Picture this - a higgledy-piggledy bunch of quixotic fantasists thrown together (as though fate were blending an unlikely Saturday smoothie), each with their own individual explanations as to why giving up several precious hours of leisure (even more so for most, squeezed as they are from the remains of a six day work-week) to voluntarily sit in a tiny little classroom and make complete asses of their middle-aged (some mentally, others not so much) selves, in Spanish no less, is totally worth it. Come February for example, Prospective Expat will leave Delhi behind for Costa Rican shores. On-a-diet is desperate to dream in another language, with the kind of hunger that would put her detoxes to shame. For DJ, who has off late been spinning ‘salsa nights’ across clubs in the city, this is yet another step in the same direction. As for me, I can finally look forward to reading Neruda’s verse the way it was always meant to be – richly endowed in the primal sounds of nascency, richer still in spirit and elegiac significance like all original manuscripts – before crossing it off my rather extensive bucket list.
Needless to say we are soon, the lot of us, fast friends. Faster than you can say ¡espléndido!
And so, on day four of what will be, at least a forty-day trek uphill of funny phrases, strange sounds and a lot of baffling grammar, we are collectively drunk on our modest accomplishments and new-found ability to rrrroll our tongues, in slowly but surely less-desi Spanish speak.
The resolution to baptise-in-beer our newly formed alliance, is put to vote in one of the cooler paradigms of democracy that I have seen, and is unanimously approved. The boys chivalrously offer us choice (or what On-a-diet insists on calling ‘the dilemma’) of watering-hole for the night, and for this I am indescribably grateful. Because around Hauz Khas Village, and Delhi-ites of old will agree with me when I say this, there is really only one place you want to be on a breezy autumnal night. Around here, all roads lead to TLR, or more specifically up four long flights of stairs to their open-air portico that boasts twinkly lights, boho cushions in a riot of colour, candles and tea-lights spotting the deck, corners spilling over with foliage (and if you get your seasons right, also happen to be bursting into bloom) and as the night progresses, an inevitable gathering of artists, poets and musicians who are happy to share tables, start conversations and make music. And so, for those of you who think that I made the decision to head to The Living Room Cafe that night, you’re wrong. The unbelievably awesome decision kind of made itself, as did the decision to order the Thai Fish Cakes and Garlic Chicken (with the phenomenal Hummus dip), for the table.
The first round of ales is followed quickly by a second, at which point I invite the solitary soul sitting across from us to come join us, at what is by now a fairly raucous table – wouldn’t he like some company? After the briefest of pauses, Lonely Boy decides to graciously accept and we pull up a chair for him. Somebody else offers him a cigarette. He appears simultaneously charmed, anxious and just the slightest bit bemused. “I’m new to Delhi,” he proffers, which suddenly seems to us, both obvious, as well as explanation enough. His major is Philosophy, he plays football in the park on weekends with the local children and on nights like this he likes to walk around exploring, occasionally stepping into a pub or café that catches his fancy. “I also love guitars,” he confesses staring wistfully at the farthest corner of the terrace where a foursome have made themselves at home against the curving balustrade, knocking back pints and strumming a vintage Fender so blue and beautiful, that it would seduce just about anyone.
“And I just love men who play guitars,” On-a-diet sighs, “especially when they look like that.” “What, that ‘man-child’ you mean?” DJ splutters, for all the good it does him… seeing how they’re all four of them invited, less than a minute later, to come sit with us! Man-child (which at this point - round three - is just a convenient nickname) as it turns out, lives in Paris, has been playing music all his life and most importantly, has cheekbones that could give Johnny Depp a run for his money. He kisses our hands greeting us and keeps a firm hold of On-a-diet as she swoons slightly, before offering back with only the slightest tremble, “enchanté,” instantly finding herself on the receiving end of an equally candid, adoring grin, that is second only to the expression of utter resignation on DJ’’s face before he promptly disappears to get himself a refill.
The Fender changes hands and Lonely Boy is evidently thrilled to bits, at the turn that his evening seems to have taken. Prospective Expat and I look on in amusement as next to us, the predestined flirting begins - smatterings of French and Hindi punctuating the curious, stilted and sexually charged conversation of broken phrases and frustrated English, that stumbles along as best as it can. DJ returns and the conversation swiftly changes tack as The Band begins to tell us more about the music they like playing, who inspires them and how much they’ve enjoyed their stint in Delhi. Some impromptu jamming and a lot of drunken laughter later we reluctantly call for the check – The Band is headed to Uzbekistan early the next day, and the rest of us have an honest living to make even earlier!
Man-child (or as we like to call him now, Prettier-than-Depp) and On-a-diet seem to have vanished. A hurried gathering of wits however, means we spot them a few yards away, holding hands under a bough of flowering frangipani, whispering what could (in this case, quite literally) only be sweet nothings.
We hover in the background, waving bashfully, nudging and hurrying them toward their goodbyes, whenPretty-Boy-Depp (that’s a lotta nicknames for one bloke…) suddenly remembers, “My friend! ’e teach me ’ow to say, I adore you, ‘Je t’adore, oui?’ in ’ow you say, Hin-dee!” His delight is doubly compounded by the rush of colour that floods his beloveds face, not to mention our palpable impatience, as we eavesdrop shamelessly, comfortably smug, and snug, in our fuzzy alcohol blankets.
This is the ‘pin-drop’ silence that my principal always hollered for in school.
He coaxes and cajoles until she is looking deep into his eyes; we see his thumb draw circles on her wrist, watch her mouth part slightly in anticipation. His lips curve into an Adonis-like smile designed to make you go weak in the knees and his voice, is a low throaty murmur, “Aah chéri,” he says, in familiar tongue, and then, with identical passion, “Maa ki choot.”
Baby Codeine =)
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