Delhi Read Online Free Page B

together: Indian. All work in the family business: Indian. All have arranged marriages: Indian. They all have sons; daughters no good: Indian!
    It seemed plausible. I think I assumed everyone had a few Indian relatives, scattered here and there across the family tree like brightly coloured birds.
    We spent many summers in Scotland and its soggy family sites with their soft names: Paisley, Pumpherston, Campbeltown, Craigellachie. We visited Finland and the more clipped places of my grandmother’s past: Helsinki, Lahti, Tampere, Ruka. We met family from New York, Toronto, Sydney, Melbourne.
    But we never visited India. My father had been, and assured us it wasn’t worth it. He told tales of despotic relatives, diarrhoea and magpie-sized cockroaches, in various combinations. The only Indianness I carried from my childhood was a sort of dark shapeless curiosity that rusted in the corner like an old heirloom, turned in my fingers every now and then. On the map India remained a flat unfamiliar diamond, surprisingly small as it dangled into the blue.

    By this time the Talker, thoroughly out-talked, was slumbering on my shoulder. Each breath made small confidential rustlings, like a badger in the undergrowth, and a tender tear pricked my eye. He was in many ways the ideal listener. I ordered another whiskey and miniature coke, and decided I might as well keep talking.
    Now, as I say, I was heading to Delhi on a mission. Three times I’d visited India: as a tourist, then a rather useless language student, and finally a researcher of toilets. (This might sound like Michael Jackson preaching the virtues of a teensy pharmaceutical pick-me-up now and then, but India is addictive.) Quite clearly, the logical next step was to do a PhD—specifically, a PhD on the glamorous topic of Pressing Questions in the Indian Electricity Policymaking Process. And as everyone knows, from Margaret Mead to the Mormons, fieldwork is an essential component of any decent mission.
    The process of doing a PhD, especially a PhD involving fieldwork, is much like the quest yarns of yore. There is a feckless young hero, probably spotty and pubescent at first. (Never mind that at the crusty old age of 26, I am older than half of all Indians. In fact at independence in 1947, Indian life expectancy was only 32—it’s now 66. But in the West, I am part of the so-called ‘Peter Pan generation’.) Unfortunately, our hero lives in a callous and gerontocratic society. He is exploited by his seniors, who have grown long malicious beards and forgotten their own feckless youths. He chafes at the homeland’s pointless superstitions and at his subordinate role in its rigid hierarchy, and is prone to staring into middle distance as the sun sets. But then there comes to him a rumour on the wind. There exists a miraculous beast or holy grail or golden fleece, recovery of which will guarantee him fame and fortune or at least a tenure-track position. At first our hero is reluctant, but his wise ageing mentor cryptically spurs him towards his destiny. He departs, carrying only a small knapsack and the Lonely Planet .
    Our hero ventures to a faraway land on his quest for the miraculous unicorn or magic ring. The faraway land contains vicious mountains, poisonous beasts, and many foreigners with amusing accents. Amongst them, our hero overcomes adversity and passes a series of tests, to grow into a man with manly skills and a sword and designer stubble. He makes peace with the spirits of his ancestors—Marx, Foucault, Max Weber—or at least learns to ignore their voices in his ear. Through trial by fire, he has arrived at the Truth, or at least some moderately convincing approximation of the Truth that fits into 80,000 words.
    Finally, with the trusty sword and his newfound skills, he defeats his nemesis and seizes the scroll of knowledge. He returns triumphantly home to claim his kingdom/bride/ tragically overrated educational qualification