They say only mad dogs and Englishmen venture out in the Indian summer. I’m neither, yet here I am, in the capital city, sweating through my clothes, my sanity, and any fond nostalgia I once had for the subcontinent in June.
Every year, like clockwork and common sense, I visit Delhi in the pleasant months, when the city smells faintly of marigolds and ambition, and the air does not actually sauté your lungs. But this time, in an inspired moment of seasonal amnesia, I decided to spend two entire months here. In summer. Voluntarily.
To be clear, I have lived overseas for 30 years. Ten countries, four languages, countless plug adapters. But for the last five years, I have been based in Portugal, home to red roofs and custard tarts and carry a Portuguese passport now, which in Delhi makes me roughly as exotic as a unicorn riding a Vespa.
Here, the minute I mention Portugal, it is as if I have walked in trailing Cristiano Ronaldo, holding a bottle of Vinho Verde and humming Fado music. “So, what is the tax system like there? How much is the population? Is it true you don’t need to boil drinking water? People speak Spanish in Porto? Can you help my son open a startup in Lisbon?” I am asked frequently.
And my personal favourite, “Do you know Ronaldo?”
I try explaining that I have only lived there for a short while, and I do not own a vineyard. But facts are no match for Delhi’s collective imagination where I become the Minister of Portuguese Affairs with an additional portfolio in immigration loopholes. Therefore, I play along, because it is the least I can do while slowly broiling in my own sunscreen.
The heat is Delhi-in-June hot, where birds don’t chirp, they glare and the traffic lights feel like they are daring you to melt. I attempt a casual stroll to the local market. Five minutes in, I look like I have been for a swim and 10 minutes later, a kind stranger offers me a cold drink and exclaims, “You poor thing, you are not from here, are you?”
Technically, I am from here. Born and raised, but the moment my Portuguese identity is revealed, the city jointly forgets. I am then expected to weigh in on everything from European inflation to olive oil extraction methods, while all I want to do is buy a hair conditioner that works in 48° Centigrade.
To be fair, Delhi has not changed entirely. There are still the impossible right turns, the competitive honking, and the great Indian art of overfeeding guests. These can never change, however, there is a chaotic, sweat-drenched charm in the fruit-seller who now greets me as Portugal Madam and the friend who brings over mangoes and slips in a quiet, “Is Portuguese hard to learn?”
So here I am, an accidental ambassador, straddling two identities in the sweltering heat, while undergoing a test of endurance, hydration, and a total inability to procure Schengen visas for anybody.
Will I do this again next year? Not unless I lose a bet, says the voice in my head.
“Is it easy to get Portuguese citizenship?” asks my husband’s Aunt while serving tea.
I wipe the sweat off my brow and take a deep breath.
“If you fulfil certain conditions,” my spouse pipes up.
“Like what?” both of us turn to hear.
“Simply marry into the Ronaldo family,” he twinkles.
