Weekend Getaway - Nainital Behind the Mist

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A journey into an Himalayan lake town.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

It was the best of towns, it was the worst of towns; it was pristine, it was smoggy; it was beautiful, it was ugly; it was solitary, it was crowded; it was heaven, it was hell.

I mean, I was in Nainital this weekend.

Just why should a Delhiwalla consider Nainital for a weekend getaway? This hill station, where concrete structures sprout from hills like small pox, has everything that makes you want to flee the Capital – traffic jams, jostling crowd, maimed beggars, great noise and so on.

Due to the ‘season’ time, the mall road was at its worst – teeming with camera-toting, hat-wearing tourists, to say nothing of Himmesh Reshammiya’s nasal tones blaring from every other SUV.

It was difficult to wade through the road without colliding with someone on your front, back or sides. Instead of wild flowers or ancient trees, the mall road was lined with branded showrooms and ‘Chinjabi’ restaurants. This is all available in Delhi. Why drive 250 km to Nainital?

But then there are two kinds of tourists. The first, and apparently the more visible, are the honest holidaymakers, who just want some good old fun – daaru, tandoori chicken, and 2-3 days away from work. Their itinerary is simple: shopping on the mall road, boating in the lake, taking a trolley up to Tiffintop, buying shawls in the Tibetan market, doing a darshan in the Naini mandir and more booze at night. After all, sooraj ast, pahar mast. Nainital won’t disappoint such folks.

The challenge is for the second category of rather fussy tourists: they demand solitude, seek natural beauty, plan to spend hours watching birds and still expect all the mod cons of a city. Nainital meets those expectations, too.

You just have to sleep in a nice hotel and spend your waking hours on the road less travelled. Like I did. But first the lake. Just as every tourist to India must visit the Taj Mahal, every visitor to Nainital must do a boat ride on the lake. After all, any hill station worth its mountain can boast of mall roads, scenic views, ropeways, horse rides, but not all have the lake.

And what a lake! During the day, the blue colour of the sky mixes with the water; in the night, as the lights are turned on in the houses, shops and hotels that dot the mountains, the lake sparkles with an incandescence that dazzles the eye. It is like as if stars have come down on earth.

Next to the lake is a gravelled ground called Flats. They say it was all lake here but one night in the 19th century, the mountain crumbled, killed people (the story goes that all the guests of the town’s first hotel perished in this landslide), and the chunk that fell down covered this part of the lake.

Today, the tragedy is not even a dim memory and the Flats, created by death, is a sporting ground where a hockey tournament was taking place when I was there.

But, let’s face it: the commercial heart of Nainital can hardly soothe the restlessness of big-city souls. To climb into another world, you need to climb a bit higher. Kilbury forest is around 10 km away and it may as well be a different country – utter silence, trees denser than you could imagine, and slow-moving clouds almost close enough to touch.

Here was music in the sound of mountain streams, dream in the sight of green moss clinging to tree trunks, and romance in the swagger of firewood-carrying village women. Here the soul soared like a high-altitude bird.

The same is true of the town’s golf course, next to an equally dreamy Raj Bhawan (which reminded me of Rebecca’s Manderley). If you don’t play golf, just watch the players swinging the club. The rolling slopes, the dew-soaked grass, and the ball that runs the risk of disappearing into the approaching mist make every sensation sort of unreal.

Nainital’s beauty can get too much, and yet it keeps you constantly engaged. I was sorry when my weekend ended.

On the way, in Jyolikot



It's around, now



Nainital, here



Ah, let's get into them



Mall road beggar



Lost dreams in mall road



Playing in the Flat



Leave me alone, I'm in Kilbury forest



That's me (picture by Mr. Dinesh Bisht)



To golf, now



Too many distractions



Here it goes



Sleeping giants, near Raj Bhawan



Am I in a dream?



Sarajevo, this?

Living - Gay Couple in Delhi

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An American expat talks about same-sex relationships.

[By James Baer; he lives with his American partner in a Defense Colony apartment. Picture of the author by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Wedding bells began ringing in California on June, 2008, and their sound is reverberating across the USA. California is not the first state to legalise gay marriage — Massachussetts got there in 2004, but as goes California, so goes the rest of the country sooner or later, and that’s why the state’s step forward is a momentous and historic one.

