It is better to travel than to arrive is a trite statement most of us use when in a philosophical mood. In Delhi, one recites this like a mantra whenever out on the roads as a sort of chant to ward off the evil eye, namely, the skyrocketing blood pressure. A mundane thing like venturing out on a dinner invitation often makes one feel like the original intrepid explorer. Dozens of vehicles all anxious to clear the traffic signal obligingly clog the free left lane. Buses growl and cars blare shrilly at each other. Ladies driving their cars are gainfully employed in checking out their make-up in the rearview mirror; the male drivers, with fists balled up, are more than ready with a string of curses. Should you miss the ‘cut’, you’ve to battle with one-way roads as hostile as enemy territory, feeling totally at sea quite like the ancient mariner. Finally you arrive, triumphantly shouting ‘Eureka’, by which time the harried hostess has served dessert. No, there’s no food at home; I’ve given the maid off, you hiss to the spouse who seems determined to head for the exit.
Traffic pangs have, however, the proverbial silver lining, in the form of empathy-laden conversations between the most incurable wallflowers. Tongue-tied souls lay bare their emotions about life in general, and this dinner invitation in particular, being nothing but one long journey. Determinedly cheerful hostesses trying desperately to enliven the desultory conversation, look gratefully at garrulous guests warming to the theme of the ubiquitous Ring Road. One has personally found the Ring Road a singularly uninspiring topic quite lacking in passion and romance, but is in an absolute minority here, as even the archetypal men of few words wax eloquent on the subject. A guest arrives inexcusably late but launches into an impassioned explanation about how he took a wrong left turn. The ladies don’t much care for it; they are anyway busy looking daggers at the latter’s wife who obviously took a detour via the beauty parlour.
The men react as one to the red herring about the route; there is a cacophony of voices, as two chaps point out the way with vigorous gestures and almost put the hapless fellow back into his car to do a replay following their directions. It’s all a question of perspective, states an opinionated gentleman taking the discussion to the realm of the abstract. Another Good Samaritan takes the lucky object of everyone’s attention aside and after writing his memoirs on the spot, proceeds to give him some inside information for the return journey. The guest is by now heartily cursing himself for not having made a beeline for the bar instead. Just then the last latecomer arrives and history repeats itself. The host joins in the fray, hospitably digging out a few dog-eared maps for good measure and the party truly begins to rock.
