By Dr. R. Balasubramaniam

Being a South Indian in Delhi is an experience that oscillates between amusement and exasperation. From the moment I stepped into the city a few years ago, I remember being greeted with the warm hospitality of North Indians — by which I mean their generous confusion about my origins.

To them, I am a Madrasi, because, of course, every South Indian must be from Madras (current Chennai, but then they may not be knowing this either). The idea that there exist four distinct South Indian States, each with its own language, cuisine and culture, is simply too much to process. In their mental map, India consists of Delhi, Punjab, UP, and a vast, undifferentiated landmass labelled Madras below the Vindhyas.

The Hindi Struggle: A Sincere Attempt, A Spectacular Failure

Determined to blend in, I take my Hindi lessons seriously. I carefully craft my sentences, try to ensure my grammar is intact, and attempt the right intonations. But the moment I open my mouth; my South Indian roots are exposed. My zh sounds (from Tamil and Malayalam) creep in where they shouldn’t, my carefully rehearsed ka sounds mysteriously become ga, and my effort to say Shukriya earns me a bemused stare.

North Indians are nothing if not accommodating, though. Instead of acknowledging my painstaking efforts, they switch to English at the first sign of my accent, as though to save us both from embarrassment.

Sometimes, in their enthusiasm, they slow down their Hindi and start using hand gestures as if I am a tourist in my own country. The irony, of course, is that they fully expect me to understand Punjabi without effort.

The Great North Indian Culinary Repetition

In Delhi, every meal is a predictable cycle of paneer, gobi, aloo, palak and if the chef is feeling particularly adventurous, matar (peas). A typical meal order goes something like this:

Me: “What’s available today?”

Waiter: “Sir, we have paneer butter masala, matar paneer, shahi paneer, gobi paratha and aloo sabzi.”

Me: “Anything without paneer or aloo?”

Waiter (confused): “Sir, paneer bhurji?”

At this point, I resign myself to my fate and mentally prepare for another round of paneer overload. It is as though the entire culinary imagination of Delhi revolves around three vegetables and one block of dairy.

On days when I crave South Indian food, I am met with strange approximations — idlis that resemble hockey pucks, sambhar that is suspiciously sweet, and dosa stuffed with, you guessed it, paneer! And if I dare ask for curd rice, I am given a bowl of thick dahi with raw rice floating in it like a failed science experiment.

The Government Office Snack Marathon

Government offices in Delhi are a universe of their own, with two things in endless supply — discussions and snacks. No matter the time of day, any official meeting is punctuated by a tray carrying the holy trinity of Delhi snacks:

1. Samosa — An oversized, greasy triangle of potato and peas, served with an obligatory green chutney.

2. Paneer Cutlet — Because why should paneer restrict itself to curries? Flatten it, deep-fry it, and serve it with pride.

3. Watery Tea — A liquid that resembles tea in colour but lacks both strength and conviction. It is served in tiny cups and refilled constantly, ensuring that by the end of the meeting, I have consumed enough to float away.

This snack ritual is so deeply ingrained that any attempt to refuse is met with suspicion. “Aapko chai pasand nahi hai kya?” they ask, as if rejecting weak tea is a sign of moral failing. To fit in, I drink it, all while longing for a strong South Indian kaapi.

Geography Lessons That Go Nowhere

One of the most exhausting aspects of being a South Indian in Delhi is trying to explain that Kerala, Karnataka, Tamil Nadu, and Andhra Pradesh are not interchangeable. The moment I say I am from Karnataka, the listener tunes out, nods politely, and asks, “Oh, so you’re from Madras?”

Attempts to educate them are met with disinterest. In their minds, South India is just a single, vague entity with coconut trees, classical dancers, and a perpetual filter coffee aroma in the air. Mentioning Karnataka only evokes one response: “Oh, Bangalore! IT hub!” Kerala is “where we go for honeymoon and Ayurveda,” Andhra is “where Bahubali happened,” and Tamil Nadu is, well, “Madras.”

The Never-Ending Cold War with the Delhi Winter

If there is one thing a South Indian in Delhi is not built for, it is the cold. The Delhi winter arrives with a vengeance, and I find myself buried under layers of sweaters, shawls, and beanies, while Delhiites stroll around in light jackets, sipping tea like it’s a breezy autumn day. My resistance to cold is met with mockery. “Yeh tohkuchbhi nahi hai,” they say, as I shiver uncontrollably in temperatures that would never be tolerated down South.

Conclusion

Being a South Indian in Delhi means embracing repetition — whether it is explaining that I am not from Madras, struggling through Hindi with my unmistakable accent, or eating yet another paneer-based meal. But despite the culinary monotony, the endless government office snacks, and the geographical ignorance, Delhi has its own charm. It is loud, chaotic, and always in a hurry — but at least it is generous in its hospitality, its endless snacks, and, of course, its paneer !

[Dr. R. Balasubramaniam, the Founder of Swami Vivekananda Youth Movement, is currently the Member-HR at the Capacity Building Commission of the Government of India, New Delhi.]