Only in Delhi do you get judged for where you live
In Delhi, you have to be put in your place instantly. Since we Dilliwalas have borne the tag of obnoxious, rudeness for so long (when compared to the sophisticated Mumbaikars) that people have developed a whole new way to figure out where you belong.
It is a real art, a sublime style where a bejewelled hand twirling the champagne tulip gives you a once over and realises that even with the dodgy saree, I could well be "someone". Pity that I am not, but she doesn’t know that yet and is trying very hard to figure out how to get to the bottom of it.
I don’t dread this social colosseum where the gladiators are of course female and have razor sharp senses which they use with military precision to rid their adversaries of any grandiose ideas. In the 90s, we career types called them the South Delhi Solitaires.
Kitty parties were still a new phenomenon and designer clothes just round the corner. Pre-liberalisation, the women wore several rings on one finger to show their worth and the carbon that set them apart was that pair of diamonds.
It had to be VVS1 and a decent carat. Worn with a slight pink zardozi (the hot, hot trend then), the woman could slam down the car keys of her Maruti Esteem to prove she had truly arrived.
Anything this side of Jangpura was middle class and beyond Ashram lived the unknown, untamed hordes. The ring road was more than a ribbon of asphalt, it was a clear dividing line. Either you were in it or outside of it. And I have always been on the wrong side of it.
However, thanks to the rise of Gurugram and that steeple chase housing in Greater Noida, that line has ended up with a bit of a blur. I mean those Sector 15 houses in Noida cost a pretty packet so the inhabitants can’t be called heathens.
In swish Gurugram, there are those lovely apartments which run into crores with centralised air conditioning and no dearth of car space, especially for those German machines.
Unlike, say Defence Colony which now looks more like a parking lot that one of the dearer parcels of real estate. There was a time when the status conscious purists pooh-poohed the idea of Vasant Kunj as "south Delhi". It was at best, on the edge of Haryana and had this wasteland between its snooty neighbour, Vasant Vihar.
You do get what I am saying? There is a real hierarchy about that address you possess. You need to prove that you are worth spending a single syllable on. Well, I have been relegated to those who cannot be named or acknowledged, such should be the shame that I live across the Yamuna.
Now if this was New York, I would be in Manhattan but since this is Delhi, well, I am in Newark. In fact, that canapé is totally wasted on me since I wouldn’t even know how to spell it. But there is more shaming before I can gulp that morsel of smoked salmon.
This is how a typical conversation goes, especially if I am at an event where the likes of me stand out like a sore thumb but perhaps I underestimate my charm and charisma and am being overly sensitive.
"Hi, we haven’t met. I am so & so!"
"Hi, I am Anjoo… with a double oo. Heh heh, it’s how it’s spelt. I think I am like Bond. Double o. Hee hee". Well, if I was dubious before, I have really killed it by now.
"You know xyz?"
"Not really, we did some work together."
The adversary is totally confused by now. Worked together as in megabucks or a flunky, floozy, general factotum way? If it was the latter, I wouldn’t be hanging around even if the booze is free, would I? So here it comes… to figure out exactly what I am supposed to be.
"Erm, where do you live?" There, bam. Straight in your face, like stop pretending, tell me who you are, this has gone far enough, you clearly don’t belong!
And I reply with great levity since I have been expecting this question all along, it was just a matter of time. Many do not waste so many seconds. So I yell back in stupendous pleasure, "PATPARGANJ."
Hitler’s SS wouldn’t have caused the silence that ensues. There is a flurry of activity and sudden confused verbosity, "Gosh, I have kept you busy for so long. I need a drink. I think I see my sister over there. Oh, I need to find my husband." You get the drift.
There is a need for immediate distance as if I have some communicable disease. The rest of the evening is spent in great effort (them, not me) to avoid bumping into me at any cost. Of course there is a nice little aside where I have been Delhi’s best friend when they want something: an entry, a placement, an introduction etc. related to where I happen to work.
I just have to love Delhi for this. It is a life without illusions. But I just have this wish that someday, someone would ask me where I went to school or what I studied instead of where I live!