From lost-in-translation moments to a street food obsession, here’s how Delhi went from overwhelming to home for a South Indian student navigating life at DU.
Dear Delhi,
Greetings from the land of idli, vada, and sambhar. I write to you from the heart of Delhi University, where I may have accidentally set a record for the most momos and cold coffees consumed in a week. Apart from running on two days of no sleep, the only thing I can flex about is telling my relatives back home that I study at DU. Well, thanks to my dad for convincing me to start fresh in a new place—though I was so focused on a fresh start that I forgot about the fresh air. Jokes aside, you truly have been a brand-new adventure.
When I first arrived, the only thing that felt familiar was the weather—unpredictable, just like my Tamil professor. The crisp chill at night reminded me of my boarding school days in Ooty, jogging amidst pine trees, while the next day’s scorching heat took me straight back to sun-slapped assemblies. But the moment I stepped into your bustling streets, that sense of familiarity faded, replaced by an overwhelming wave of culture, noise, and chaos.
You weren’t just new to me; you were new to my entire family. Our first metro ride was met with puzzled stares—probably because my aunt was chanting mantras, convinced the metro would get bombed. I guess, just like how people here assume all South Indians speak the same language, people back home assume Delhi is under a constant threat level of extreme caution.
The first thing you taught me? Food is life, and carbs are your best friend. If we have dosa-sambhar, you have chole bhature. If we have filter coffee, you have chai. If we have Mysore Pak, you have Gulab Jamun. Your street food became my survival kit when my pockets ran empty. But let’s be real—South Indian food in Delhi? A tragedy. My dad once took me to a South Indian restaurant here, and the menu alone made us collapse. Our taste buds craved spicy sambhar and fresh coconut chutney, so we caved—only to regret it instantly. That’s when I embraced the wisdom of “When in Delhi, be a Delhiite” and began my quest through your street food lanes. (Side note: If you’re on a mission for actual good and affordable South Indian food, head to Madras Mareeyam at Vishwavidyalaya immediately.)
The one thing I still find complicated? Your language. Hindi—oh, Hindi—where do I even begin? Should I talk about the time a shopkeeper gave me a death stare for saying nahi instead of hogi when asked for the bill? Or the time I accidentally sent a delivery guy in circles around Kamla Nagar by saying saamne wali gali instead of peechhe wali gali? At first, it felt like trying to skate without a skateboard. Miscommunications led to some hilariously awkward situations, but thank you for the crash course in Hinglish. I’d like to think I’m getting better—my deliveries now arrive on time, and arey yaar has officially entered my vocabulary.
Amidst all this chaos, I found solace in your Hindi movies. I went from being a Thalapathy Vijay fan to simping over SRK. Who would’ve thought you’d turn a Suryavamsam girl into a Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham girl? My roommates, however, did not sign up for me butchering Tum Se Hi and Kesariya at 2 a.m. while daydreaming about finding my very own Rahul here.
And then, there’s Delhi University. It gave me friendships forged over shared trauma in the canteen, where inflation is somehow higher than the already overpriced menu. I learned more about politics on rickshaw rides to the Faculty of Arts than in my actual classes. Unlike most college walls, DU’s walls talk—in different colours, languages, and sizes, especially during university elections.
Delhi, from making me homesick to becoming my home, you have changed for me in these few months. I may rant about you to anyone who will listen, but deep down, I know you’re the best training ground for life—lessons no classroom can teach. So, thank you for showing me that home is not a place but a feeling. And somewhere in the chaos of your streets, I think I’ve found mine.
With love, laughter, and lots of sambhar,
Gohkulvani Krishnan