My partner and I, both Californians, haven’t yet decided whether we’d tie the knot if we moved back there. In a sense, the knot was tied soon after we got together 12 years ago.

Our families, friends and colleagues already know us as a couple. But a California marriage licence would officially recognise our relationship as equal to anyone else’s, and it would secure us — at least within the state — important benefits and legal protections that all straight married couples already enjoy.

From the perspective of New Delhi, where my partner and I have lived for the past two years, California seems a long way off. Of course we knew we were entering a conservative culture when we arrived here, and while we weren’t interested in hiding the fact that we’re a couple, we didn’t set out to make people uncomfortable either.

That’s the balancing act engaged in by many members of minority groups: if you can, you challenge ignorance or bigotry when overtly confronted by it, and the rest of the time you just hope that the way you live your life is explanation enough, if any were needed.

Among our non-Indian friends here, our being a couple hasn’t raised any eyebrows. By and large, our Indian friends know we’re gay, too, either because it has come up in conversation or because they’ve figured it out for themselves.

We laugh when we hear of Indians saying that there aren’t gay people in India — they clearly haven’t met any of our gay Indian friends — or that homosexuality is a Western decadence imported by India’s colonial overlords. But it’s rueful laughter: on the one hand, the British-era law criminalising sex between men must have been a response to something that was present in the culture; and on the other, oh-so-independent India seems strangely uninterested in freeing itself from this particular colonial shackle.

But what makes us as a couple sadder is that many of our gay Indian friends feel constrained to remain in the closet to family, and often to friends and co-workers, too, precisely because this society, which thinks itself modern in many ways, remains deeply traditional and closed-minded when it comes to love, sexuality and family.

Some of our gay Indian friends marvel at the fact that my partner and I have been together for 12 years. To them, the goal of a long-term relationship, let alone marriage to a person of the same sex, is deeply desirable — but it seems completely unattainable.

Since my partner and I have ourselves only just attained the right to marry in our home state, we know that change for our Indian friends will be a long time coming, too. But we wish it for them, and we look forward to the day when the Indian equivalent of wedding bells sounds for our gay and lesbian friends.

Special - Crass is the City

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Delhi Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit calls Delhi the "most crass and show-offish city of the current times".

[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

It's out, straight out from the horse's mouth. Delhi's Chief Minister Ms. Sheila Dikshit has declared Delhi - that mishmash of elbows and impatience - to be the "most crass and show-offish city of the current times".

Quite true. People here pee on walls, jump the queues, skip the red lights, grope the girls, spit the gutkha, ghoos the cops, shove the sifarish, and dikhao Blackbery. Everyone screams out their lungs to announce their unprintable plans for everyone's mothers and sisters.

Anything that can go wrong does in this city. Fully-functional traffic lights lead to hour-long jams, delayed appointments, cancelled deals, angry bosses, relationship break-ups, hypertension, mood disorders, and occasionaly all of it ends in a severely upset tummy, known as Delhi Belly.

Two years ago, a Dutch diplomat stationed in the city got so frustrated that he crossed all diplomatic boundaries and called Delhi "filthy" where "everyone interferes with everyone else; the people are a darn nuisance". Ouch!

"New wealth tends to be universally brash," says Mr. Pavan K. Varma, author of The Great Indian Middle Class. "In the new hierarchical and prescritive society of India, the mere having of wealth is not important unless you can display it because that display is linked to your ability to polevault those societal prescription", he says.

Perhaps that's why buying a Ford becomes necessary, not only to make the commuting comfortable but also to satiate the desire that neighbours too should see it. Mr. Varma, however, cautions that Delhi is not markedly different from other metropoliotan cities except that it is witnessing a great concentration of wealth in a short span of time. Hence the greed and the showing-off. Even Jantar Mantar's hunger strikes have a snob-and-show value ("What, Nafisa Ali did not come?").

Nothing really happens in Delhi if it does not happen in your face.

Film maker Mr. Muzaffar Ali has blamed...ahem, films, as one of the reasons for Delhi's growing crassiness. "Children are being influenced by loud films where there is lot of violence and speeding cars," he says. "Then there are the new settlers who don't understand the fabric of the city."

Does no one loves this poor little rich metropolis of ours? "Folks are working hard, making money and flaunting the wealth. What's wrong with that? ", says model Ms. Indrani Dasgupta. "Delhi is a great city."

