by R V Smith
Alfina’s contemporaries were Punna who, though short statured, was a melodious singer of Persian songs, the graceful Rehema Bibi, Zebunissa, the witty siren, and Mahtab of Sind, called the ‘Donna of Larkhana’. Others of note were Begum Jahan, ‘tall and charming, with a deep sonorous voice’, and Hingun, ‘the melodious one’.
The ancient sirens were half animal and half woman whose singing spelt the doom of many a sailor. They sat on the rocks on the seacoast and caused shipwrecks. The sirens of Delhi were not such she-devils but they did destroy the nobility of the capital.
68
Vampires & Phantoms
o sit in Jagjivan Ram’s garden under starlight, discussing ‘Phantoms and Vampires’ was a frightening proposition. It was even more so since a nightbird kept screeching in a nearby tree. Yet that was exactly what my colleagues and I did over three decades ago.
The participants sat huddled in a corner while all the time the garden emitted strange sounds and smells like what only a Delhi garden can in late spring. Some of the people present in the CFD (Congress for Democracy) leader’s house perhaps felt a chill, as much from the agonizing wait for the outcome of the ministry-making issue as from the draughts that played about in the flowerbeds and the hedges surrounding them. But Jagjivan Ram was not talking. His bungalow looked on like the ‘Hungry Stones’ which had lapsed in silence a hundred years ago.
One thought that whatever ghosts hovered over the place were imaginary and not of flesh and blood. Like the one who flitted about from bush to bush. But then he could have been a CID man.
The ‘Phantoms’ and ‘Vampires’ under discussion were not the spooky ones but those which formed part of the Indian Air Force. They had willy-nilly been dragged in to while away the ‘sly, slow hours’ as Mr Ram decided to hold out in the ongoing political charade. No wonder the unquiet garden was forgotten in the many sighs of relief heaved after the scenario cleared up the next day.
But what couldn’t be forgotten was the lavish dinner for members of the subeditors guild at which politicians were also present, including the then Punjab chief minister, Giani Zail Singh. It was prepared by Abdullah Siddiqui of Pantnagar. He looked like a chip off the old block and when one cornered him for a chat. ‘Pantnagar,’ said the khansama, ‘has a strange history dating back to the time when man-eating tigers prowled about in the elephant grass, so peculiar to the area. There was no agricultural university then, only a small State farm, where Pandit Govind Ballabh Pant came and stayed whenever he found time to escape from his official duties. He wanted the place to be known as Jawaharnagar,’ confided the old man, ‘though Mr Nehru willed otherwise and had his way.’ But later a small farm nearby on the road to Naini Tal was named after him.
Abdul used to shuttle between Delhi and Shimla during the days of the Raj – his abode changing with the season, and never fixed as it later was when he spent twenty years in Pantnagar, less than 200 miles from Delhi. When he first took a job with a sahib who was looking after the State farm, he was afraid of the wilderness around him. The animals which roamed about made it difficult for him to venture out of doors in the day, and late at night, life was a veritable hell with mosquitoes ‘as big as bees’.
The old man recalled with great pride, the fact that his advice held much weight in those days, with the memsahib insisting that he dine with them, and not after, as it should be according to the strictest code of etiquette, and the missbaba refusing her bedtime milk because Abdul had not been invited for the after-dinner chat or had been scolded ‘for no fault of his’ by a tipsy guest.
One had occasion to meet Abdul again at a party given by V.C. Shukla, minister of information and broadcasting to the guild. He had been invited to prepare both the vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes and was highly excited about it. Shyama Charan Shukla, thrice chief minister of Madhya Pradesh, was among those present, even taller than his younger brother and hogging the limelight. There was a pretty young woman peeping from a window, trying to get a good view of the outdoor party, to whom V.C. Shukla went and spoke every few minutes. Some thought it was a romance on the sly, until an old timer blurted out that it was Mrs Shukla trying to make sure the dinner was a success.
One met Abdul again for the last time a month later in Connaught Place. He was short of memory for a return trip to Pantnagar but too shy to ask for help. Still, one was able to relieve him of his distress and he parted with a low salaam. Jagjivan Ram is long dead along with Shyama Charan. But his brother is still around. One cannot say the same for Abdul, a relic of the Raj, who prepared the most delicious fare at two memorable dinners.
