delhi


Driving me desi

After living an international life with one hell of a transport system and not driving one’s own vehicle for five and a half months, one tends to have doubts about one’s adaptability with respect to the commuting back home. The only culture shock I had on getting back to India was – the way people were driving. But one gotta do, what one gotta do, since there are no other alternatives. It was with much apprehension that I decided to get into the hot seat (after being used to that being the navigator seat in Finland). I had not forgotten driving per se, but all the aggression was absolutely gone. I had suddenly turned into a very tame (read timid in Delhi driving parlance) driver for some reason. People overtaking me from every possible gap left between a divider and a road and honking away to glory as if they were the band wallahs in a baraat, had absolutely no effect on me including that of irritation. I still drove at my speed (within speed limit), in my lane, giving way only when it was right to do so. Everyone rushing away to some destination, strangely didn’t leave me with a me-too-hurry-too complex. I had even forgotten the oh-so-delhi habit of flashing the lights while driving. “Wow”, I thought, “what all can change with a change in lifestyle”, especially since earlier, I was probably exactly the way others were now.

But this dream was too good to last. Very soon, I came across some hoodlums driving with both indicators on, opening doors “mid-flight”, behaving like they were in a spaceship and as if they would trample upon the mere earthlings who happened to crawl unknowingly in their way. As if this extra terrestrial behaviour wasn’t enough, they even had some weird stares and gestures to add to that whole drama-company effect (one only requires to be female for evoking that). That did it. Any self respecting Bhartiya nari would have chatao-ed them some “dhool” and that is exactly what I did by zooming ahead and leaving them with some “dhool mitti” on their face. With that came the end of my barely achieved gajgamini gait in the driving world. Sigh. Life isn’t a rat race. It’s a car race.

For some reason, there are much bigger vehicles on the road now than the predominantly smaller ones earlier. Where did all the Innovas and the Taveras suddenly emerge from, in this “bhainsa” avatar of the car world? Even if they were seating 10 Amir Khan’s inside, they don’t give my mousy Maruti a run for its money. Did I say it was a car race? It’s a rat race, alright. With my rat scurrying faster than the “bhainsa” could even snort. On the very first day of keeping my eyes on the road and hands upon the wheel, I came across four splattered dogs, somewhat as I had expected (though four was quite alarming). I don’t think they were on a mass suicide drive. It must be those driving the bhainsa in cowboy ishtyle, barely able to see the ground beneath their hooves.

Within some days, I realised that the traffic situation had worsened so much in the areas that I frequented, that driving rules have changed altogether. Driving was merely a ‘closing-in-on-the-2-nanometer-gap-left-by-someone-else’ game now. And you had to be superfast at it to reduce that 2.5 hour commute by a nanosecond. Getting stuck in a traffic jam is as frequent as coughing (don’t forget that pollution which has made Delhi the asthma capital) now. Forget the handicaps of a sedentary lifestyle, my feet get more exercise than they can handle; with a clutch-brake routine at the rate of 10/sec. And unfortunately a real life traffic jam isn’t even half as fun as a reel life one, where the heroine can at least get out and flirt with a dashing dude on the top of the car or something. And all those FM channels that specialise in featuring ads, need a lesson or two on what is called “airing-a-MUSIC-program”. Sigh..Delhi driving is driving me desi alright.



The meet that was 1

The IXth Delhi bloggers meet was held on 18th Dec’05 at Humayun’s tomb. The main highlight was the photography gyaan that all of us had to get from a fellow flogger (foto blogger, not the horrifying english meaning). Apart from that, the “I-see-dead-people” routine was much practised. The photography stint was followed by some history of the monument, followed by a meal at India Habitat Centre, followed by a photography exhibition at the same venue, followed by some tea from the local tea stall. An afternoon well spent. Here are a couple of pictures that I took as part of the photography gyaan absorption. Now if someone would err..gift me a pro membership at flickr, maybe I could make some more use of my gyaan :p.



City of Djinns

The “City of Djinns” doesn’t need any introduction. Neither the book nor the mystical city. William Dalrymple, born in Scotland, visited India around 1989 and stayed for 4 years during which he penned the book – ‘City of Djinns’. This book won the Thomas Cook travel book award. This is the story of one year in our very own city – Delhi, the city of Djinns. Djinns are supposedly another race like us, fashioned from fire, spirits invisible to the naked eye – one needs to fast and pray to see them.

William Dalrymple describes Delhi as “Full of riches and heroes, a labyrinth city of palaces, open gutters, filtered light through filigree lattices, choke of fumes and whiff of spices”. He unveils the ‘seven dead cities’ of Delhi in his book, the current being the 8th. Some even count the number as 15. These are nothing but a representation of the number of times Delhi has been destroyed and rebuilt. There are pieces of history lingering in every such city. Different areas of Delhi, preserve different centuries, even different millennia. Punjabi immigrants (form the recent day Delhi), old majors in Lodhi garden, old city eunuchs speaking courtly Urdu, Sadhus at Nigambodh ghat (depicting Indraprastha – first Delhi from Mahabharat) all form Delhi. Indraprastha was invaded & burned and yet it rose like a phoenix from fire, like hindus believe.

