EDITED BY
KHUSHWANT SINGH
City Improbable
Writings on Delhi
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
INTRODUCTION: LOVING AND LOATHING DELHI
THE BUILDING OF THE HALL
Vyasa
A PARADISE OF JUSTICE
Amir Khusrau
QUTBUDDIN AIBAK
Hasan Nizami
THE COURT OF MUHAMMAD BIN TUGHLAQ
Ibn Battuta
CONQUEST OF DEHLI
Timur-i-Lang
ENTRY INTO DELHI
Babur
THE BUILDING OF SHAHJAHANABAD
Samsam-ud-Daula
THE UNTOUCHABLES
Khushwant Singh
IN THE TIME OF AURANGZEB
Niccolao Manucci
THE EARLY DAYS OF THE BRITISH
William Dalrymple
THE GOVERNOR-GENERAL’S VISIT
Emily Eden
THERE ONCE WAS A FAIR CITY
Meer Taqi Meer
1857
Ghalib
THE CAPTURE OF THE KING
W.S.R. Hodson
JAT HOUSEHOLDS
Oswald Wood
UNCONQUERED STILL
Perceval Landon
THE BUILDING OF NEW DELHI
Sheela Bajaj
BALLIMARAN AND THE WAR FUND, 1942
Chaman Nahal
NEW DELHI AT WAR, 1939–45
Nayantara Pothen
DELHI, 1947
Yashpal
THE GIRL FROM DELHI
Saadat Hasan Manto
WINTER MORNING
Kamleshwar
BHABIJI’S HOUSE
Ruskin Bond
A WORLD OF WORDS
Renuka Singh
NUMBER SEVEN, CIVIL LINES
Sheila Dhar
MRS GUPTA NEVER RANG
Jan Morris
DELHI DURING EMERGENCY
Pran Sabharwal
31 OCTOBER 1984
Jarnail Singh
NOW THE TEARS HAVE DRIED UP
Dhiren Bhagat
APRIL IN DELHI
Khushwant Singh
DELHI BY SEASON
Namita Gokhale
I NEVER KNEW HIS NAME
Anees Jung
LODI GARDEN
Bulbul Sharma
DILLI KA DASTARKHWAN
Sadia Dehlvi
A VILLAGE IN DELHI: SHAHPUR JAT
Karoki Lewis
LODI COLONY
Ranjana Sengupta
LOVERS, THEY ARE EVERYWHERE
Radhika Chandiramani
THE KINGDOM OF WASTE
Bharati Chaturvedi
SUJAN SINGH PARK
Madhu Jain
BITCH
Mrinal Pande
CITY WITHOUT NATIVES
Vijay Nambisan
IN THE COMPANY OF HIJRAS
Anita Roy
SHAHJAHANABAD: THE CITY THAT ONCE WAS
Pavan K. Varma
PUBLIC RELIEF
Manjula Padmanabhan
ONE LONG PARTY
Renuka Narayanan
CITY OF WALLS, CITY OF GATES
Rukmini Bhaya Nair
ACROSS THE RIVER: NOIDA
Sam Miller
INAUGURATION
Jaanu Nagar, Babli Rai, Shamsher Ali and Suraj Rai
Footnote
Across the River: Noida
Notes
NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Read More in Penguin
Finding Delhi: Loss And Renewal in The Megacity
Celebrating Delhi
Besieged: Voices From Delhi 1857
Trickster city: Writings from the belly of the metropolis
Delhi: Adventures In A Megacity
Delhi Metropolitan: The Making of An Unlikely City
City of Djinns: A Year In Delhi
Delhi: A Novel
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Copyright Page
PENGUIN BOOKS
CITY IMPROBABLE
Khushwant Singh is one of India’s best-known writers and columnists. He began his career as a journalist with All India Radio in 1951. Since then he has been the editor of the Illustrated Weekly of India, the National Herald and the Hindustan Times for several years. He is also the author of several books, including the novels Train to Pakistan, I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale, Delhi: A Novel and The Company of Women; the classic two-volume History of the Sikhs; as well as numerous translations and non-fiction books on Delhi, nature and current affairs. His autobiography, Truth, Love and a Little Malice, was published in 2002.