69
Vanished Birdcatcher
ong before ‘Pie in the Sky’ became a hit song in the early part of the twentieth century, people only knew about the four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. The nursery rhyme goes on to say that when the pie was opened the birds began to sing, much to the amusement of the royal diner. This is not just an empty tale, but something, which was part of entertainment in feudal society in the West – and the East too. When the first Nawab of Tonk gave a wedding party to his guests, among whom were many rajas, nawabs, and high officials, both Indian and British, were pleasantly surprised to find live birds flying out as soon as the dishes were opened. The credit for this, of course went to the royal cooks who caught and trained the birds.
Bahelias or birdcatchers have all but vanished from Delhi, though not from Uttar Pradesh, Haryana, Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, Punjab, Bihar, Bengal, and Assam despite wildlife preservation laws and a big decline in the number of birds.
Trapping of birds was an ancient art which was handed down from father to son. Bahelias were active not only in the jungles, but also in the hills, marshes, and riverbeds. Birds were caught both in the day and night. Skill, patience, and knowledge of birdlife were a hereditary trait of the bahelias.
The bird bazaar that flourished on the steps of the Jama Masjid in Delhi provided a variety of birds, both for the pot and for those who were interested in acquiring pets. Lovebirds, the weaver bird or baya, bulbuls, piddis, lals, parrots, mynas, pigeons, partridges, and quails were among the many varieties on sale. In fact, pigeons, parrots, and partridges are still easily available.
Munna Mian of Jaipur was an expert birdcatcher who had netted birds for over sixty years. He used to supply them not only to the rich families of Tonk and Jaipur but also to the Jama Masjid market in Delhi. The man would oblige those seeking a demonstration from him in the Ghat Gate bazaar itself. Sitting on the roadside and inching his way up, he caught a sparrow so skillfully that one could not but applaud.
Sparrows were netted in large numbers for those fond of chidi pulao near Basai Darapur and Najafgarh areas of Delhi. Hundreds of birds were needed for the dish, which was supposed to be both a delicacy and an aphrodisiac. Early in the morning or late in the evening nets were thrown over trees where the birds would come to roost and the catch sometimes exceeded thousands.
When not using a net, the behelia used other devices. A heap of straw or a tree branch to approach the birds at close quarters. Traps were also used, and at night a light to blind the birds which sometimes involved the ringing of a bell to confuse them. The use of glue was also quite common. But more than anything else it was the skill of the birdcatcher that helped him succeed in his daily hunt.
Now few people know how chidi pulao used to taste and many have surely never seen a bahelia. Munna Mian is long dead and his sons no longer practice the family profession. Nobody produces singing birds for the table and the only bird Delhiwalahs eat with relish is the chicken. Titar and bater parties are a thing of the past. But many an old timer misses the bahelia stalking the birds on the Ridge and the Nizamuddin jungle, and then take them to the city for sale. Parrots are now the only bird that one sometimes sees a rare bahelia trying to sell in the lanes and bylanes of old Delhi. But then parrots are meant for cages and not the dining table.
70
View From the Rugged Heights
t
’s like something out of Wuthering Heights, except that Ring Road passes close by and fishmongers sit under a peepal tree with lamps and lanterns. The scene is very much in the capital off Naraina Village. A gnarled tree uprooted by this summer’s storm lies a few yards away. It provides shade to many a wayfarer but now it awaits the woodman’s axe. This tree, now dead and soon to be cut into pieces, must have stood for several years and seen the area being transformed from a wilderness into a habitation. But something of the old days still lingers in the evening vegetable market of which the fish sellers are a part.
When the sun sets behind the FCI building and casts its last rays on the murky water of the pond below it, and the train to Jaipur has passed by, the fish sellers prepare to receive their first customers. They sell their stuff by weight and the scales they use are old, dingy ones that have been long off-balance. But that hardly seems to make a difference to the trade. The seller weighs one scale down, almost touching the ground and the buyer seems to be satisfied. It’s only the fish that keep staring back all the time.
You walk up and down the rugged terrain behind. There are bushes and babool trees and a winding way leading to the temple. Gradually this place will become like any other colony for they are building flats to house the ever-growing population. Until then you can take a stroll here. The kirtan is long over and the crowd has disappeared but the filth left behind has become part of the soil over which new bushes will sprout.
