“Listening to samba music as I speak in broken Hindi with my auto wallah on my way to meet my Greek friend for Chinese food before practice with my Afghan salsa partner… In New Delhi, India.
He wants to charge me 50 extra rupees because of traffic. “Bhaiya Hamesha traffic hota hai”. There’s always traffic in Delhi. Always too much that things move slow.A chaos that’s always electric and overcharged. This is priceless.
Something like a jazz song in the making. A place that feels like a rough idea. A brainstorm of a billion people, With their own concept of what home should look like. It’s colorful here. Every clothing line is asking to be painted, to be a picture. If you can weave your way through the traffic. There’s a dusty sparkle that resembles a Monet. And how the saris draw out the women’s curves, and how their hair is braided up with secrets.
It’s hard to give directions here, to speak straight about a place so out of line.But I like the confusion.The need to breathe in a different way. To reconsider the pattern of your thoughts and your clothes and to taste the “masala” in the gossip. To listen to the screeching horns like its music. And to sing along with an offbeat accent. To ask your lips to learn this language, for your tongue to learn the flavors. To wear this place like traffic is the new black!
Like a little chaos is in fashion. And it’s okay to be a little overcharged”