Khushwant Singh was a member of Parliament from 1980 to 1986. Among other honours, he was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974 by the President of India, but he returned the decoration in 1984 in protest against the Union Government’s siege of the Golden Temple in Amritsar.
Introduction: Loving and Loathing Delhi
Some contributors to this anthology, especially the younger writers, wonder if Delhi can ever be anybody’s native city. People come here to earn a living, to study, or were born here and so had no option. But if one had a choice, would one really choose to live here? Does this ancient city, once described as ‘the mistress of every conqueror’, inspire love or loyalty?
Having spent much of my life in Delhi, I can tell you that there is as much to love about the city as there is to loathe. What is loveable makes a long list, but so does all that is loathsome about it. Let us first look at the things that make Delhi unique among the capitals of the world. It has a longer history and more historical monuments than any other metropolis. Relics uncovered in and around Delhi date well beyond the sixth century BC. As for monuments, you will find one in every square kilometre. It has more mosques, mausolea and memorials than any city in a Muslim country. There are few mosques anywhere that can rival Delhi’s Jama Masjid in size and grandeur. See it from a distance at sunset on the last day of the month of Ramzan. You will notice people on top of the minarets scouring the gradually darkening sky. If the fine fingernail of the crescent moon is spotted, cries of joy are heard from neighbouring rooftops, a cannon is fired and garlands of white lights frame the perfect outlines of the Royal Mosque. It is a never-to-be-forgotten experience which will even make a non-believer acclaim the glory of God—Allah-o-Akbar!
Another mosque that will stay in a visitor’s mind is Moti Masjid or Pearl Mosque in the Red Fort. It is as small as the Jama Masjid is big, and very appropriately named—meant for private worship of the Muslim rulers of Delhi who lived in the marble palace alongside it, it is like a jewel-box of virginal white. There are a dozen others of great architectural beauty but we must not overlook the other Muslim monuments for which Delhi is famous. The best known is the Qutub Minar, raised as a victory tower in the eleventh century AD. It is a slender, tapering edifice of beige and red sandstone, lavishly embellished with verses from the Holy Koran. There are many buildings in the world taller than Delhi’s Qutub Minar, but few to match its excellence. Then there is the mausoleum of emperor Humayun, built by his widowed empress. Stand at the entrance gate to gaze at the perfect proportions and you will understand why it was chosen as the model for the world’s most beautiful monument, the Taj Mahal in Agra.
Delhi also has many beautiful modern buildings. There is the Rashtrapati Bhawan, the Secretariats, Parliament House, India Gate. You can see them in all their glory in the last week of January, around Republic Day, when they are festooned with lights. For the most splendid view, position yourself at India Gate as the sun goes down over Raisina Hill. It was not the grandeur of the old but the modern city that made Sarojini Naid
u exult: ‘Imperial City, dowered with sovereign grace!’ And it remains grand, though it is no longer imperial, nor has it a sovereign, but a democratic city dowered, hopefully, with secular grace.
More than man’s contributions it is nature’s bounty that has made Delhi the eternal capital of India. A broad river, the Yamuna, second only to the Ganga in sacredness, marked its eastern boundary, and a rocky ridge, the end of the Aravalli range, its western end. Between the river and the ridge rose several cities, each one the seat of the empire of Hindustan. As its population multiplied, it spilt over the river and rocky ridge till it spread over thirty square miles, to become, after Calcutta and Bombay, the third largest city of India. While the buildings came up, nature and man joined hands to add to the city’s treasures: Delhi has more trees per square kilometre than any other big city. Most of them grow wild and are the gifts of nature, but a succession of rulers also laid out gardens and orchards wherever they lived. Little remains of these historical gardens besides their names: Hayat Baksh, Qudsia, Roshanara, Mahaldar Khan and others. The most significant contribution was made by the British. When they made blueprints of New Delhi, they provided for extensive planting of trees. As roads were laid out, saplings were planted. They chose massive, shade-giving trees—banyans, neems, jamuns, Arjuns, mahuas, maulsaris—so that we now have broad, tree-lined avenues in central Delhi. After Independence, our own rulers opted for quick-growing trees: jacarandas, laburnums, gulmohars and the completely useless eucalypti. However, between the old and the new, there is not a season when one or the other tree is not in full flower. The year starts with the semals (silk cottons) followed by the corals, chorizzias, flame of the forest, jacarandas, amaltas (laburnums), gulmohars and lagerstroenias (jaruls). After a short recess the floral cycle begins to move again.