From the high ground you can look up to the water tank that serves as a reservoir for the inhabitants of Naraina, and looking down across the road you will see a deserted sentry tower. That’s part of the cantonment area. In the day donkeys and mules canter around it, that’s if a cricket match is not on. If it is, the players use the tower as a pavilion and the umpire sometimes comes and stands below it. But late in the evening the sentry tower evokes other thoughts – like the futility of maintaining a watch over something which will eventually need no vigilance and harbours only vagabonds at night.
It’s most distressing to think like that. You come back to the fishmongers. They are in a hurry to dispose of their stuff. A woman dangles a rohu from a slim arm. ‘How much?’ she asks. ‘`50 a kg,’ says the seller. ‘No, `48,’ says the woman throwing the fish down and wiping her hand on her husband’s scooter dicky. ‘Take,’ says the man and throws the fish back at her. She picks it up and is soon speeding away on the scooter. A few fish remain and they keep staring, with no more customers in sight, except a couple walking up the incline in the pale moonlight like Heathcliff and the girl he loved.
But the scenario is changing fast because of the extension of the Nariana flyover. Already it takes at least 40 minutes to cross over from Mayapuri/Raja Garden to Naraina. Many prefer to go via Kirti Nagar or Nangal Raya, over the Janaksethu, to reach Dhaula Kuan. The increased traffic and consequent congestion will spell the doom of the Rugged Heights and the view one gets from it. Perhaps the fishmongers may move out too and the sentry tower will be demolished. Then only memories will remain.
71
River Swimming Craze
ne result of pollution and the scanty water in the Yamuna is the virtual end of the annual swimming fairs. The Delhi Gazatteer of 1883-1884 recorded the number of fairs in Delhi at thirty-three, though originally there were 104 which included (besides the bathing ones) mostly those in honour of local deities, the pankha melas, the Muharrum processions and the Urs at various shrines. Among the fairs that attracted both Muslims and Hindus were the Tairaqi Melas, first started by the Mughals during the rainy months, when the river was full and flowed right under the walls of the Red Fort. Nets had to be thrown in it to catch crocodiles that were swept thither by the flood. There may be some exaggeration in such accounts, though it is a fact that occasionally ensnared crocs found their way to Macchliwalan, the fish market near the Jama Masjid, where oil was extracted from their carcasses and, like their skin and teeth, fetched a high price, along with the snout that was mounted by taxidermists for the drawing rooms of the nawabs and naabzadas. Until the late nineteenth century, crocodiles were found basking near the Purana Qila in winter and shot by British sentries, according to the Gazetteer.
Here is an account written in the mid-twentieth century – ‘For most Delhiwalahs the swimming season begins with the onset of the monsoon and not at modern swimming pools. There was a time when swimmers floated on their backs with iron spits on their chests on which kebabs, paranthas, and jalebis were fried. In Mughal days, the art of swimming reached its zenith with Tairaqs from Turkey, Iran, Armenia, Central Asia, and Afghanistan coming to complete here. A noted swimmer from Agra was given the title of Mir Macchli by Jahangir. It is said that when, as Prince Salim, he was initiated into the sport, tons of roses were thrown into the Yamuna, then in flood. A similar story is told about Shah Jahan, which only goes to show how popular river swimming was in those days even for princes. Up to the early 1940s there were four swimming fairs on the four Thursdays of Sawan. Parties of swimmers from the Walled City marched to the river to the beat of drums, headed by a flag-bearer (the Nishan Nashin), and singing the songs of Barsat of poet Nazir. There were separate groups of Muslim and Hindu swimmers. For the former the ustad was the chief and for the latter the Khalifa (colloquially pronounced Khalipa). This was strange since the word Khalifa has Arabic origins and got converted into the Anglicized ‘Caliph’. How come then that a non-Muslim group had adopted it? One reason could be, that in former times the trainers of both communities were of Turkish descent and so when ‘ustad’ became popular with one group, the other one decided on retaining ‘Khalifa’.
