gentleman who had migrated to Delhi after the Indian partition in 1947.

With no disrespect to the refugee's entrepreneurial skills, we refused to be impressed. The eatery, with its cement floor, shabby door, and plastic chairs, was not a pretty place for a languid dinner. Just then the maitre d'hotel furiously gesticulated at us to walk in.

That Sinking Feeling

It was an unsettling sight. Our table top displayed remnants of a freshly dug graveyard. Chicken thighs, sucked out of all the flesh, were lying like ignored carcasses on jungle roads. The body language of the waiters warned the diners to eat, slurp, and be swiftly done. We shifted uncertainly on our chairs when an old steward flung a menu on the table. We guiltily pointed at the bones. He swapped a dirty cloth over the table and lo, the bones were down under!

Shocked but not awed, we tried to focus our attention on the laminated menu card, yellowed with old curry stains. There was no need to mull, however. Both of us simultaneously said Butter Chicken. It was the signature dish after all! We ordered it with Palak Paneer and Naan-bread. The steward demanded just how many naans we have in mind. After an exchange of glances we promised to let him know; once done with the first one. He shrugged his shoulders and disappeared.

A prolonged wait was undesirable. It was hot. The exhausted fan was moving reluctantly with great sounds of fatigue. A tandoor furnace glowed red not far from us. A cook was turning rotis in it with large iron tongs. His sweat occasionally dripped from his eyebrows onto the deep pit of the tandoor. It was displeasing to watch and we turned away – only to see a steward, his fingers dipping down into the water jug!

We made a face and tried to think of the dish we were looking forward to.

Called Murg Makhani in Hindi, Butter Chicken originated in the 1950s at the Moti Mahal restaurant in Old Delhi. Famed for its Tandoori Chicken, the cooks there used to recycle the leftover chicken juices in the marinade trays by adding butter and tomato. This sauce was then tossed around with the tandoor-cooked chicken pieces and presto - Butter Chicken was ready! The leftover dish appealed to Delhites and was quickly lapped up by the rest of the world.

Today it is difficult to imagine Delhi's cultural heritage without this rich delicacy. If the people of this city are sometimes called fat, aggressive, and lascivious, then Butter Chicken must share a part of the blame.

The steward finally banged the dishes down on the table. The violence splashed the gravies. As we picked the chicken legs with our fingers and licked the flesh, we knew we had just stepped into a new and difficult adventure. The first sensation was jolting – as if gallons of butter had flooded inside the mouth. The tongue became as slimy as crude oil. The hollow cavity of the rotting tooth was choked with a thick coating of butter.

To reclaim sobriety, we quickly tore a bite of the naan, ducked in a scoop-full of Palak gravy and gulped it in. The green juice managed to clean the greasy goo. However the gravy, thickened with dozens of spices, seared our throat on its way down. Fortunately, the spinach's mild flavor lingered behind and calmed the agitated nerves. We then paused to contemplate a second attack on the chicken.

This time the butter in the chicken felt familiar. We chomped at the flesh. It was soft — too soft. The creamy flavor of the over-done bird made us feel heavy. It helped to have a steel bowl filled with onion rings, sprinkled over with salt and lemon juice. Their unmolested rawness was a desirable follow-up to every bite of chicken we ate. In fact a moment came when we felt that the humble onions were the best part of the meal.


Butter Chicken is Served



There was more disappointment. The Paneer, floating languidly in the green gravy, sent confusing signals. It was slightly undercooked - chewy and bland - and failed to absorb the bouquet of Palak leaves. The heat of the spices, too prominent in the gravy, was missing. Did the lazy cook add the cheese cubes too late?

As the dinner progressed, the discomfort caused by the appalling state of the eatery, the humid heat of the evening, and the attitude of the steward could not be overcome by the meal. Nearing the end, the rude man re-emerged to enquire for a second helping. Deeply unsatisfied, we requested the bill instead.

Epilogue

Once out and at a safe distance away, the companion hesitatingly confessed to have witnessed our steward picking his nose.

Interview: Do Delhi Women Have Horns Coming Out of Their Heads?