City Life - No Gas Masks in Delhi Metro

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Smelly commute and other woes in the city metro.

[By Sanchita Guha; picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

There’s just one thing I forgot to pack when I came to Delhi about 15 months ago—a body armour. Now I sorely feel the absence of a solid Joan d’Arc type of steel creation in my limited wardrobe. And a gas mask would have been useful, too. Who knew, though, that the Delhi Metro, the most impressive work of technology this side of Bosphorus, would be so hazardous to one’s health?

Being a restless sort of person, I’ve travelled a bit and tested out intra-city railway networks of all sorts—but nothing rivals the Metro experience.

Here I am on my first day after finding accommodation in Dwarka Sector 11, waiting on the spotless platform, admiring the tracks, the ceiling, the electronic time display in a slightly goggle-eyed manner. “Very much like abroad only,” observes an equally impressed fellow commuter. Yes, indeed. Even better, I think, when the sleek train pulls in.

The ride through the next couple of stations is peaceful. The chap three seats away to my right is picking his nose, but it’s not difficult to shut him out if I look left. The following station is Dwarka Mor. As soon as the train stops, there’s a sound like an elephants’ stampede. Oh, I see. It’s merely citizens of an overpopulated country rushing to grab the nearest rationed commodity—seats. Am I feeling snooty this morning!

It’s difficult to maintain a stiff upper lip, I soon discover, when you can’t breathe. My ribs are being crushed. Because nine people—nine?!!—have squeezed into a row meant for seven and some of them look like they should have bought three tickets. One very fat woman has parked her bottom on most of my right leg, smiling at me gently. My leg is being crushed, too.

When the pressure eases a bit, I gasp for a bit of air. And gasp it out immediately. The air smells—in no particular order—of mooli, hair oil, bad breath and flatulence. Hair oil, in fact, has a special relationship with the Metro. It’s everywhere. Like territorial animals leaving their mark, commuters on the Metro leave rich, thick smudges of grease on every glass surface. If they have forgotten to oil their hair, they rub their hands relentlessly on the glass until it is sufficiently dirty. There, a job well done, the satisfied faces say. The children contribute significantly to this exercise. Nation-builders from a very young age, no doubt.

A seductive female voice on the PA system tells commuters from time to time to be careful as “pickpocketers have been identified in the train and stations area”. If they have identified, why aren’t they in jail? Whatever.

Now we are nearing Connaught Place, or Rajiv Chowk, if you will. There’s a ripple in the crowd, a bit of jockeying for position to get to the door. One elderly gent, first in queue, pushes his index and middle fingers into the slit between the doors, trying to force them open. But the train has not stopped yet. Bad timing, grandpa.

The doors open, the crowd turns into an avalanche, people at the back sort of trying to climb over the backs of those in front.

Why the rush?

This being a democratic country, all commuters will be allowed to leave the train with equal opportunity. Ah, the escalators. Everyone wants to get to it first. One man throws the punchline. Urged by his companion to take the stairs, which are nearer, he spits out: “Paisa diya hai tikat ke liye, siriya kyon charna hai (I’ve paid for my ticket, why should I take the stairs)?”

Well said, sir!

City Life - Reading Lolita in Delhi

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A stranger in one's own city.

[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Last night I dreamt that I was in England. I went to St. James Square, tiptoed inside the Reading Room of the London Library and felt the presence of George Eliot, Arthur Conan Doyale and Henry James. I wandered down to Westminster Abbey where, standing by Charles Dickens' grave, I mused on David Copperfield. I travelled to Stratford-upon-Avon, Shakespeare's hometown, and mourned on the bad luck of Juliet and her Romeo. I went to the Cathedral at Winchester and left a flower on Jane Austen's grave. The pilgrimage ended when I woke up in the morning and found myself back in Delhi.

I just don't feel at home in this city.

Apart from a statue of Pushkin, near Mandi House, and a road named after Tolstoy, near CP, there is hardly any 'familiar' landmark here. OK, they say that Arundhati Roy lives somewhere near Lodi Garden and Vikram Seth is out there in Noida but...but where is Shakespeare?

And Nabokov?

Reading Lolita in Central Park is all very well but I look around the bench and no one in the picnicking crowd looks white enough to have a name like Humbert Humbert or Dolores Haze.