Parmal Khalifa was actually a fat, paunchy vegetable seller who walked with difficulty. But when he entered the river he was grace sublime, braving the current and leading his team into the trickiest parts of the Yamuna. Ghafoor Ustad was a balding pigeon fancier who used to jump from the old Yamuna Bridge into the flood water, holding the Nishan in one hand and swimming with the other – a tight-fitting cotton Lucknavi cap on his head. Both Muslim and Hindu groups swam across the river and when they reached the other side they offered Chiraghi. One on a mazar and the other under a peepul tree. The groups returned home with the drums beating again and the Nishan fluttering in the monsoon breeze to cries of Nare Taqbi and Har har Mahadev as per their belief. But if a group lost a swimmer (a rare occurrence) then the drums were not played and it trooped home silently. Because of this fear little girls and boys were posted on the road to bring word to the women that all was well and that their group was returning with deecham-deecham (joyous drumbeats) and mad razzak dancing in a frenzy. It was then that kheel-batasha or sweat nuktidana (boondi) were distributed to all and sundry. In the case of a mishap the group did not return without the body of the drowned member, even if it took hours to recover it from usually the bhanwar or the treacherous circular river current that was a virtual death-trap.
One remembers meeting Munne Mian, an old ustad staying in Kucha Chelan in the 1960s, who had a host of stories to relate in his spare time. Though he had stopped swimming, his son had taken over the ustadi and the turban that went with it. One story concerned Masoom, a boy of sixteen who was presumed drowned in the last fair of Sawan. The group searched for him but couldn’t find the body and wanted to return home. Munne Mian however was not the one to give up and eventually found the boy caught in the bhanwar. He carried him to the Yamuna bank, put him on his stomach and squeezed the water out of his lungs. He then massaged the body till breath returned and then the Nishan was hoisted and the group returned triumphantly, with Masoom being carried in a sort of relay throughout. One hardly hears of such fairs now!
72
When Trams Plied
magine a scion of the Mughal family like Prince Surayya Jah boarding a tram from Jama Masjid to the Chandni Chowk in 1910 or the author of Twilight in Delhi, Ahmed Ali, doing so as a schoolboy after leaving his residence in Kutcha Pandit. Trams were introduced in Delhi on 6 March 1908 at the behest of the Viceroy Lord Hardinge
who inaugurated the Tramway Company’s project at the Town Hall. Among those present was the director-general of the Archaeological Survey of India, Lord Marshal. The introduction of the Tramway was an achievement that caused more excitement than even the coming of the Delhi Metro ten years ago. Lala Hanwant Sahai, who was arrested for the bomb attack on Lord Hardinge in 1912, had mixed memories of the advent of trams when one met him in 1966. He and his teacher (and later martyr) Master Amir Chand had taken part in an agitation in 1907 against the move to introduce trams a year later.
One remembers travelling by tram in 1960, three years before trams ceased plying, while buying pilau from Khan Sahib’s shop below the steps of the Jama Masjid, close to the Hare-Bhare shrine, for the family living in Ludlow Castle Road. It was so easy to board it and just as easy to get down, not as difficult and risky as doing so with a bus. Talking of buses in those days, the longest route was that of Number 9 from Kingsway Camp to Mandir Marg, later extended to Shadipur Depot. The tram tickets were priced at half anna, one anna, two annas, and four annas (the ticket for the longest route). In four annas, which was one-fourth of a rupee, in those days, one could buy the best parantha in Paranthewali Gali made of desi ghee, along with the sabzi of one’s choice – not just potato curry or aloo rassa. Now even the cheapest parantha costs 30 rupees. Incidentally, it was from a tram that one first saw the dancing girl’s mosque in Hauz Kazi.
There were few women and girls travelling in trams (much cheaper then a tonga or even the humble ekka), but once there were a whole lot of purdah ladies seen in burqas, singing their way to a wedding reception from Ballimaran to Sadar Bazaar. The passengers were seated in three compartments, the lowest (which was the most popular), the second one and the high-priced first compartment. The ladies were in the second though some old male members of the family were seated in the higher class. As for marriage guests, it is no secret that some of those (poor cousins) who attended the wedding of Jawaharlal Nehru and Kamla Kaul in Bazaar Sitaram travelled by tram in 1916. For that matter, even a famous hakim like Ajmal Khan occasionally caught a tram to reach his house in Ballimaran, discarding his doli or palanquin. A young woman teaching in St Thomas’ School, Reading Road, once went shopping for a sari in Chandni Chowk by tram and enjoyed the experience as the ride was a smooth and comfortable one, though slow-paced with hardly any chance of the fair sex being harassed or molested – something so common in DTC buses.