Weekend of surprises

"This is my brother-cousin," I told the over-protective man who works the reception desk at the hotel where I live. "He's passing through Delhi on his way to Gwalior." My friend M. looked pleasantly surprised at my introduction, but he played along -- and though I suspect the receptionist was less than convinced, I'm sure he appreciated my effort to look as though I was not, in fact, operating a brothel out of his hotel.

M. came to stay the night -- he had an early train to catch in the morning, and my hotel is a 3-minute walk away from the railway station -- and to introduce me to some friends of his. They're on a study abroad program in Hyderabad, and were playing hooky from school so that they could take themselves on a 10-day trip to the northern part of the country. We were planning to meet them at a concert at the Purana Qila. Just as we were heading out the door, M. got a call from his friend N., who informed us that the concert was quickly becoming more annoying than amusing. We decided to meet for a late dinner at Saravana Bhavan in Connaught Place instead.

As we all gathered, I thought I recognized a familiar face. Was that J., from high school? Could it be? J., whom I remember has having no interest whatsoever in India, now studying in *Hyderabad*?

J. and I had the great, if surreal, opportunity to catch up on more than two years of each other's lives (and, err, indulge in a little gossip about the lives of the people with whom we went to high school). We never really talked much when we went to school together -- we knew each other, and were in a few of the same classes -- but it turns out we have far more in common than I had thought. She's a Religion major at Bates, and wants to focus on Buddhism. She's even studying Sanskrit! All this made for a truly pleasant discovery. It was certainly surprising to discover her in Delhi, of all places: a city where I came to be alone, to escape, to start new projects. At the moment we recognized each other, the cosmos winked.

Following a lively dinner, we piled in rickshaws and drove to the N-block of GK-1 in pursuit of a dance club. (For a second I thought guiltily, strangely, about my students.) Our rickshaw driver decided to drop us off in M-block instead. By the time we finally found N-block, we had walked in a huge circle and decided that all of our futures would really be better spent living in the palatial homes of Greater Kailash, W-block.

Up on the roof in the tropical night air, we sat on luxurious low couches, sipped wine, experimented with the signature Masala Martini. (No comment.) We watched the young and the beautiful (but most of all, the rich) of Delhi sit on *their* couches and drink *their* wine. It was great company, and a gorgeous night. Conversation flitted about like excited parakeets in a cage. By the time M. and I left, I would have been ready for anything: I think a Proper Night Out was just what the doctor (or ayurvedacarya, or astrologer, or guru, whatever) ordered. M. and I collapsed in our beds; I didn't envy him for having to catch a train at 6AM the following morning.

This morning I got a call from N., both of us still in bed, and we planned to meet up in Paharganj and spend a while in the old city today. Last night he had invited me to come along with the Hyderabad group to Chandni Chowk; I countered with an offer to help them navigate the chaat counters at the (original!) Haldiram's there. We chatted for a few good hours -- bombarding each other with tales of travel, India, rickshaw-wallahs, policemen, literary theory (??) -- before accumulating all the members of our group and readying ourselves for a trip to the most famous street in Delhi. I realized how long it had been since I had spent any real amount of time with lots of people my age: were it not for the streets of Paharganj, I could have been back in college, spewing stories and laughter with my roommates. Amazing!

I will, however, add this: that no matter how hard it is to travel by myself around Paharganj, it is even harder to be in a group of seven Americans. Shopkeepers, random people on the street, and (of course) rickshaw-wallahs were EVEN MORE aggressive than usual. I found myself in the strange position of taking visitors around "my" city -- bargaining, giving directions, making plans, ordering food. It was wonderful to play tour guide, and it was wonderful to be with these interesting, intellectually astute, fun-loving, somewhat goofy, often sarcastic, and (quite frankly) good-looking people. I loved it.

It's impossible not to have a blast at Haldiram's, and today was no exception. First there was the rickshaw ride over there: four of us in the back, one on the laps of the other three. Another rickshaw driver really took a liking to the girl who was sitting on our laps, and basically followed us all the way to Old Delhi in his rickshaw making comments to our driver and casting not-so-sly glances back at our fair companion. At one point he was so interested in her that he nearly drove his rickshaw into a public bus. Then *we* almost collided with a public bus. Then we bumped the back of another rickshaw.

"You're all crazy!" Said N. in Hindi to the driver.

He turned around, nodded vigorously, and smiled so widely that we could see his betel-stained molars.

"What a country!" Exclaimed N., "You tell people they're crazy, and they're, like, 'YES! WE ARE!'" N. stuck his thumb in the air and mimicked the driver's expression perfectly.

At Haldiram's, we hawked tables, stuck two together, and piled them with as much chaat as we possibly could: raj katchori, paapri chaat, bhel puri, a double dose of pani puri. To this we added two north Indian thalis, two orders of paneer tikka, two kinds of parantha, and a chole bhature. We were sweating and exhausted by the time the meal finished. It was...unbelievable. There's no real way to describe Haldiram's -- you just have to go there and see, smell, and (best of all) taste for yourself.

Afterwards, we nibbled on sweets downstairs and went our separate ways: me, back to Paharganj (with a positively evil rickshaw driver); everyone else, to the Lal Qila.

I'm incredibly full right now: on chaat, on chat, on this crazy, crazy country.