“Sunday Diaries: A Kenyan in the Town and Other Stories”

A heritage walk in the city last Sunday brought me in acquaintance with a youth from Kenya. Let’s call him Mr. SM. SM, in his mid-twenties, was in our assortment of seven very hopeless people whose idea of fun on an early Sunday morning meant staring at buildings after getting ripped off close to $12 each. Brief introductions succeeded a lengthy discourse on what to expect in the next three hours of our walk by guide whose credentials I suspected. I was proved wrong though. Our guide, who according to him, was a “consultant architect” (I did not ask him what that meant; I thought all architects were consultants) proved out to be much more than a story-teller. Though sheepish at times finding that we did not share his enthusiasm for ‘a fine mélange of subdued and subtle Caranetic blend in Indo-Saracenic style’ he pointed out all the nuances of architectural styles and old city planning which even an experienced-eye could amiss. A young couple, irked that they could not get the ‘art’ in the architecture, volleyed a series of vague questions trying to sound aesthete and irked us all. The woman went a step further and declared her love for Art-Decos. “I love Art-Decos because they have art in them.” The guide perhaps was too embarrassed by the lack of Art-Decos in the city and did not say anything. But patient he was nonetheless, with all our queries: amateur or pro. I scribbled the “joke” in my notes and the PS read: Why not to get married (reason no. 42).

After three hours of detailed enlightenment and the usual after-rants on modern city planning and drawbacks of a la mode building styles (Surprisingly, no ASI this time) we were given an informal but witless feedback form as we left for our “farewell breakfast.” This is when I actually interacted with SM. Opting to stay away from the couple and letting the silent elderly gentleman enjoy his solitude, I took my seat next to SM. Embarrassing smiles followed awkward silence. In the next thirty seconds, our talks were as varied as possible. From the tattoo on his arm to the grilled-sandwich and finally hitting on what we were there for: buildings. It turned out that SM was not just another sucker of buildings. He studied Town Planning in Kenya and was here on a project to document something-something and finally suggest a solution to city’s traffic woes. I wished him luck for this noble endeavour of his and profusely thanked him for understanding the plight of citizens. Now only the city-bureaucrats could share his enthusiasm. :D

Not surprising, Bollywood has another fan. SM rarely fathoms much of the stories (who does anyway) but he likes the dance and fight sequences. His favourite star? Our own man; Salman. We later took a cab to the city market and SM got himself DVDs of No Entry and Dabbang.

At the end of the day, I dallied with the idea of setting AS up with SM. Picturing them both in the same frame was anything but exotic to me. But the very thought of ‘exporting’ AS out of the country in a distant land enthused the sarcasm in me. Apparently, AS did not share my level of enthusiasm and straight away rejected the proposition of dating a non-Indian guy. A discussion on virility of Indian and Afro guys followed which yielded nothing

Bored, I perused through my notes, documented the reason no. 42 into the MS Word and re-read all of those. Convincing, they all sound.

©Rakesh 2011

“Agra: A City Undeserving of Taj”

A few monuments have been this recognisable and photographed as the Taj. The seventeenth century Taj is a widely seen as a metaphor of love and romanticism. The completion of the monument, paradoxically, marks both the height and the start of the decline of the humongous Moghul Empire. It is easy to criticise the smitten emperor squandering his royal treasure at the cost of a great famine and an ‘economic-recession’ for a whimsical fancy. Sahir called it a great blot on the face of world. I guess Sahir was very much egalitarian and his words referred to his sympathies for the labourers and tax-payers. But vision and change, as history corroborates every time, asks for sacrifices at the lower schema of things. But, also, I doubt it is that easy to be this grandeur even if you have all the money of this world. Thanks to invaders and British, this country has some remarkable architecture and towns. And deep down the psyche, we all are megalomaniacs anyway. 

Sahir: the greatest poet ever to write for movies, nevertheless, vouched for the downtrodden:

ye mahalon ye takhton ye tajon ki duniya (This world of palaces, monarchy and Tajs.)

