Coming home

I have spent the last week in Delhi, staying with a very close friend. How close? Close enough to see me first thing in the morning, my hair frizzed wildly around my face, my eyes bleary with sleep and no mascara and my smile pleading for that morning dose of steaming green tea. She is perhaps the only person who is allowed to lecture me on my rather erratic food habits and the only person who is allowed to tell me what I should do, never mind that I rarely will do it, especially if I see no reason to. Be that as it may, she allowed me to invade her home – and even invited me back soon – and managed to gallivant all over the city, steering me into stores and away from them, as the temptations may have been skirted or indulged in, making me a very happy holidayer at the end of the too-short vacation I had.

It started with a bad case of bronchitis and ended with a sneeze. Leaving Mumbai was not as hard as I thought it would be, particularly because I knew that Small Cat would be permitted to perch on the dining table during mealtimes and that Father’s fibre intake would drastically decrease in my absence. But we all needed the break and so I took it. I flew out one sunny and sweaty Monday morning, on a plane that was, unusually, just a few minutes late and packed with people going to the capital and parts beyond. I sipped excruciating brewed tea in an attempt – vain, I must admit, since I gave up after the first flavour-mote hit my tastebuds – to wake up enough to be civil to the stewardess and glowered at the gentleman to my side who tried to make friends. The food was dreadful, the papers were crumpled and incomplete and the air-pockets were frightening. And then we were there.

It was cool and breezy in Delhi, the epitome of a brilliant and beautiful spring day. Insulated in a large car with wonderful climate control, we drove through familiar territory to my friend’s home, stopping at the very place that my car would be parked on all my previous visits there when I lived in the city. It was almost like coming home, with a small difference: it was not ‘home’ for me any more; life and my existence had shifted focus to a new framework of servants, grocery shops and work stress.

It is always not-too-easy to start a vacation and even more so to end it. I had new balances of affection and bonds to deal with, even as I managed to make myself fit into an environment that was so evolved, but that had, in a way, stayed the same since I had left it all those years ago. My friend was still my friend, the affection between us deeper than ever, but she had moved on with her friends, as I had with mine, and we had adjustments to make and more to talk – and giggle – about. A few "What it ees?" and we were back to a childhood that we may not have shared, but we occasionally reverted to.

In that week, we managed to visit all our ‘favourite’ places, be it the deli in Jor Bagh or the boutique in Santushti that we frequented on Saturday afternoons. We fought over fudge at the Chocolate Wheel and debated the pork chops at Pig Po, tasted cheese and pate at the Steak House and sniffed spice powders at INA Market. And we shopped, almost like vacuum cleaners osmosing dust, at the Upasana racks in a new store that she had discovered. And I walked out of Tulsi the proud owner of a frighteningly expensive and amazingly beautiful kurta not available in Mumbai, the manager assured me.

And now I am home again, disciplining Small Cat, Father and myself, making sure the household slips smoothly into its routine with no sign of my absence showing in any way. It is almost as if I had never been away…if it wasn’t for the natty cat-prints on the glass top of the dining table, you would never know I had.