I'm a stranger in my own city.

We convent-educated, thinking-in-Angrezi types live in cities like Delhi but devote our reading lives in the pursuit of characters from London, Paris and New York. We read James Baldwin and internalise the Harlems of the world but don't think of our own ghettos. We re-re-re-re-read the novels of Jane Austen but hello, she never belonged to our des. She never knew our language. As far as I know she not once tasted dal chawal. She never fancied Dilli.

On my way to Nizamuddin dargah, I always pass by Mirza Ghalib's tomb. His verses are said to offer spine-tingling pleasure. My spine remains indifferent though. Ghalib's greatness eludes me for I can neither read nor understand Urdu. His tomb never gives me the kick that Shakespeare's does - even though I have seen the latter's only in dreams. Then there is Prem Chand's archive in the Jamia University. He too excites no passion in me. I'm a foreigner to my own cultural landscape. I know everything about Harry Potter, but nothing about Ameer Hamza.

Last year after reading about the death of Urdu author Qurratulain Hyder I went to her still-fresh grave in the Jamia Nagar kabristan. I have never read Hyder's novels but I knew she was considered great and so I tried hard to feel her loss.

I couldn't. My loss.

Commuting - Delhi’s Dream Bus

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Wish list for an ideal city bus.

[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

If you drive with eyes wide open, you must have noticed that more and more fancy-looking low-floor CNG buses are plying on Delhi’s roads. A few years more and Blueline buses may become history. Perhaps. The Delhi Walla prepares a wish list of what an ideal dream bus this city deserves.

Comfy Seats
Let there be spacious, padded, pushback seats, with ample leg space. Each seat should have a seatbelt and a newspaper (International Herald Tribune of course).

Windows 'n' Curtains
The large glass windows will facilitate a more pleasurable sightseeing especially when the bus is rushing past landmarks like India Gate or the Lal Qila. However, since Delhi offers quite a few non-aesthetic scenes in its neighbourhoods, it is safer to have curtains too.

Wide Aisle
This will be convenient for standing passengers. Walking to the conductor's seat too becomes easy.

Big Screen TV
A plasma screen television will keep the commuters from getting impatient during long traffic jams. Music channels may be preferable to news channels whose breaking news may excite and exhaust the nerves needlessly.

Snack Counter
A token-operated vending machine placed close to the entry door in the back will help commuters refresh themselves with refreshments. Mineral water bottles, sandwiches, fruit juices and chocolates should be replenished after every few stops.

Police, Hey Police
It is necessary to have a cop dressed in all his regal glory throughout the bus route. His presence may restrain the basic instincts of possible molesters.

Charging Points
No matter how fancy your mobile phone or laptop is, the battery dies out just when you need it most. Charging points installed at the back of seats will make the commute truly productive.

Roof Freshener
Any morning commuter in DTC buses will tell you what her co-passenger had for breakfast (parathas with aam ka achaar?). A room freshener will not only mask your stinky secrets but will also keep your nasal cavities safe from unpleasant foreign fumes.

Capacity-sensitive Doors
Extra crowd will render the air conditioner impotent. It is important that the entry door should refuse to open at stops when the bus had reached its maximum capacity. The exit door too should be so automated that it shut off if some jugadoo tries to sneak in from there.

Private Cabins
Each bus should have one or two private cabins, with pricey charges, where chairs can be turned into beds. It will be a huge relief to those who travel daily from Ghaziabad to Gurgaon. It would also help those who...well, let's keep that private.

Road Hostess
Delhi wallas will love her. The sari-clad hostess (no mini skirts please, this is Delhi) will fold her hands in a graceful namaste at each stop and would request commuters not to push, shove and grope fellow-commuters' body-parts. She would also instruct how to tie the seat belt. Actually, a road hostess would be a good subsitute for conductors. Everyone would buy tickets then.

City Life - Delhi-Lahore Hip Factor

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Young life in both cities is a blend of cafe culture, cool music and retail nirvana.

[Text by Raza Rumi; picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

A Pakistani like me who is visiting Delhi cannot help but identify the commonalities between the Indian capital and Lahore. The climate, the predominant Punjabi influence, the urban chaos and indeed the quest for a good life are as shared as the centuries of mixed history.