-Pyaasa, movie

ye chamanzaar ye jamunaa kaa kinaaraa ye mahal

ye munaqqash dar-o-deevaar, ye mehraab ye taaq

ik shahanshaah ne daulat ka sahaaraa le kar

ham Ghariibon kii muhabbat kaa udaayaa hai mazaaq

meri mehboob kahiin aur milaa kar mujh se

(This bank of Jamuna, this edifice, these groves and lawns,

These carved walls and doors, arches and alcoves,

An emperor on the strength of wealth,

Has played with us a cruel joke.

Meet me hence, my love, at some other place.)

-Taj Mahal, nazm

Sahir’s words stand the test of time. What Shah Jahan did for the Mughals four hundred years back, a bahenji is replicating today. This time, ironically, branding herself as the purveyor and advocator of the downtrodden. History can recall none, who built up monuments and statues to commemorate oneself in his very own lifetime. Incidentally, among all the smears in her profile, the Taj corridor scam stands unclassifiable.

The Taj, taking liberty of the literary figures, is at least as much ironic and oxymoronic as it is hailed romantic. All symmetric and white, you just have to step out to see the wretched incongruity of the city and ‘blackness’ which engulfs the lives of the downtrodden.  The city is full of filth and people swarming towards you from every direction. People are cynic and touts are more aggressive than their counterparts everywhere else. This place makes you feel sick. This city just got lucky to host Taj on its soil. This city does not deserve the gloriousness of Taj. And it is one end of the golden triangle consisting of Delhi and Jaipur; two far better and cleaner cities. Indians never excelled in making cities like the British and knows-not the art of preserving the past and ruins like the Italians.

I just hope that the Taj’s resplendence lasts till eternity with the un-moderated traffic of visitors, who do everything opposite to the guidebook. With the hues of ‘yellow’ imbuing the pristine ‘white’, the Taj, for the moment, is in a desperate need of Colgate.

PS: This city has awful raunchy accommodations and pathetic transport (that includes the airport which is still domestic, I wonder why) Rush out of this place the very same day and don't eat ANYTHING unless you're dying of starvation.

© Rakesh 2011

“Weekend Diaries: A Tale of Two Cities and Other Stories”

# It has been less than a fortnight since I left Bombay. And in little over a fortnight, I leave to my next muse: Delhi. As a teenager, I wondered at the fascinations of people with their cities. Now, I wonder at mine. Cities and nostalgia coexist. You look at a city and you see phases of time captured here and there, blotched in different colours of different hues. People, dreams, and struggle of existence give a city its flavour. As for beauty, a city lies in the eyes of the beholder. It may mean nothing to you in oblivion and it may mean so much to you as a function of vivacity.

I can’t say with conviction if Delhi and Bombay shared different colonial past but they surely have a contrasting present altogether. Yes, they are the two most-talked cities of the country but it was only in recent past that I, thanks to my friends inhibiting these cities, came to know that an ardent lover of one city automatically christens you as a jeerer of the other. I wish the world was this simple as a place.

I do read a lot about Delhi. Prime source of my fascination infuses from its past and permeating present. Bombay was a place of cinema, business, Sachin, Rohinton Mistry, and a disaster called Shantaram. It is only now that week-end readings on Bombay occupy my shelf.

In India: A Portrait, Patrick French observes India to be a “melting pot”.  And if we were to see India as a melting-pot, no place more deserving than Bombay is to be crux of that pot. Here everything amalgamates with everything that nothing remains just the only thing. Bombay does not intimidate you with its magnanimity like Delhi does but by its sheer pace and every second day changes. ‘Adapt’ is the ‘relax’ and movement is the favourite pastime. Washington, Beijing, Madrid, Canberra and Delhi may have been the administrative capitals but it were the NYC, Shanghai, Barcelona, Sydney and Bombay which ended up representing dreams of the populace.

While Delhi maybe my first love, Bombay is surely the new infatuation.

# This week-end’s readings include:

Vikram Chandra, Love and Longing in Bombay  

Suketu Mehta, Maximum City

# My friend, moving to Delhi and looking for a roof to live under, asked me for some contacts. I recommended him magicbricks. Stupid people!

# An interesting article on the mongrelisation of English is here.

# An interesting website, a modern day Hobson-Jobson of modern day South Asia lingo is here. A treat to linguists. Do check.

