The moment the plane’s wheels kiss the tarmac at Indira Gandhi International Airport, I know I’m back. There’s something about that first breath of Delhi air—a blend of dampness, Vim floor cleaner, and human sweat—that no fragrance company could ever bottle. It’s unmistakable. It’s India.
Inside the terminal, I wave off the men who approach with solicitous smiles, asking if I need a porter. “No, thank you,” I say, trying to sound firm, self-reliant, jet-lagged though I am. But as I wrestle my suitcase off the conveyor belt, gravity wins, and so does the porter who catches it just in time. I hand him a tip, aware I’ve been played—and oddly grateful for it.
Outside, the guards manning the exit gates look as though they’d rather be anywhere else. It’s three in the morning. The city beyond is still half-asleep, its usual chaos replaced by a hush that feels almost reverent. The roads are quiet—no beggars, no hawkers, just the fog rolling lazily over the hedges lining the airport drive. Even at sixty degrees, the driver flicks on the air conditioning, a small but necessary buffer between me and Delhi’s sticky warmth.
As we glide through the wide boulevards of Lutyens’ Delhi, my eyes catch the silhouette of the Ashoka Hotel. My heart does a tiny somersault. It was there, years ago, that I got married—nervous, excited, utterly unprepared for the journey ahead. Every time I see that pale pink façade rise through the mist, nostalgia hits me like a monsoon wave.
I love visiting Delhi. I love its contradictions—the gleaming malls beside crumbling havelis, the aroma of cardamom chai drifting through exhaust fumes, the way chaos and charm dance together in the streets. But I also know that within seven days, I’ll be itching to leave. Delhi, for all its grandeur and emotional pull, demands stamina. The first few days are a sensory feast—the food, the colors, the chatter of relatives, the comforting familiarity of Hindi or Punjabi spoken in every direction. But soon the very things that enchant begin to exhaust. The constant honking that feels almost like a citywide heartbeat turns into a throbbing headache. The air thickens with dust and exhaust.
Everyone is in a hurry, yet nothing moves quickly—traffic, service, bureaucracy, time itself. There’s a peculiar rhythm to Delhi life, one that operates at full throttle yet gets nowhere fast. People honk incessantly as if noise itself could part the gridlock. Lines form and dissolve with equal ease. Even the smallest task becomes a test of patience and persistence.
Take shopping, for instance. Buying one outfit can take three days—and that’s if you’re lucky. What you choose in the boutique isn’t actually in stock; it must be shipped from a showroom in Mumbai. When it finally arrives, the tailor insists on “minor adjustments.” You return the next day for a fitting, only to discover that the blouse is too tight at the shoulders or the hemline an inch too short. Back it goes for a “second trial.” And through it all, the shop assistants hover with polite but immovable smiles, offering you another cup of chai while you resign yourself to the endless waiting that somehow passes for customer service.
This is the Delhi paradox—impatience wrapped in inefficiency. Everyone talks about how busy they are, how fast life moves here, and yet everything takes twice as long as it should. From getting a SIM card to arranging a taxi, from picking up dry cleaning to booking a restaurant table, there’s always another form to fill, another confirmation to wait for, another person who has to “just check with sir.”
At first, I find myself amused by it all, charmed even by the chaos that feels so quintessentially Indian. But after a few days, the delays begin to wear thin. I start missing the streamlined ease of life elsewhere—the one-click purchases, the punctual appointments, the quiet efficiency of systems that simply work. In Delhi, everything is possible, but nothing is easy.
There’s always someone cutting in line, someone insisting their urgency is greater than yours, someone asking personal questions that feel startlingly intimate after years of American small talk. The heat, even when it’s not hot, clings to your skin like an unwelcome embrace. A short errand requires strategy—navigating roads where traffic lights are suggestions, crossing streets where pedestrians are invisible, smiling through the minor chaos that comes with every interaction.
By the end of the week, I find myself craving silence—the kind that hums in my home abroad, where car horns are rare and people keep a polite distance. I long for the predictability of a queue, the efficiency of systems that work, the anonymity that allows me to fade into the background instead of being constantly seen, asked, or judged.
Still, every departure feels bittersweet. Because for all its imperfections, Delhi remains the city that raised me, shaped me, and refuses to let me go. It’s exasperating. It’s intoxicating. And every time I return, it smells exactly like home.
Storytelling and In-Person Signing
If you’re in the San Francisco Area, I hope you’ll join me on November 13 from 1-3 pm at New Delhi Restaurant.
CRAFT CORNER
MEMOIR WRITING TIP
Reflection is the heart of memoir, but reflection without scene is just commentary. Whenever you articulate a realization, pair it with a moment—dialogue, sensory detail, a gesture, an object—that shows the truth you’re telling. Scene makes insight earned; insight makes scene meaningful.
WRITING PROMPT
Write about the first time you realized you were living between two worlds.
Let it be cultural, emotional, or personal—your “before” and “after” moment. Begin with a sensory detail: a smell that didn’t belong, a phrase spoken in a tone you suddenly understood differently, a gesture that revealed a gap you hadn’t yet named. Let the scene unfold exactly as it happened, without commentary. Then, only at the end, reveal what you understand now that you could not have known then.