WD’s landlady for these 4 years was Mrs. Puri, a sikh from Lahore, expelled during partition, lost everything, rebuilt from scratch (like most punjabi immigrants). Her husband who was intermittently senile (he went crazy since 1984 Sikh riots), firmly believed that Mr. William had kept some mules ‘upstairs’. WD’s book talks about his experiences as a foreigner in this city – unused to domestic help and traffic snarls, his trysts with MTNL (which he called ‘an empire dedicated to beuracratic obfuscation), Delhi marriages which go on throughout the night, festivals like Holi, Diwali, Id, Dussehra and the fervour with which these are celebrated. WD goes on to talk about the 1984 riots, the partition and how these incidents affected people. The account is interspersed with amusing wit where his sikh driver – Balwinder Singh – points out ‘eye candy’ on the streets (clearly something WD is totally unused to) or tries communicating in his limited english resulting in some humourous misunderstandings. WD describes Shahjehanabad – the city established by Shah Jehan. He also visits Karachi where they asked him about certain ‘gullis’, or whether the streets still looked the same as before partition, (through whatever was left of them in their memory). There he meets the author of the book ‘Twilight in Delhi’ – a very good and accurate account of Delhi before the partition. Karachi itself looked very similar to Delhi – reconstructed.

People in Delhi believe in a certain prophecy that whosoever builds a new city, consequently loses it. History vouches for the same. Pandavas, Prithviraj Chauhan, Feroz Shah Tughlak, Shah Jahan are all examples of that. WD moves on to describe Lutyens Delhi and specifically its architecture. He gives accounts of someone who had seen it being built as a child. Events like the persian massacres of 1739 and the British recapture of 1857 are woven into his historical account. He writes about Nadir Shah and the British Resident – Sir David Ochterlony – who lived like a Moghul. He beautifully highlights the cultural amalgamation that followed in terms of the architecture in this era in ‘Dehlee’ and ‘Hurriyana’. Till date, the British residency supposedly retains some part of the mughal architecture (the moghul ruins on which it was built). WD also happens to read the letters from one particular British Resident – 183 years later at the same desk at which the resident wrote them. He writes about Angloindians, who suffer the worst racial prejudices of Indians and the British Both.

His culturally rich, amply researched and historically lush account mentions a lot of aspects of all cultures that Delhi has seen – for eg. Kabootar Baazi – a sport prevalent in old Delhi, Eunuchs and the way they exist. He talks about historical figures like Shah Jehan, Dara Shikoh, Aurangzeb, Roshanara Begum, their related history and their associated establishments – Shahjehanabad, Aurangabad, Roshanara Bagh, Shalimar Bagh etc. He writes about how Aurangzeb ousted his favoured brother Dara Shikoh and crowned himself in Shalimar Bagh, beheaded Dara Shikoh and sent his head on a platter to an imprisoned Shah Jehan just before his prison meal. The barbaric nature of the Moghuls is clearly evident through several tales.

This book also brings to light several interesting things to the unaware reader. Apart from the cultural, historical, architectural narratives, it contains things which I am sure many of us never knew. He mentions that the Britishers are to blame for diverting the ‘Jumna’ and laying in its place a main road so that the Mughal pavillions in Red Fort look out not to a source of water but onto a road – MG Road, one of the most noisy and polluted stretch of the Ring Road! WD also interviews Fakeerah Sultan Begum – the great grand daughter of Aurangzeb(!) who’s still alive and talks about Delhi as “her” city.

A ‘must read’ is a mild description for this book. More than a book, it is a time travel machine which takes you back several years and several centuries without never really leaving the present. It makes you realise that you were unaware of such treasures in your own backyard all this while. This enriching and informative book makes history look like an interesting dream where some bits are still fresh in my mind, bits where I experience the thrill of discovering something, some bits are sadly erased permanently and I am unable to recollect them and then there are still some, which I am trying to recollect, by digging deep through my memory. I want to know more by exploring whatever I have today. Something that textbook history could never achieve. Go ahead and read this book for accounts of Ibn Batuta’s travel adventures, Yunani medicine, Hakims, Hindi Gaalis!, Nizamuddin saints, Elusive eunuchs, Djinns which got captured, Kaurav’s capital – Hastinapur and many more interesting things while I take a copy with me to revisit Shalilmar Bagh, Roshanara Bagh, and Begumpur (On way to Mehrauli) where Mohd. Bin Tughlak had his palace. Not every city has a spirit of its own, but djinns or no djinns, Delhi does.



