If there is any city in the world that I have known well, it is Delhi. From that foggy, bitterly cold winter night in 1982 when I – a little tramp of a toddler – flitted about on Platform Number 5 of the Delhi junction trying to jump on to the rail tracks only to be pulled away by my mother struggling with a devil of a child, to 2007, the city has grown, evolved, changed, mesmerized, ridiculed, maneuvered, stormed ahead, hankered back, played games, risen to the occasion, terrorized, been terrorized…held by strings by the gnarled hands of time.
Delhi is often compared to Mumbai, the ephemeral city of dreams where living and living well can, at times only be a distant dream. The yardsticks do vary. While fashionistas and style gurus would bow a hundred times to the charms of the intoxication that is Mumbai and lend a perfunctory yet squiggly stare to the auntyji dressing that Delhi is famous for, political commentators, twitching their thumb would point towards the hot seat of power that perches itself right here. The hump on Raisina Hill never goes out of fashion, you see and the circular arena of unbridled commotion – the Parliament House – also makes laws for the country.
This is Delhi, a thronging part-metropolis, part-Punju fortress. For many their own city of dreams. For others the epitome of jittery rush for survival and life. And the little girl who arrived here on the cold winter night in 1982 loves Delhi...!
Childhood in Delhi is ensconced in the soothing memory of the roadside eatery near school with its piping hot samosas and a pitcher of chilled Campa Cola, a yesteryear variant of the jazzed-up modern day Coke, the winter afternoon siestas in the balcony caressed by streaming sunlight, long drives through the tree-lined avenues of the diplomatic enclaves and the lanes boasting of the power elite, and the weekend trip to Children’s Park and India Gate for fun on the swings, popcorn, and a scoop of ice-cream.
Sultry summer nights would give way to shivers as winters danced in gently goading the elders to prepare for a long haul. Heaters would face repairs even as new ones arrived at the painful collapse of the old ones. Papa would run up and down the adjoining lane looking for the electrician to fix the geysers. Winters are fun in Delhi. The food even better.
Aloo tikkis sizzle as much as bar-be-qued chicken wings. Ask the Purani Dilliwala and you would know food. Just what can beat the roghan josh and sheermal at Karim’s? Try the mutton korma! Buffeted by run-down facades of old imperial structures, the spread-out eatery is a reason to smile, something that makes Delhi special. If you think Karim’s a tad far, get across to lighted evenings at the Nizamuddin dargah. Flanked by ramshackle shops that sell everything from atrocious artificial jewellery to beef kababs, the dargah beckons one and all, the smooth strains of the qawwali wafting through the by-lanes. Jumme raat at Nizamuddin is special. How sindoor-smudged Hindu housewives, burqa-clad Muslim begums, and blanched Caucasian tourists can sit together, enthralled by the beating drums and singing voices rising to a crescendo, oblivious to the strife torn world outside, without the slightest indication of mistrust and hate, is beyond me? But as they say, Delhi can surprise you in many ways.
What can be more surprising than the tall minarets, pristine balustrades, shimmering courtyards, and glistening domes of the Jama Masjid. A study in contrast to the grimy gallis spread around. The quintessential symbol of the Dilli of the Mughals followed by miles towards the south by the thronging Chandni Chowk, where masjid and mandir sit cheek by jowl. Without fuss!
Did anyone say ‘Yes, Delhi does breathe…’? In more ways than one. The walls of the tombs and fort ruins dotting the rapidly developing landscape gently move in a bizarre symphony of pain and ingratitude. Perhaps ashamed at the present.
Slowly and garrulously the city has settled into cosy matrimony with the preposterous, ignominious, often bestial artifacts of unabashed, rampant consumerism. The monuments, mosques and dargahs still stand. Only the green swathes around and across the city have melted into oblivion and rough concrete has overtaken the silky visage of the City of the Djinns.
As evening falls and the city lights up, the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer while temples erupt with the clangs of bells and cymbals, raising a paean to the almighty. Nothing else can match the magic of the ensuing jugalbandi. Delhi as stood witness to centuries of togetherness, the reality that many parts of India have lost touch with. Is Delhi losing it too? Maybe times have changed and Delhiwalas do not pay attention to it anymore. They too have started rushing through life ignoring the melancholy resolve of those who have been before.
The hauntings never do stop. Every spire in the city has a story to tell. Perhaps even a fable. If only someone had the time and patience to lend an ear. Voices come from beyond. And Delhi remains embedded in the minds of visitors and denizens alike. They say ‘You can leave Delhi, but Delhi will never leave you.’ I have experienced it. My heart has cringed for the city I love. The ubiquitous present filling in for a grand, glorious past. And yet, the little girl who stepped into Delhi for the first time in 1982 loves Delhi. For it remains a city like no other!