Delhi’s greenery contributes to its rich bird life. The Delhi Bird Watching Society has listed almost five hundred distinct species of birds, resident and migratory, which can be seen in and around the city every year. There is never a moment when you look up and do not see flocks of birds circling and streaming across the sky. In the evenings as they go to roost the loud chorus of mynahs and parakeets drowns the roar of traffic. In Delhi’s bazaars and railway stations cheeky bank mynahs sometimes wriggle their way between people’s feet.
But you don’t see that kind of thing as often as you used to. Delhi has become a very polluted and congested city. It has more cars than Bombay, Calcutta and Madras put together. So there is more poison in the air than in other cities. That and the reckless use of pesticides has taken a heavy toll of insect, amphibian and bird life. In the rainy season, no frogs croak, no fireflies or moths are to be seen. Vultures have disappeared, sparrows have become scarce. The incidence of asthma and bronchial ailments has shown an alarming increase, and if residents of Delhi manage to survive it is because of the greenery around them.
The not-so-loveable aspect of Delhi is entirely manmade. Delhiwalas are about the most inconsiderate of the human species you can encounter. They think nothing of throwing their garbage into their neighbours’ homes or on the road. They observe no road rules and are ever eager to overtake others, blow their horns and get into violent arguments. On an average four to six people are killed every day by cars and buses. About the same number are murdered in cold blood. Thefts and burglaries are a daily feature. Molesting women in buses is a common practice.
At one time Dilliwalas were known for their courteous speech and interest in poetry, good food and clothes. They were proud of their poets: Meer Taqi Meer, Ghalib, Zauq and Zafar. Sons of the rich patronized courtesans living in Chawri Bazar to listen to mujras and banter Urdu poetry with them. The paan they chewed was wrapped in gold and silver paper. They wore brocades made by a family of royal dress designers living in Nai Sarak, and they got their sweets from the Shahi Halwai (Royal Confectioner) in Chandni Chowk. Even when they used bawdy language to address each other, to call a buddy bhosree-kay (cunt-born) or madarchode (motherfucker) or bahenchode (sisterfucker), it was an endearment. When they wanted to put down somebody, they’d say ‘Chullu bhar paani mein doob mar (Go drown yourself in a palmful of water)’ or ‘Imli ke patte pe hug (Shit on a tamarind leaf)’ (the leaf being smaller than the nail of the little finger).
All that went with the Muslim elite, who migrated to Pakistan in 1947. Their place was taken by a flood of Hindu and Sikh refugees from West Punjab. Understandably, these new entrants were eager to rehabilitate themselves, make a fast buck and show everyone how well they had done for themselves. Hearty eating, good living in a large bungalow with a fleet of cars, an ostentatious display of wealth became the culture of Delhi’s rich.
The most loathsome aspect of Delhi is the new caste system that has evolved: the caste hierarchy of the bureaucracy, because Delhi is essentially the city of babus and politicians. You are judged by your status in the civil service: steno, upper division clerk, under secretary, deputy secretary, joint secretary, additional secretary, full secretary. Likewise, politicians have their own hierarchy and means of letting everyone know how important they are: their cars have special number plates, their windscreens proclaim they are MPs, they have red or blue lights flashing on the roofs of their vehicles. The brahmins of this hierarchy, known as VVIPs, have armed escorts and when they drive past, other traffic comes to a deferential halt. In short, they are a bloody nuisance because they make you feel small.
Draw a balance sheet of what is loveable about Delhi and what is not, and you will find that its plus points equal its minus points. So if you happen to be living in Delhi, why uproot yourself and go somewhere else of which you know less, and which may not be worth knowing either?