Playing truant

The weather always makes for a topic which people come down to when they don’t have anything else to say except murmur some pleasantries and to keep some polite (and obviously boring) conversation going. In fact in college, we had this superior-than-thou attitude whenever we came across anyone who could not utter a single intelligent word in the conversation and would try to make it up with weather reports. Little did I realise then, that there would come a day when I would choose the same as a topic for a post! But that’s not due to a lack of things to say on my part but because of the way the weather is behaving. More like a precocious child with a mind of its own really.

It’s true that the weather or rather the climate has been changing slowly and gradually but the past one year has raised a whole series of alarms. There are the terribly tangible ones like the Tsunami, Snowfall in Dubai and grass growing in Antarctica kinds..and then the not so tangible ones. I distinctly remember celebrating Diwali during winters i.e. one needed to wear *sweaters* or warm clothing while lighting crackers and it wasn’t as if I was at some high altitude place, the place remains the same – Delhi. But since the past few years, it’s summery and pleasant during diwali. As a kid I remember that winters used to definitely start by October or maximum by November. Since quite a few years, winters have started showing the chilly factor only after Dec 31. Lohri was supposed to mark the coldest day of winters. This particular year it was *so* warm on Lohri, it seemed that winters had actually “forgotten” to happen and on sudden remembrance that they were supposed to freeze people, they came back with a vengeance right after Lohri. Basant Panchami is supposed to mark the onset of spring, but the particular day instead marked the onset of summers. Taken unawares, I had not put on any sunscreen on that particular day and got sunburnt to my amazement! The next day I decided to take it easy on winter clothing and as I set out for office at around 8:30am, the sky suddenly went jet black as much as in late evening. It actually looked scary because it was just too dark for daytime and reminded me of complete solar eclipses. All vehicles had their headlights on, on high beam. It was impossible to see anything at 8:30 am in the day! And suddenly the expected happened. It RAINED. Like hell at that. It rained so much that the wipers of my car could not keep pace with the influx of water hitting the windshield. It suddenly got very difficult to drive. Forget driving, I almost felt as if water was hurtling inside towards me, seeping in from all edges. I almost bumped into a divider. I felt like the hero in a particular rainy scene from ‘Woh Kaun Thi’ or some such movie, where the only sound present is the ubiquitous sound of wipers and of torrential rain. The hero wasn’t able to see *anything*. Zero visibility. With such conditions, one is forced to peer closer to the windshield, screw one’s nose, frown in concentration and deduce whether the direction headed in, is indeed the same as that of the road. I somehow managed to get to office that day. Needless to say I felt foolish for having discarded my usual winter attire of jeans, thick sweater, thick jacket, thick muffler and sneakers. I had suddenly felt like emerging like a beautiful butterfly from my winter-clothing-cocoon and had ended up wearing a delicate suit with a chunni to add to the rain nuisance and open sandals, which obviously got sploshed in the muck. Learnt the lesson of not taking the weather “for granted”.

The sudden heavy snowfall in J&K and not to mention the avalanches, are also an indication of something very very wrong somewhere. Suddenly the whole of north India was now freezing. After a few more bouts of rain and chilly wind, it again looked like summers were here. Inspite of my mom telling me to get back the woolens to pack them, the once-bitten-twice-shy me didn’t. Last night we had a hailstorm again and it’s again chilly. This morning I woke up to thick white fog all around! I feel smug as I look at others shivering slightly in their sleeveless, flimsy summer dresses whilst I am adorned in a thin sweater and a chic shawl to go with it, making use of the fleeting winters before they come to a complete fullstop.

Coming back to the weather the shift is gradual but sure. If it continues at this alarming pace, it wont be long before we would have summers from October to February and ‘desert’ summers from March to September. A very frightening future that.



Death of a house

Another one bites the dust. Literally. I witnessed the death of yet another house. This was the third one in a week. It’s a depressing sight. Seeing the carcass of what was once someone’s home. In some time, the skeleton also becomes visible. One can see each and every intimate detail of the house, without ever having visited the place. The bedrooms, where the residents would have slept or shared a private moment. The almirahs which would have cased clothes, jewellery, nick nacks and what not. Only this time, they have a deserted, ‘final’ look about them. Some posters on the walls are still there. The walls have dust patterns depicting rectangles which shows where the family would have hung paintings or maybe portraits of an ancestor. The kitchen looks naked, devoid of its usual utensils, jars, gas burner and the like. The lady of the family would have cooked here. The bathrooms lie bare. It becomes almost embarassing to watch as the ‘private parts’ or rather the sancta sanctorum of the house get exposed to the world. The terrace and the staircase where the children would have gamboled about is almost about to collapse. The occasional tree and the plants if any, are almost gone and forgotten. They bear the look of orphans left behind by their parents. In a few days all this is reduced to dust.

But this isn’t all. Unlike human lives, houses live forever. They rise like a phoenix from the ashes. No soon has the house ‘bitten the dust’ than another one resurrects. This time with a better look about it. A modern architecture. More capacity. Stylish facades, porches and arches. Portruding terraces and balconies. Modern mousetraps, all. Soon it will be inhabited like nothing happened.