Morning in Munirka

I woke up in Munirka Village this morning, a neighborhood in Delhi where it isn’t one sound or smell or thought that wakes you, but rather an entire amassed collection of them. Munirka bustles with as much energy as other Delhi districts, but it has a distinctly more rustic feel. The whole neighborhood is, in fact, built illegally on government land. Landlords pay their regular baksheesh, and Delhiites give it the distinction of being a “village” in a strangely subconscious association of rural with backward and unofficial. Munirka Village is not a slum. My friend lives on the top floor of a beautiful new six story building, complete with wrought iron railings and flashy purple paint. The village simply belongs in the great collection of Indian treasures that remain outside of officialdom. Like the cloth vendors of Sarojini Market and the electronics salesmen of Palika Bazaar and all the thousands of auto wallahs who refuse to switch on the meter and the aloo tikki chefs that roll their kitchens alongside the roads of Safdarjung Enclave. The aromas and tastes and moods of these unofficial (but perhaps more mainstream) spheres are intense – pungent and sweet, racing and slow, everlasting but mortal.

As I walked onto the rooftop terrace of my friend’s flat, six stories above the low-lying Munirka Village (even this construction is illegal – residential buildings should not exceed four stories in Delhi), I could see the varying levels of activity on all the rooftops below. Each level had a different story to tell on a descending ladder that led to street level. I felt like jumping from one to the other, meeting the woman who was hanging her nicest sari to dry, the boys playing a game of carom, the old men enjoying their first cup of morning chai. I think one of the reasons I remain attached to India is that it always offers another unexplored perspective. The Delhi overlooking Munirka Village – a dirt-smeared, cow-traversed rustic Delhi – is a world unlike the lush green Delhi of Lodhi Gardens, or the raucous old world Delhi in the winding street markets near Jama Masjid. Delhi – and India – gives the impression that one could spend a lifetime turning over new rocks, discovering new lenses, even encountering new religions. All of a sudden the seven months I plan to spend in South Asia seem far too short to see it all.