4 hours ago
Chapter: Delhi Diaries – Day One
"Dearest Prakash,
I promised I would write to you every day about this bizarre experiment. So here goes. I am sitting on a creaky wooden chair in Dara’s—our—new quarters in Delhi. The fan is wobbling above me. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the call to prayer from a mosque. Ayan must be on the ship with you by now. I miss him already. I miss you too. But I made this choice, and I am going to see it through.
We arrived this morning by Shatabdi Express. Dara was nervous the entire journey, which is unusual for him. He kept fiddling with the new clothes I bought him—a simple kurta-pajama, nothing fancy. I wore a plain green salwar kameez, no makeup, and left my septum ring behind. In this new colony, I am supposed to be just another watchman’s wife. No one knows I am a merchant navy officer’s wife from Mumbai. No one knows about the videos or the WhatsApp groups. I am starting from zero.
The colony is called Mayur Vihar Phase III Extension. It is one of those sprawling Delhi-NCR societies with twenty towers, each eight stories high. Very different from our building in Mumbai. Here, the watchmen are everywhere, and they all seem to know Dara from his army days. He got this job through an old friend, a Gurkha like him. The quarters are on the ground floor of Tower G, right next to the garbage room. I won’t lie—when I first saw it, my heart sank.
Two rooms. A tiny kitchen with a single-burner stove. A bathroom that smells of bleach and has a geyser that looks like it might electrocute me. A bedroom with a double bed that has a sagging mattress and metal springs poking out. A small living area with a plastic table, two chairs, and a fifteen-inch TV that only plays DD National. Dara saw my face and said, “This is better than any place I have ever lived, memsaab. I shared a shack with three other men in the army for years.”
I didn’t correct him for calling me memsaab. Old habits.
The first challenge was unpacking. I had brought two suitcases—one with my clothes, one with bedsheets, utensils, a pressure cooker, and some spices. Dara has exactly one bag. He owns three pairs of pants, four shirts, one pair of shoes, and a photograph of his dead wife. He placed that photograph on the wall with a small garland. I watched him do it and felt a strange pang. Not jealousy. Something else. Respect, maybe. For a man who has lost so much and still fights for every scrap of happiness."
"Dearest Prakash,
I promised I would write to you every day about this bizarre experiment. So here goes. I am sitting on a creaky wooden chair in Dara’s—our—new quarters in Delhi. The fan is wobbling above me. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the call to prayer from a mosque. Ayan must be on the ship with you by now. I miss him already. I miss you too. But I made this choice, and I am going to see it through.
We arrived this morning by Shatabdi Express. Dara was nervous the entire journey, which is unusual for him. He kept fiddling with the new clothes I bought him—a simple kurta-pajama, nothing fancy. I wore a plain green salwar kameez, no makeup, and left my septum ring behind. In this new colony, I am supposed to be just another watchman’s wife. No one knows I am a merchant navy officer’s wife from Mumbai. No one knows about the videos or the WhatsApp groups. I am starting from zero.
The colony is called Mayur Vihar Phase III Extension. It is one of those sprawling Delhi-NCR societies with twenty towers, each eight stories high. Very different from our building in Mumbai. Here, the watchmen are everywhere, and they all seem to know Dara from his army days. He got this job through an old friend, a Gurkha like him. The quarters are on the ground floor of Tower G, right next to the garbage room. I won’t lie—when I first saw it, my heart sank.
Two rooms. A tiny kitchen with a single-burner stove. A bathroom that smells of bleach and has a geyser that looks like it might electrocute me. A bedroom with a double bed that has a sagging mattress and metal springs poking out. A small living area with a plastic table, two chairs, and a fifteen-inch TV that only plays DD National. Dara saw my face and said, “This is better than any place I have ever lived, memsaab. I shared a shack with three other men in the army for years.”
I didn’t correct him for calling me memsaab. Old habits.
The first challenge was unpacking. I had brought two suitcases—one with my clothes, one with bedsheets, utensils, a pressure cooker, and some spices. Dara has exactly one bag. He owns three pairs of pants, four shirts, one pair of shoes, and a photograph of his dead wife. He placed that photograph on the wall with a small garland. I watched him do it and felt a strange pang. Not jealousy. Something else. Respect, maybe. For a man who has lost so much and still fights for every scrap of happiness."
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