KHUSHWANT SINGH
The Building of the Hall
VYASA
Dhritarashtra divided his kingdom into two and gave the Pandavas Khandavaprastha, a barren desert. Here the Pandavas built the city of Indraprastha with its forts, moats, encampments and in due course, a brilliant city came into being with a ‘wall as high as heaven and as white as silver’. People flocked to the city and songbirds to the parks and gardens. Its palace was built by Maya, the architect of the gods, whom Arjun saved from a devastating fire. Taken from the Mahabharata, this extract tells of the building of the palace in Indraprastha—the capital of the Pandavas and the oldest of all the cities which make up Delhi.
Then Maya said to Arjun, folding his hands, ‘You have saved me from the fire that was ready to burn me, son of Kunti. Tell me how I can thank you.’
Arjun said, ‘You do not need to do anything, great Asura. Be always friendly to us, and we shall be friendly to you.’
Maya said, ‘My lord, I am a great artist, a Visvakarman among the Danavas, and I wish to do something for you in friendship.’
Arjun said, ‘Do something for Krishna; that will be reward enough for me.’
Krishna pondered a while on what he would demand. ‘Build an assembly hall, such as would be worthy of Yudhishtir, the dharma raj, a hall of such magnificence that people will behold it with wonderment but will not be able to imitate it, an assembly hall where one can see the designs of the Gods laid, and the plans of Asuras and of men.’
Maya was delighted and joyfully agreed.
Thereupon Krishna and Arjun presented Maya to Yudhishtir, who received him graciously.
After he had rested for some time, Maya planned and prepared to build the hall for the great-spirited sons of Pandu. He performed the inauguration on an auspicious day, fed thousands of eminent brahmins and distributed many presents to them. He selected and measured out ten thousand cubits of the most beautiful land where he would build this hall.
Then Maya said to Arjun, ‘I must go, but I shall return soon. On the northern slope of the Himalayas, by Kailash, close to Lake Bindu, there is a place filled with shining columns bordered with gold and set with jewels. There I have stored my own collection of precious stones, which have been hewn to size for a building. I shall go and fetch these, if they are still there, my l
ord. With it I shall build a hall for the famous Pandavas, a beautiful hall to delight all hearts.’
Maya began to build his palace, keeping it invisible until he had finished. The hall had solid golden pillars, and measured ten thousand cubits in circumference. Its colour was radiant and divine, like fire or the sun, which it seemed to challenge in its splendour. It covered the sky like a mountain or monsoon cloud, smooth and faultless. Merely looking at it dispelled fatigue. The walls were gem-encrusted walls, filled with precious stones and treasures. Neither the Sudharma hall of the Dasarhas, nor the palace of Brahma possessed the matchless beauty that Maya imparted to it.
Eight thousand armed Kimkaras, terrifying, red-eyed rakshasas with ears of mother-of-pearl, guarded and protected the hall at Maya’s behest.
Within the hall Maya built a peerless lotus pond, covered with beryl leaves and lotuses with gem-studded stalks, filled with lilies and water plants and inhabited by many flocks of fowl, turtles and fish. The water was clear and sparkling, and the pearl-drop flowers that covered it were stirred by a breeze.
Around the hall stood tall trees of many different kinds that were always in bloom and gave cool shade. There were fragrant groves and lotus ponds filled with wild geese, ducks and other birds. The wind carried the fragrance of flowers on land or on water and fanned the Pandavas with it. Such was the palace that Maya built in fourteen months, and when it was finished, he informed the king and removed the illusion, so that the hall was visible.
Said Arjun, ‘It is so beautiful that it does not seem real. Is it not an illusion, Maya?’
Maya said, ‘I don’t know. You have to find out, prince.’ And then he said goodbye, stood up and disappeared.
Yudhishtir made his entrance into the hall. To celebrate he fed ten thousand brahmins, and gave each of them garlands, new clothes and a thousand cows. He worshipped the deities with music and song. There were wrestlers, dancers, boxers, bards and songsters who entertained the crowds for seven days and nights. The Pandava rejoiced in his lovely palace with his brothers, like Indra in heaven.
In that hall seers and princes from many countries sat with the Pandavas, and many barons, hermits, learned in the Vedas, and eminent seers attended on the great king, as the gods wait on Brahma in heaven.
City Improbable- Writings on Delhi Page 1