©Rakesh 2011

"Random Nostalgia: Cicade de Jodhpur"

You miss Jodhpur and you miss….  

Railway Station: One of the oldest railway-stations; belonged to erstwhile Marwar state. the red-brick look, toy train and adjoining clock tower, the taxi-wallas who’ll quote thrice the fare going by my not-so-Marwari appearance, statue of Ummed Singh next to it, the cheap food-stalls and “hotels” next to it, Sarvoday bookstore
 

City Clock Tower: Spice market, scrap electronics market, tobacco market, and congested gallis. And yeah; cows. Arora Namkeen
 

Jalori Gate: Shahi samosa, “second-hand” bookstores
 

Ummed Palace: Fondly called the Chittar-Palace; largest private property of the world. Residence of erstwhile rulers of Marwar
 

Mandore: abandoned erstwhile capital of Marwar state. In-laws’ home of the mythical demon Ravan, Garden and the monkeys
 

Walled City: and the old city market within
 

City Fort: Mehrangarh, 400 feet above the city; the view of Blue-City
 

The architecture of Collectorate, High-Court and Jodhpur University
 

Kaylana Lake and the ferryboat rides
 

Gulaab Halwa Paliwale; MG Road
 

Shastri Circle at the evenings
 

Monsoon Bike rides to Osiyan and Tinwari village; Highway food
 

Ramdevara Jaitarus in the months of July and August
 

Sundays at Sumer Public Library
 

Terminal at Mohanpura Bridge
 

Jaljog Circle and CCD
 

B-Road: Shiv Gauri, Bombay Sandwiches.
 

Kohinoor Twin Cinemas: They are a delight on opening days of any Salman Khan movie.
 

Hakeems of 12th Road and Station Road
 

Tanga rides from Nagauri-gate to old-city
 

Free-entry plays at Town-Hall
 

Free shows and art-exhibitions at Information Centre
 

Budget-shopping at National Handlooms
 

City-Buses at peak hours
 

Sojati Gate at elections
 

Silence of streets on Indo-Pak matches and next day front page photo of deserted Nai Sarak in local dailies
 

Reading local dailies; they are fun I tell you
 

Playing Cricket at Barkhatullah Khan Stadium
 

Ravan Ka Chabutra Maidan at Ramnavamis; Circus Shows
 

Listening to women haggling at the old-market, free-entertainment guaranteed
 

Feeding fishes at Lalsagar
 

Nightlong haithais and gupshups in the old-city
 

Paota Circle and traffic-cops; Sabzee Market
 

As much as I can remember….
 

Photo: City Clock Tower
 

©Rakesh 2011

"Dating Bombay: In Search of an ‘Indian’ City"

                                                                                                          

“The first requisite to happiness is that man be born in a famous city.” 

-Euripides

While for Rousseau cities were “the abyss of the human species”, for Shakespeare it was all about people. I can’t remember since when I caught a strange fascination towards cities, but maybe this has something to do with my changing cities very often every few years. (Thanks to my dad’s job and my education needs) Delhi was always special and intriguing for me only because I’ve had read a lot about it. As for Bombay, I could not find a reason well enough to be excited about, but still it was a muse of my excitements. Maybe Bombay represents a very basic dream to be among the betters for the bourgeoisie. Like Rio de Janeiro is for Brazilians and NYC is for people from second-world.

Some time back, I could not digest what an article said about Indian cities in Livemint. I just thought that the writer was pretending to be classy and unorthodox all just to create sensation to grab desperate attention. Writers do that. But now that I think of, I can’t construe any genuine ‘Indian’ city which is worth for its planning, architecture and class. Delhi was built by Moghuls who were not Indian, at least till that time and later by the British. Moghuls gave us Agra, Fatehpur Sikri, Lahore, Dhakha and others. Hyderabad was Kutb dynasty’s talent. 

