Walking to Metro Stations

In the morning the police man doesn't believe me. In fact, his first thought is that I'm from West Bengal. Go ahead, he says, tell me in Bengali. But then he starts laughing and I understand that he's joking. He looks at my kurta, my duppatta I can see it, he's so confused. And I hear my Hindi break down, because it inevitably gets worse when my heart starts thudding in my chest and palms start to feel slippery. When I have to ask people to repeat themselves it suddenly dawns on everybody that despite the silver bangles lined up on my wrist I'm not from around these parts.

I think about this a lot. Identity and blending into Delhi. On the metro it's not so strange, I see women from all walks of life. But I think about it anyway, if our clothes matter, if the way we wear our hair says anything about us. I'm not the girl in the heels or tights, but I wonder if I'm just playing the part of the girl in a salwar suit. An anachronism, maybe. Sometimes I feel like people know, and then I shrink under their stare. I shouldn't hunch my shoulders or pull my dupatta over my forehead, I know this. But I do anyway, because I forget how strange it was to walk around a city and feel like it's still not mine.

On my way to the metro I see a homeless man on the side of the street. He hasn't eaten, but I don't have any change. So I sit down next to him and give him my tiffin. I ask him a few questions, including asking where he's from. He replies that he's from Rajasthan. I'm not really sure how or why but somehow I just knew. Without even thinking I instantly reply that I'm from Rajasthan too. He smiles, and actual genuinely smiles like he's so happy to finally meet someone that he has a connection to in this city. He asks which district I'm from and I reply Jhalawar. As it turns out he's from around there too, which makes me glad and then breaks my heart a little at the same time. I could have known him, on his farm or in his village I suppose. But he just looks so happy, just for a split second before patting my head affectionately. 

When I walk away I can still feel the pressure of his fingers, gentle. It almost never happens. When I know exactly who I am in Delhi. But maybe it's reassuring that underneath it all, despite what I am or what I wear I'll have a place here.