You had these tea-rooms, like Wenger’s and Davico’s, [fashionable restaurants] which were very popular. They had tea-dances, and you could get a very good meal there … By that time [the war], there were many Indian ICS men whose wives danced, smoked, drank the odd sherry. They were there, so there was mixed dancing. Normally, you would see separate tables. I’d say it wasn’t until the war that things opened up and you could see mixed parties.26
Similarly, both John Tyson and Badr-ud-din Tyabji fondly recalled the hospitality at the Liaquat Ali Khans’ where one’s race or religion did not matter, but an appreciation of good food, drink, conversation and bridge, did.27
Yet, despite this relaxation in New Delhi society, for Indian women a modicum of social restraint was still required. Certain social rituals and codes of behaviour were to be avoided as young Indian women negotiated a path between being Indian and being modern. As a young girl, Santha Rama Rau remembers being allowed by her mother to drink champagne at parties. She was not, however, allowed to drink hard liquor—this was considered ‘fast’.28 Smoking was still a guilty pleasure, more often than not pursued in private, away from the prying eyes of more traditional family members.29 Slacks could be worn—and they were by the younger generation—but never dresses. Saris were worn to receptions and balls, not the easiest thing to travel backwards across a dance floor in, but certainly the more socially acceptable option if you were an Indian woman who enjoyed ballroom dancing.
An equally significant contributor to the erosion of New Delhi’s formality and embedded segregation was the emergence of a new form of social interaction in a new social space in which the ‘Warrant of Precedence’ had little place—the buffet or the ‘fork lunch’. It played a considerable role in the easing of social and race relations outside the sphere of the official function and in the emergence of a separate, yet equally valid, social space outside that sanctioned by officialdom. Hosted by official and non-official members of New Delhi’s society, these functions were not held by or on behalf of the Government of India and the Viceroy. Rank played little part at these unofficial functions. One would, thus, invite people to dinner parties because they had something interesting to say, rather than because they shared a social rank. It was a much more suitable approach to entertaining in a social space that was more socially egalitarian than its official counterpart. The shifts in New Delhi’s social codes and mores were taking place, not so much within the leaves of the ‘Warrant of Precedence’ but more so in shifts in the nature of social ritual and interaction of this period.
The viceregal function was slower to embrace the informality of social conduct and entertainment that was being played out in the unofficial private parties of the privileged New Delhi homes. The buffet or the ‘fork lunch’ that had been so readily adopted as the ‘party of choice’ for private functions would take a little longer to infiltrate viceregal ranks. By 1944, however, Hume would write to his parents that one good thing circumstances had done: ‘It had cut away the last remnants of that frightful, snobbish, artificial social existence which poisoned Delhi before the war’.30 The ‘loosening’ of New Delhi’s hierarchical sense of identity, a shift towards a greater degree of social relaxation than had previously existed, had finally penetrated viceregal circles. The Establishment rules of the 1930s, learned by young women with fathers and husbands in high-ranking positions, which decreed that she should speak first to the gentleman on her right and then the gentleman on her left, had little place in the more egalitarian world of buffets and ‘fork lunches’.
New Delhi was certainly a city in transformation; the formality of the social rituals and the forms of social behaviour and interaction considered appropriate were shifting. Previously consisting of a (comparatively) small group of Government of India officials, New Delhi’s role as wartime administrative hub for the war in the Pacific ensured that the resulting influx of armed personnel affected the make-up and shaped the behaviour of its official population, undermining the exclusivity previously associated with the city. Despite the continued significance of the ‘Warrant of Precedence’ in official life, the modes of social behaviour and interaction could not help but be affected by the growth and diversity in the city’s population. By the end of the war, New Delhi had lost its title of ‘the city of civilians’. Instead, it was a city in transition as India stood on the cusp of independence.
Delhi, 1947
YASHPAL
This extract is taken from the second volume of the novel Jhootha Sach, and has been translated by Sunny Singh.
Pandit Girdharilalji fled from Lahore with his wife and reached Delhi on 13 August. He found that the entire nation’s populace had flooded Delhi. He had no particular acquaintances in Delhi. He couldn’t bring himself to stay in the camp; hotels had no space. After much wandering, a Multani family agreed to let him stay—for five rupees a day—in a corner of their room in a newly built hotel on Faiz Road.