All major ports were conceived by traders who came from Europe. These include: Pondicherry, Goa, Madras and Calcutta. Shimla, Darjeeling and to a large extent Bangalore and Chandigarh in modern times, are all British. Jamshedpur, of which I get mixed reviews, was again an idea of a Parsi, a community not indigenous to India. All the rise of the ‘90s could give us were Gurgoan, Noida, Ahmedabad and the likes. Which by all means are just noise and pollution and glass and concrete. The Indian stamp on Delhi and Madras is nothing but debasing. Bangalore and Calcutta are mess now. This leaves us with cities of erstwhile southern kingdoms like Cochins and Vizaks but they are not world-class by any means. Cities of Ganges planes like Varanasis, Kashis and Patnas? Maybe. The Indian cities I can think of now are all former Rajputana fort-holds. Jaipur, Jodhpur, Ajmer, Chittorgarh, Jaisalmer and every major city you can think of in Rajasthan are all, if not world class, hallmarks of proper planning and architecture, although of striking similarity. Mind you, I am not talking about the city-expansions beyond the ‘walls’ which are again dingy. The state of these cities inside the 'walls' is miserable though now. But then again, cities of Rajputana and Sikhs were heavily influenced by works of Moguls. In fact, the most recognized monument of Jodhpur and the largest private property in the world, Umaid Palace, was again designed by a British.So the truly world-class ‘Indian’city of its times belonged to Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro, I guess.

Bombay is no different. From seven barren islands developed by Portuguese and later by British, all India could add to it was haphazardness and change in name of city and its landmarks. Bombay is no different from any other sloppy Indian city. The only part of the city where you are not ashamed to be in is South-Bombay. All British and heavily populated by Parsis. And it is world-class because it is not Indian. People from other parts of the city proud themselves in their cosmopolitan outlook and an unobservable , invisible and fancy-named ‘Mumbai-Spirit’. This Mumbai-Spirit, for as much I could observe over my stay of three days, refers to daily struggle for survival. Darwin, if alive, would have definitely cited Bombay to endorse his theories.

Don’t get me wrong. Bombay is awesome. But only if you are an Indian and are used to this way of living. It, arguably, it the best Indian city to live in. Although people pride themselves in being exotic and being able to speak fluent not-so-pedantic English, but to my pleasant surprise, it thankfully is devoid of fake, boring and pretentious intellectual intelligentsia. Like that of Delhi, if I were to mention. You have here, the best of both worlds. And once you get into the groove of it, you don’t want to live anywhere else. Bombay brings you out of your comfort zone and rewards you for it. I loved Bombay and would want to be there always. If we goes by Shakespeare's notion of judging a city by its people, this city is classy and cosmopolite. It has always opened arms for people of all caste, creed, religion, region and nationality. Even if you rape and debase it, it does not say No. Million dreams are conceived here everyday and twice that are shattered. This city has spice. And beyond all it's black murkiness, this city beats. This city has life.

The rise of the ‘90s, when most of us were actually born, has given us a false notion the India is the in-thing. The fact is that India and Indians are still and were always looked with contempt and disgust and associated with poverty and uncivilizedness all over the world. Most of us won’t know it because we are poor readers and poor travelers and won’t know how it is to live in a world-class civilized society. India can never give birth to London, Madrid, Venice, Rome, Vienna or Hong Kong. Not in these times at least.Till then, there is nothing to be proud of  about 'Indian-ness' in Indian cities.

Post Scripts:

• It is awesome to be gifted  a camera before you embark to Bombay. Not a cam-savy person, but thank god else I would have so much missed capturing the city. :)
• Also, it is cool to meet some online identities. It is cooler if you could avoid the taxing part. People in Bombay are suave, refined, sophisticated, classy, polished and recherché. At least people I know are. :)
• Also it is cool to stand next to SRKs Mannat and feel liked screaming. The watchman is very friendly. :)
• Don’t believe in Shantaram. He, like all foreign authors, is programmed to see shit and is biased. Slumdog Millionaire is crap. :)
• If you can’t create it, rename it. :)
• Oxford disappoints. It is less books and more dating. :)
• Taxi and Auto drivers are surprisingly friendly and honest. Go by meter and standard fare-chart. Autos are rickety. Not allowed in South-Bombay. :)
• Elephanta caves, though world heritage site, are not that majestic. Though the cheap to and fro ferry ride from Gateway of India to it is worth it :)
• Some interesting takes on Indian cities are here and here. :) 

In photo:(from left) Taj Mahal hotel, Gateway of India, Unknown building.

©Rakesh 2011