A Delhi Wali muses on how harrowing, outrageous, and funny it is for a girl to work, walk, and drive in this city.

As one of 6,212,086 women of Delhi, Ms Manika Dhama is a young working professional. She lives with her parents in Noida, a Delhi suburb. She sat down with Mayank Austen Soofi to talk things over.

I’m pleased to welcome Manika Dhama for this interview. Ms. Dhama, are you proud to be a citizen of New Delhi?

Am I proud to be a Delhite? Let me think… umm… Delhi… polluted, unsafe, dirty, crowded, too cold, too hot, and HOME.

This city can drive you crazy, leave you breathless and keep you asking for more… all in a day's work. Of course if you're a woman, the everyday experiences can be quite a heady mix of the good, the bad and the very ugly.

Ugly? For a woman? Pray why?

For women like us who venture out to work, study, shop, play, etc, you find that commuting to and fro across the city can a harrowing experience.

You’re exaggerating.

I'll explain. I’ve had the opportunity to travel by all means of transport available in this city. When commuting I’ve recognized a unique sense of class equality with respect to women. You may be rich or poor, you can be sitting in a fancy car, a dilapidated bus, an auto-rickshaw or you can be on your two feet…if you're a woman, rest assured that you’ll be stared at, leered at, and be the subject of anything else that can be done with a pair of eyes. Sometimes it's hard to not be seriously convinced that you have horns coming out of your head.

Are you accusing men of indecency?

I find it intriguing that some men can burst into a song, always out of tune, at the sight of a woman. The term “Roadside Romeos”, often used to describe such people, is actually derogatory to the spirit with which Romeo sang under Juliet's balcony. I’ve seen groups of men, busy in conversation, suddenly falling silent and then sing or say not-nice things when a woman passes by. Tell me, Mr.Soofi, do we not have enough reason to believe that there are indeed horns on the top of our heads?

No, you don’t have horns. In fact, Ms Dhama, you’re a smart and modern woman. You can even drive! I can't.

Sorry, Mr. Soofi, I fear the driving doesn't mean much. If you're a woman, you are always learning how to drive. The other day a parking attendant outside the British Council library in Connaught Place could not restrain himself from advising a friend who drives extremely well - she has driving experience of over six years! But the man didn't let her go without giving instructions. He also had the cheek to add, "Beti, if you don't practice, how will you ever learn?”

That's regrettable. Now to another important subject. Delhi is often referred as the “Rape Capital of India." Do you feel safe in the city streets? Are you happy with the Delhi Police?

Delhi Police! Okay, they do have a nice motto (With you, For You, Always.) One could always trust them to be more concerned about the so-called obscene behavior of couples, than about eve-teasing, murders, rapes and other such trivial matters. Do you get my point?

Not clearly.

Recently, at a restaurant in the city, I overheard a conversation between a mother and her not-more-than 3-year-old daughter. The mother was telling her never to take anything from strangers. That she must not talk to or listen to anybody she does not know. The daughter was nodding in acquiescence, perhaps little understanding how serious her mother was. Somehow that exchange said a lot about the times we live in, where children must learn to stay safe even before they learn the alphabet.

Yes, it’s sad. Let's talk more pleasant things. Everyone says Delhi girls are good looking. Do you agree?

Some years ago I came across a newspaper survey conducted among men asking who they thought were better: the Bombay Babes or the Delhi Gals. Most said that Delhi women are "very beautiful and quite dumb". So I fear if one is not very beautiful and is not sure of one's dumb-quotient, it’s advisable to move to another city.

But you are a Delhi girl, you are beautiful and you are not dumb.

I'm overwhelmed by your compliments. Can we move to the next question please?

Please share some city experience unique to a young woman like you?

The winter is the time for thousands of people across the city to tie the knot. Now, if one is invited to any of these weddings, it is advisable to say nothing and smile at everything - till your jaw threatens to dislocate! If, like me, you’re on the wrong side of 22, you better brace yourself for some serious questions about future plans. The future plans of course means marriage. The prescribed procedure is to smile embarrassedly…and a blush would really complete the picture. However, if you're looking for some excitement – let´s face it, my cheeks don't turn red under any provocation - you ought to answer by saying "I want to focus on my career right now."…What follows is the sound of silence…followed by an abrupt change of topic.

