Conversations with Deepchand
At first it was the city we talked about: When were you last in Delhi Madam? Ten years ago?
The writer is a barrister with an interest in psychology
My journey to New Delhi early last month had been rather longer and more harrowing than I had expected it to be: instead of the one-hour direct flight promised by PIA, I had been forced to travel via Dubai due to the PALPA strike. Although I was exhausted when I had finally arrived in Delhi, nearly 12 hours after I had originally planned to, I was also nervous: would my Pakistani passport create unnecessary delays at immigration? And, far more worryingly, would the car I had requested my friend to book, still be waiting for me outside the terminal?
Immigration was painless: other than asking me to complete forms in the obligatory triplicate, the officers seemed largely unconcerned about my nationality. However, I was only properly relieved when I saw a liveried chauffeur — Deepchand — holding up my name card and smiling. As we drove through the city in the glow of streetlights, I felt myself almost transported to Lahore and, perhaps because of that unexpected sense of familiarity, I soon found myself engaged in a conversation with Deepchand — which only properly ended when I boarded the plane the following week for my return journey home.
At first it was the city we talked about: When were you last in Delhi Madam? Ten years ago? Ooh it’s changed very much since then… much more modern you see, there is a lot more money to go around. Soon, however, we had moved on to Deepchand’s own history. His parents were from Rajasthan and had come to Delhi in search of better prospects. His mother had carried sand and water when the Delhi Taj was being built. It was a testament to his parents’ efforts, he said, that today he and his three brothers were either running small businesses or employed in prestigious organisations.
Over the next few days as Deepchand drove me from one end of the city to another, I discovered that his real source of pride was his nuclear family: a quiet, devoted and dutiful wife, a beloved daughter — Bitya — who was sitting the BA exam privately and a young son who attended an expensive school in the city. However, more than that of his son, Deepchand worried about his daughter’s future: not only did he wish to see Bitya well-married and felt the burden of procuring a dowry, but also he was concerned about Bitya’s future in a country that was fast adopting ‘Western’ values.
You can’t imagine the way in which women in Delhi behave, Madam. Wearing short dresses, staying out late at parties, he told me as I sat self-consciously in my very appropriate shalwar kameez. It’s not that I am against education for women. I say, get educated, work even but don’t dishonour your family. I interjected by reminding him that it was thinking of this sort that had kept South Asian women confined to their homes and lagging behind their Western counterparts. But Deepchand would have none of it: I say Madam, if you have gold, would you not keep it in the safe? A woman’s honour is like gold, Madam. She must safeguard it, or it will be stolen. Can’t change the world Madam. Best to take care of oneself!
My Indian friends, male and female, either laughed when I told them about Deepchand’s vehement arguments or lamented the typical Indian mindset, not unlike my Pakistani friends would have. To me, however, Deepchand sounded an important alarm to a deeply divided society: on one end of the spectrum were bright, articulate, modern women who wished to explore the same professional and leisure opportunities as men, whilst on the other were men like Deepchand who remained firmly rooted in tradition, ready to judge these women and, in extreme cases, to punish them.
On my last day in Delhi, Deepchand suddenly asked me, Madam, what is your country like? I looked outside the window, felt once again the eerie sense of familiarity, and said, that it was not too different from his. But do women go out on the streets dressed like this? Deepchand persisted. When I told him that public spaces in Pakistan remained conservative, Deepchand surprised me by saying, I would very much like to live in your country, Madam. I laughed inwardly as I imagined staunchly Hindu Deepchand mingling with Mullahs but only said that no country was without its troubles. By now we had reached Jama Masjid. I dismounted to offer a quick prayer, remembering particularly to include one for Bitya.
Published in The Express Tribune, November 13th, 2015.
Immigration was painless: other than asking me to complete forms in the obligatory triplicate, the officers seemed largely unconcerned about my nationality. However, I was only properly relieved when I saw a liveried chauffeur — Deepchand — holding up my name card and smiling. As we drove through the city in the glow of streetlights, I felt myself almost transported to Lahore and, perhaps because of that unexpected sense of familiarity, I soon found myself engaged in a conversation with Deepchand — which only properly ended when I boarded the plane the following week for my return journey home.
At first it was the city we talked about: When were you last in Delhi Madam? Ten years ago? Ooh it’s changed very much since then… much more modern you see, there is a lot more money to go around. Soon, however, we had moved on to Deepchand’s own history. His parents were from Rajasthan and had come to Delhi in search of better prospects. His mother had carried sand and water when the Delhi Taj was being built. It was a testament to his parents’ efforts, he said, that today he and his three brothers were either running small businesses or employed in prestigious organisations.
Over the next few days as Deepchand drove me from one end of the city to another, I discovered that his real source of pride was his nuclear family: a quiet, devoted and dutiful wife, a beloved daughter — Bitya — who was sitting the BA exam privately and a young son who attended an expensive school in the city. However, more than that of his son, Deepchand worried about his daughter’s future: not only did he wish to see Bitya well-married and felt the burden of procuring a dowry, but also he was concerned about Bitya’s future in a country that was fast adopting ‘Western’ values.
You can’t imagine the way in which women in Delhi behave, Madam. Wearing short dresses, staying out late at parties, he told me as I sat self-consciously in my very appropriate shalwar kameez. It’s not that I am against education for women. I say, get educated, work even but don’t dishonour your family. I interjected by reminding him that it was thinking of this sort that had kept South Asian women confined to their homes and lagging behind their Western counterparts. But Deepchand would have none of it: I say Madam, if you have gold, would you not keep it in the safe? A woman’s honour is like gold, Madam. She must safeguard it, or it will be stolen. Can’t change the world Madam. Best to take care of oneself!
My Indian friends, male and female, either laughed when I told them about Deepchand’s vehement arguments or lamented the typical Indian mindset, not unlike my Pakistani friends would have. To me, however, Deepchand sounded an important alarm to a deeply divided society: on one end of the spectrum were bright, articulate, modern women who wished to explore the same professional and leisure opportunities as men, whilst on the other were men like Deepchand who remained firmly rooted in tradition, ready to judge these women and, in extreme cases, to punish them.
On my last day in Delhi, Deepchand suddenly asked me, Madam, what is your country like? I looked outside the window, felt once again the eerie sense of familiarity, and said, that it was not too different from his. But do women go out on the streets dressed like this? Deepchand persisted. When I told him that public spaces in Pakistan remained conservative, Deepchand surprised me by saying, I would very much like to live in your country, Madam. I laughed inwardly as I imagined staunchly Hindu Deepchand mingling with Mullahs but only said that no country was without its troubles. By now we had reached Jama Masjid. I dismounted to offer a quick prayer, remembering particularly to include one for Bitya.
Published in The Express Tribune, November 13th, 2015.