In Delhi, these ingredients are packaged into a single space, loved and mourned in equal measure, the Khan Market. Its swanky cafes, retail outlets spell out a comfortable sense of the plentiful. A trip to Bahri Booksellers is essential to check on the new, profound and banal book titles.

Step out of the book-zone, walk around and you see young men and women holding hands and out to buy a little dose of happiness from the upmarket retail stores. New frames for glasses, an array of prêt-a-porter garments and of course cafes where one can lounge while sipping an exotic coffee brew with a fancy cake. Barista is a favourite of mine with its neo-modernity ambiance and an ample variety to select from.

If Barista is crowded, one turns to Café Turtle. Wi-fi access is available in these places along with soft music and trendy customers, whose snazzy mobile telephones rest silently on clean little tables. Connectivity is another facet of the global search for fulfillment.

In Khan Market cafes, one reminisces about similar haunts in Lahore. The MM Alam Road there is now a bustling venue for stylish cafes and restaurants that are popular hangouts for the youth defying the silly stereotypes of Pakistan.

Men and women converse in their designer jeans about the world, quite unaware of the residual violence of the war on terror on the Pak-Afghan border. The Coffee & Tea Company is hugely popular. Another joint, Massom, a pancake lounge, sells mouth-watering desserts with coffee brews and plays cool music as one plunges into leather sofas to chill. Places such as Café Zouk, Hobb-Nobb’s, Jamin Java continue to lure the hip Lahorites.

Since globalisation’s onslaught on Pakistan, Lahore’s traditional love for eating out has transformed into a fusion culture bonanza. The Hot Spot Café, Little Italy, Café Alinato and The Dish have emerged as havens of cross-continental culinary blending. Young women drive alone to meet up with friends at these places; and hordes of teens are seen flocking to the Pizza Huts, McDonalds’ and Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets.

While the affluent have these arenas, the underclass youth, both in Lahore and Delhi, finds its own recreational spaces in Carom and Snooker clubs, sleazy internet cafes with loads of porn, the weekly trips to parks; and the occasional sojourns to police lock ups. Life goes on. Globalization has something to offer to everyone.

[This article was earlier published in Lahore Nama.]

City Life - On the Banks of Yamuna

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A dream city by the dream river.

[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Last night I dreamt of a strange city. It too was called Delhi and it too had many aspects: the bare rocks of the Aravali ridge, the savage perpendiculars of the Gurgaon skyline, the wooded corners of Lodi Garden. It too had Seelampur with its smog and squalor, while the subtle symphonies of white bungalows and tree-lined avenues played out in its Chankayapuri.

But these were not the images evoked by the words ‘the prospects of Delhi’. The vision that arose in that dream metropolis was that of a sparkling river, of temples on its banks, of fishes and ducks floating in its waters, cheerful and tender. The toxic-free Yamuna was the epitome of this landscape.

The very name of this river is dear to those who love this dream Delhi. Possibly only the Ganga can be mentioned in the same breath as Yamuna. But while the Ganga is the holiest, it remains a foreigner. Its source is separate and it ignores Delhi in its course. For Delhiwallas it is always the Yamuna – calm, clean, limpid, lovely, and tranquil.

But in summers, the river, even in this dream city, is a stream of sand. A few thin threads of water drain through its center.

And then the rain falls, in July, and the sandy bed of Yamuna disappears. Trees that have progressed too daringly into the once dry bed raise marooned heads from the rushing water. When the monsoons are especially fierce, the water comes to level with the Ring Road (in the dream city, there are no traffic jams on this highway).

It even threatens the tranquility of the grassy expanse of Gandhiji's Samadhi at Rajghat. However, the Yamuna seldom breaches its bank nowadays. The last time it touched the ramparts of the Red Fort was perhaps centuries ago.

The rains, though, creates fertile islands in the middle of the river where farmers grow cauliflowers and cabbages; melons and cucumbers. These farms can be reached by boats that take tourists from one shore to another.

On weekends, it is as if the entire Delhi, from both sides of jamna-paar (no social divides here), has gathered on the river. Thousands of country boats float. The water echoes with the laughter of children. There are shikaras selling balloons, bouquets, and ice creams.

A variety of scenes are on view as one row down the river: momo-stalls in the Majnu ka Tila, wrestlers practicing kushti opposite Melcalfe House, Siberian birds flying high in Jumna Bazaar, the stunning span of the historic Loha Pul, the colony of elephants under the ITO bridge, and the worshippers lighting diyas in Akshardham Mandir.