Panditji would leave his wife sitting in the room the whole day to guard their baggage while he searched for a place. This was impossible to find. Delhi had been filled with many times more people than it could house during the war itself, when people had come lured by business prospects. On top of that, since March, the rich people fleeing from the large cities of western Punjab also found Delhi to be the nearest and safest place of all. They were willing to pay any price to get a place. After 14 August, unable to cope with the torrent of people coming in from Punjab, the UP government stopped the entry of refugees into the state but Delhi, with arms generously spread, went on accepting everyone.
Panditji met his business acquaintances to see if any of them could help him find a room somewhere. He even went to meet Professor S.N. Mathur. Mithai, tea, lemonade and paan greeted him everywhere. People were ready to extend every kind of hospitality—except for finding a house. Some even hinted, ‘You Punjabi people don’t go around asking for houses, do you? Those who want them are taking them. Look in Paharganj, Sabzi Mandi, Pataudi House, Matiyamal or Bairam Khan Road.’
After eight days of tireless searching, having received no help from anyone, Panditji finally found a room on the third floor of a house on Sayed Ahmad Road, in Faiz Bazaar, behind Golcha. It was a barsaati with a tin roof but it had doors that could be locked. For water and the bathroom, he and his wife had to come downstairs to the aangan. But what a room! Finally they had a place to put down their belongings, to cook food and take shelter from the rain. Now he could afford to look for a house in a more leisurely fashion.
He learnt that though his landlord Rajaram Agarwal had lived here for a while, the rest of the people in the basti were new. Before 14 August, Koonchachela and Dilli Gate Bazaar had been predominantly Muslim. Now, Hindu refugees from the west were coming and settling here. Some areas around were still largely Muslim—Pataudi House, Chitli Kanwar Bazaar and the Bairam Khan junction. There were murmurs that preparations for a very big battle were on; rumours that Muslims had gathered lots of guns from Paharganj and other neighbourhoods and barricaded themselves in. There was also talk of some Hindus being killed. But what Panditji saw every day was many frightened Muslim families leaving with their belongings, and Punjabi Hindu families, carrying their possessions on their heads and shoulders, coming into the neighbourhoods in their place. Twice he saw people who had come from the west going into the inner streets with swords, spears and axes. Soldiers with bayoneted rifles stood or sat in the bazaars and on street corners, but there were murders inside the alleys and even bombings. Before his eyes, the population was openly being transformed. In the neighbourhood behind Faiz Bazaar, Muslims were pleading for protection. Armed soldiers had been posted for their safety, but they only hampered their movements.
In the afternoons, the tin roof would get very hot. Panditji could not bear to stay there. Thirty-five years ago, when he had been imprisoned in the cause of the nation, he had been young and his heart had been filled with passion. Now, all he could do was to endure it with quiet forbearance.
&n
bsp; He thought about finding another place. He had no objection to living amongst Muslims. He just wanted a house that would have space, air and water. Where, if he could not return to Lahore, he could at least get his press from home and install it. For this, he was willing to spend the necessary money. And so it was among the Muslim alleys that he started looking.
The Muslims who still remained usually lurked, frightened and watchful, on the thresholds of their homes. Panditji, so as not to frighten them, would address them as ‘bhai jaan’, and ask, ‘Is there a house that has been vacated in this street?’ In response there would usually be silence. One day a very sad-looking man sighed and told him, ‘Bhai jaan, kill us and remove us, everything will be vacated. Where can we go? We will be buried here. We were born from this soil, and we will return to it.’
Upon hearing this another Muslim man, seemingly a maulana, wearing a khadi sherwani and a high Gandhi topi, paused on his way through the alley. The man who had spoken stopped upon catching his eye. Seeing everyone bow and greet him, Panditji also greeted him with an ‘adaab arz’ and softly spoke up, ‘Bhai jaan, why should you leave! It is your house, you must stay. If there is a place empty in your neighbourhood, keep us there. We think of you as brothers, the same people, one nation. It is our misfortune that we have had to leave our houses and our work but it is not your fault. We want to return to our land but it is all His (Panditji pointed towards the sky) will.’ Panditji too was wearing his usual Congress clothes: a khadi turban, a bandhgala coat and a loose turban.