Interesting observation indeed. Ms Dhama, after reaching the end of our conversations I feel Delhi is not a great city for women to live in…

Well, Mr.Soofi, let truth tumble out… Delhi is all this, and then more…it’s family, friends, love, work, books, coffee, spicy chaat, brand new subway, college, rain, music…it’s life as I know it.

Thank you for talking with me, Ms Dhama.

You’re certainly welcome!

Photo Essay – Carrying a Coffin in Old Delhi

The Sunday calm, in the streets of the walled town, gets shattered by the grief of a funeral procession
[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

"The eyes shed tears and the heart is grieved, but we will not say anything except which pleases our Lord."
Prophet Mohammad on the passing away of his son Ibrahim

Sunday morning in Old Delhi. Someone has died. A handsome young man with a day-old stubble is leading the funeral procession. His eyes are vacant. It could not have been a child’s death. The body, covered in a green cloth, is more substantial. Half a dozen sad shoulders are perspiring under the weight of the coffin as it bobs up and down on its last journey.

The procession halts at a traffic light as it turns red. Life swirls into action in the adjacent street that was empty a moment ago. There the signal has turned green. A tonga trots away. Fast-moving cars zoom past. A beggar, dozing on the cemented pavement, wraps the torn chaadar more tightly around him. A lady perched on the back of a motorbike glances at the coffin and instinctively touches her forehead in reverence.

When the light turns green the young man rushes ahead, reaches the center of the busy square, and waves in both directions – as if requesting the traffic to halt. The traffic stops. Then he turns back, gently gesturing the procession to follow.

As they walk past a bus stop, three mourners spill out of the convoy to catch their breath, while commuters waiting for their buses get fascinated by somebody else’s grief. A veiled woman in a bright orange sari prays silently. Somebody snaps pictures with a digital camera. But the procession is not distracted. It moves along with a heavy tread onto Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg, towards a graveyard not in sight.

Two old men lag behind. “Everyone who has come to this world will depart some day,” says one. The other shakes his head. “That is true.”



Following the Procession - Somebody Has Died



Following the Procession - But The World Goes On



Following the Procession - Sad Morning Today



Following the Procession - On to the Burial Ground



Following the Procession - Feeling the Coffin's Weight



Following the Procession - Not Our Grief, But Theirs



Following the Procession - This Grief Shall Come to Us, Too

Special Photo Essay – New Year Do's in the New Central Park

Within a month of its re-opening, the revamped Central Park has become the social sea beach that Delhi never had.
[by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Last day of the last year forced the Delhites out into the newly revamped Central Park in Connaught Place. The air was cool and the mood warm. Holidaymakers feasted, laughed and chatted. Love birds from the humble Hansraj College joked in Hindi. Snobbish students from the uppity St. Stephen’s College conversed in English. A red-shirted man from small town Rohtak walked around with dazed eyes.

Nuclear families drove all the way from middle-class neighborhoods like Janak Puri and Punjabi Bagh to lay down on the grass – their children shrieking and running. A large family sitting in a circle cheered when the frail patriarch managed to stand up on his own (his wife remained composed). A neither-old-nor-young couple continued talking seriously to each other. In one of the circles a young girl smiled from time to time while peeling a guava.

One cheerful woman, flaunting her just-married status by displaying the red bridal bangles, tapped around in astoundingly high plastic heels. Lustful Jaat men from infamous Mahipalpur ogled at the curves of the daringly dressed women. Nearby, three young ruffians made obscene comments about saree-clad women sitting next to them.

Oh, there was also a book lover sitting quietly on a stack of second-hand books - busy clicking pictures!

A happy and prosperous 2007 to all the readers of The Delhi Walla.



Celebrating the Central Park - Fun in the Family



Celebrating the Central Park - People Watching



Celebrating the Central Park - Tap, Tap and Tap



Celebrating the Central Park - Smile, Please



Celebrating the Central Park - We are Happy



Celebrating the Central Park - Thy Way We Are