And if thirst strikes you any moment, help yourself from the river. They say that Hazrat Nizamuddin once saw an old lady drawing water from a well. He asked her why she was not using Yamuna's water. The lady said, "I have an old husband. We have nothing to eat. Yamuna's water is so tasty that it induces hunger. Since it would excite our appetite, I do not have water from the river." Stuff dreams are made of.

Photo Essay - Chicks of Delhi

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Your guide to Delhi's eye candy.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

After exhausting most of the tombs, dargahs, forts, masjids, cafes, bazaars and bookshops, The Delhi Walla has finally compiled a guidebook of what this city is perhaps most admired for: its women. Here is the list of hangouts in the capital where voyeurs can cool off their eager eyes.

Priya Cinema, Basant Lok

The scene outside Priya cinema's box office window at Basant Lok never fails to disappoint. Deep cleavages and low jeans makes this pedestrian strip one of Delhi's most erotically-charged destinations. The air is scented with perfume, cafes are packed with punk-haired kids, and college-goers and day-job yuppies walk hand in hand. Even bookshops are not safe from the invasion of the hotties.

Risk factor: Minimal since the Priya crowd, like ramp walk models, loves to set hearts racing.

Khan Market

Pricey showrooms, trendy restro-bars, and earthy kebab-stalls at Khan Market are the natural home of the beautiful in all hues and varieties—young and old, rich and powerful, desi and expats. Everyone is cool but they're not loud about their cool quotient. They may be botoxed but they never wear fake brands. However, the cleavages here are not that deep.

Risk factor: Quite high but the daring may try.

Paharganj Main Bazaar

If you have a thing for goras, then Paharganj must be your getaway. Its rooftop cafes, roadside bookshops, and makeshift henna stalls shimmer and glimmer with bare arms and barer legs. Loads of Israeli and European tourists lounge about - almost naked!

Risk factor: Not high but the gaze must be shifty so that it escapes notice.

M Block Market, GK-II

Size Zero may be the latest fashion statement but Delhi's attachment to hot aunties with heaving buxoms and salty maturity is always in vogue. Take a trip to M-Block Market and enjoy.

Risk factor: Not high. Aunties like it.

Near Jama Masjid, Old Delhi

If Paharganj tempts by bare flesh, Matia Mahal in Old Delhi allures the senses with delicious mysteries—just what lies beneath those ghunghats and purdahs? Beauty acquires a new meaning. Too bad men wear no veil.

Risk factor: Don't ask.

Statutory warning: Bird watching can be injurious to health.

Bus stop distractions



Shy 'n' modest



Kya bolta tu



Beauty in exile



Madam in red



Perfect symmetry



Old Delhi babes



Drama queen



Classical touch



What lies behind?

Living - No Room for Love Making

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Young Delhiwallas can't find a place for sex.

[Text by Steven Baker; he teaches creative writing in the British Council; picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

The sad fact is, this is Delhi. Not Manhattan. So just where in the city can you have sex? Well as I found out recently, one place Delhi's young lovers can get intimate is, er, in my house. Being a foreigner with a spacious south Delhi pad can result in some XXX action. It began with a phone call from a friend. Let's just call her Tina - for that is her name.

-Can I come to your place this evening?

-Sure. But I was planning to go to GK1 for drinks with some work colleagues.

-Oh, that's OK. You go. I'll just come over and watch TV when you're out. I'll pick up the key from your landlady.

Strange request I know. But hey, If I lived in a joint family, with an endless stream of chachas, maamis, and ji ja jees; I would probably also relish a night alone with a K serial.

Just as the party was getting started, Delhi's early to bed licensing laws sent us homeward bound. In Goldilocks fashion I arrived to a darkened room, questioning "Who's been sleeping in my bed?" My friend Tina, joined by her current squeeze - a somewhat round, somewhat naked, tyre fitter from Karol Bagh.

Once I got over the initial surprise, it got me thinking. Apart from my apartment, what options are out there for sexually charged Delhiites? A quick promenade around Lodi Gardens? Furtive groping in the darkness of PVR? Moments of sweating palm intimacy on the Delhi Metro? All unsatisfactory I'm sure you'll agree. Besides, Public Displays of Affection can only go so far. For the real deal, where can two go?

