Chapter 19

Greed, anger, envy and ambition were four evils that Mark had never known. He’d met them yes, occasionally when he visited big towns, but he never stopped enough to come to know them. He and the other people of Kasauli, and indeed other small towns like it, were happily strangers to such things.

So, it was never easy for Mark to come to Delhi. It was always a shock to see the big metropolitan city, complete with its dark, dirty, fast life. Where people believed in killing to survive, where they did not think twice about things such as desertion and deception—things that people back home would spend hours wondering about and pondering upon.

As the train slowed down near Subzi Mandi, 15 minutes from New Delhi railway station, he stood on the door hating the sight of the city. It was after 9 in the night. The slums along the railway tracks were in silence, as people slept anywhere they found space, some very near the track, shrinking within themselves in the cold February night. A few, still shivering, tried to catch the half-eaten foodstuff that people threw out of the train. And there was the familiar stench that Mark turned away from. How do these people live here, he wondered once again.

"Hello," a male voice from somewhere behind disturbed his thoughts, "hello? Sir?"
Mark turned around to see a dark fat man with a thick moustache, a common metro face, probably a government clerk. He asked Mark if he had a match with a signal of the hand. He was standing right below the ‘no smoking’ signboard.
"No, sorry," Mark replied in words.
"You from foreign?" he asked, keeping the cigarette back in the box.
Mark shook his head in the negative. He didn’t want to start a conversation with this man.
"No?" the man said anyway, "Where from then?"
"Kasauli."
"Going Delhi?"
They were 10 minutes from the last stop—Delhi. "Yes," Mark said acerbically.
"Going to holiday?"
"Bhaisaab, mujhe Hindi samajh aati hai!" Mark said, losing his cool. He wanted to be left alone just now and even otherwise he couldn’t stand such people.
The man was stunned, not because of the harshness of his words, but because even though Mark had told him he wasn’t a foreigner he hadn’t really believed him. That this guy with near white skin and light brown hair was speaking fluent Hindi was an audio/video mismatch for him. Thankfully, for both of them, the train halted soon and Mark was the first to jump off.

He ignored all the coolies that flocked around him and walked past the maddening rush firmly. The homeless sleeping on newspapers on the platform, the croaking voices of men selling tea, water, combs, pens, cold drinks… all the cacophony was too much for him. He walked out but there was no respite. Everybody thought he was a foreigner, hence an easy prey. "Hello," one guy said, "you want taxi?" "Where to go?" another butted in between. A lot of people wanting to help, guide, advice him almost blocked his way. "Abe Hindustani hoon. Nahin chahiye kuch," he finally said aloud, disgusted.

Mark walked to the auto-rickshaw stand. "Haan bhaisaab," he said to one, "chaloge?"
"Kahan?" he said, plainly shocked at the ‘foreigner’ speaking Hindi so perfectly.
"New Friends Colony."
"Baitho."
"Kitna?"
"150."
Mark casually turned around and started walking towards another rickshaw. "Arrey bhaisaab, ruko," the driver instantly said, "kitna doge?"
"80," Mark said, turning around.
"100."
"80."
"90."
"80."
"Achha chalo yaar," the auto guy said wincingly. "Pata nahin kaise kaise aajate hain," he mumbled, as they took off. Mark smiled. ‘Welcome to Delhi,’ he said to himself.
They manoeuvred past the madly chaotic station entrance only to get stuck in a jam on the Paharganj road nearby. The smell of spicy curries, coming from the small dhabas dotting the entire road, coupling with that of the open toilets on the other side repulsed Mark’s sensibilities. He asked the drive to stop and puked his guts out. Many people passed by without even noticing. It was probably a common sight for them.
"Lagta hai Dilli ki hawa raas nahin aayie," the driver said mockingly once Mark got back in the rickshaw. Mark ignored him.
"New Friends Colony mein kahan jana hai?" he asked.
"C-Block. C-235."
"Rasta pata hai?"
"New Friends Colony se pata hai."
"Haan New Friends Colony to pahucha hi denge," he said in a self-assured tone.
Mark took out a shawl from his bag and wrapped it around. Delhi’s cold air was almost as bad as Kasauli, only polluted.
"Parda neeche kardoon?" the driver asked.
"Nahin theek hai," he replied, as he took a sip from his mineral water bottle.
"Aap kahan se hain?" the driver asked, having struck a rapport
"Kasauli."
"Wahan pe to bahut baraf giri hai is saal."
"Haan." Mark was already missing Kasauli—being with Daisy there. But he knew it was just a matter of a few hours before he’d be with her again. It didn’t matter even if it were in this hell that he would be with her, as long as she was with him even hell felt like heaven.
He remembered Daisy’s words… "Heaven is any place that makes us happy. It could be different for different people." For now Mark’s heaven was New Delhi. Where Daisy was.