One alternative is to do things Brit-style. In the English subcontinent we generally flee the nest in our early twenties or late teens. After discovering love's young dream at the local pub or curry house, kidz there promptly move in together quicker than you can say Salaaaaaaaam Namaste. That unspoken C word, co-habitation, provides us with the space and the place for copious amounts of the love drug.

So perhaps following the western path is the solution?

In a globalised, modern India, we need to change the way we address sex and sexuality. Which includes thinking about places that young lovers can explore (each other that is). Enough 1950's Bollywood bush shaking. Be gone bee pollinating. Farewell shaking flowers. Here's to Sex in the City. Alas, my place is out. Although I'm OK with it, Mrs. Singh, my elderly-Gurdwara-attending-landlady now has her eyes wide open to such GB Roadesque activities on the second floor.

Photo Essay - Bookshop Romance of Delhi

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The city has a love for books.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Sunday: Old Jane Austen editions at Daryaganj’s Sunday book bazaar. Monday: Salman Rushdie’s latest at Oxford Bookstore, CP. Tuesday: Arundhati Roy’s The Shape of the Beast at Khan Market's Bahri Sons. Wednesday: US edition of Jhumpa Lahiri’s Namesake at Jackson’s, Paharganj. Thursday: Chekhov’s short stories at Basant Lok’s Fact and Fiction bookshop. Friday: Qurratulain Hyder’s Aag ka Darya at Urdu Bazaar’s Maktaba Jamia. Saturday: Alice Munro at Midland, South Ex. Sunday: Jane Austen again at the Sunday book bazaar.

Full Circle, Khan Market



Jackson's, Paharganj



Sunday Book Bazaar, Daryaganj



Bookshop, Jor Bagh



Pavement stall, Paharganj



Maktaba Jamia, Urdu Bazar



Fact and Fiction, Basant Lok



Bahri Sons, Khan Market

City Life - Discount Shopping at Humayun's Tomb

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Malls, monuments, malls, monume...malls.

[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

It was no dream. It happened for real. The sky was overcast, the wind cool, and the grass wet. There was no queue at the ticket counter. Inside, the trees stood alone, the benches were empty, and the stones seemed to heave with silence. I entered through the main gateway and there it was - Humayun's Tomb. Stately, elegant, and melancholy, standing gracefully since four centuries.

I was alone except for a few foreign tourists who, in their hats and shorts, were busy clicking photographs. I could not see anyone who looked Indian.

After climbing a few steep stairs, I tiptoed inside the main chamber.

Humayun, the most unfortunate of the Mughals, was buried here 452 years ago. He had lost his kingdom and not long after reclaiming it, he died on the treacherous stairs of Purana Qila.

A century later, the headless body of Humayun's great grandson, Dara Shikoh, the greatest Mughal emperor India never had, was also buried here. Poor Dara. He was murdered by his own brother Aurangzeb.

But who cares for dead kings? Delhi is littered with the graveyards of princes and prime ministers who thought they were invincible. Yet places like Humayun's tomb are different. They are an ideal space to reflect and connect with one's self and to unwind from the metropolitan pressures.

Despite the dangerous signs of climate change (heavy rains in May!), the trees, the birds and the squirrels here create a gentle communion with nature. The sound of the crawling traffic on the Ring Road too fades into a distant hum. What an idyll.

As I stroll in the ruins and hear bats flapping their wings, somewhere up in the ceilings, I began to understand why this place, inspite of its breathtaking beauty, is not as frequented as, say, Lajpat Nagar or the Khan Market for that matter.

Humayun's tomb has a character that remains drunk in grief. In today's happy world of fast food chains and snazzy shopping outlets, no one any longer seeks dreamy retreats. Most want to achieve their wants instantly; and retail therapy is the order of the day. The more you shop, eat, drink and browse, the better you feel. Getting lost in crowds, with shared need of quick gratification, is comforting.

Keeping one's self busy these days is a virtue: busy at work, busy at the multiplex, busy at the mall, busy driving a flashy car, busy making love. We are growing incapable of spending time with the self.

Detaching ourselves from the world, even for an hour, is out of fashion. We drive past places like Humayun tomb but we don't feel tempted to go inside them. We just have no time. Perhaps our metro-souls are busy too.