The maulana spoke for the others: ‘Bhai jaan, this communal hatred is destroying the nation. It is the duty of every nationalist—you and I—to stop this savagery. Bapu has been willing to lay down his life for this. I wish Maulana Muhammad Ali-Shaukat Ali were still alive; I wish Dr Ansari were still here. Oh! Calcutta saw such awful things. At this time, God willing, only Bapu can save the nation.’
Panditji expressed his complete agreement with the maulana’s views and prepared to leave. Before he left he requested the maulana to look out for an empty house in the neighbourhood for him.
‘Ahem … there is a request.’
Panditji turned to see. The maulana was walking behind him.
‘You are looking for a house?’ the maulana asked. ‘You must be needing a nice large place—I have such a place. Would you like to buy my house? This division is permanent. You have come here; those people who are leaving—what is the possibility of their return? Why don’t you just buy?’
Panditji knocked his cane against the ground of the alley and thought before responding: ‘Maulana, buying or trading property is a matter that needs thinking … Right now, I was just planning to rent. But if it is not too much trouble, there is no harm in having a look at the house.’
They walked back into the street. At the junction of two alleys, in a little opening, was a small gate. On the gate, underneath the large numbers placed for the census, was written: ‘Sultan-pasand Zarda Factory. Owner: Sayyad Abdul Samad, Durrani Gali, Dilli Gate.
Abdul Sayyad did not want to trade, but wanted the price in cash. He was willing to accept fifteen instead of twenty, even a mere ten thousand. Panditji requested him to show him his property papers, and promised to come the following day to see them.
The next day, 4 September, was Janamasthami. Panditji’s wife, despite her poor health, wanted to fast. After much cajoling and argument, she agreed to have some fruit and milk. But the Muslim fruit shops in Faiz Bazaar and Dilli Gate bazaar had been destroyed. Some refugees had begun selling cucumbers, corn, guavas and bananas from small shops and pushcarts. But Panditji could not let his wife eat such things in her fragile state of health. He walked towards Fatehpuri, looking for good fruit.
When he reached Fatehpuri, the shops were being shut down. There were rumours that Muslim policemen had taken up arms and rebelled. Frightened people were saying that beyond Sir Sayyad Road there were riots in the Muslim neighbourhoods of Dilli Gate bazaar and Pataudi House. There was talk of Muslims firing machineguns from their rooftops, and sounds of gunfire. The siren for curfew went off. Within minutes, as Panditji watched, armed soldiers went towards the area. The gunfire continued until evening.
In such a situation, how could Panditji go to Abdul Sayyad’s house? He walked back towards his house and joined the people sitting outside the Hindu shops, which were still open, and sat there till evening. Passersby would stop with further news. There was talk of a great battle in Paharganj.
Panditji sat in Khubchand’s shop and heard the news. Someone would say, ‘Garhwalis have finished the Muslims in Hauz Kazi.’ ‘Everything till the Ajmeri Gate has been burned.’ The Muslims had attacked Karol Bagh, he heard, and everyone had been shot. ‘Two thousand Muslims have been killed in Paharganj.’ One man said that at many places soldiers and members of the civil guard had fired on the Hindus. Some spoke of sixteen Hindus killed, another of twenty-four Hindus killed. There was anger and excitement about this. People were abusing the Congress government and Pandit Nehru: ‘These people will get Hindus killed even in Delhi, then where will we go!’
On 6 September, the curfew was made more rigid. Even Hindus were restricted from movement. The military was carrying out corpses from the inner alleys. Panditji sat in Khubchand’s shop.
On 7 September, people began going out to buy aata-daal and for other chores. On that day too, Panditji decided not to go into Durrani Gali.
8 September: Panditji’s little room under the tin roof was boiling under the sun by ten o’clock. His wife was busy making phulke on the stove placed in the shadow of the barsaati’s wall. Panditji could not bear to remain sitting under the hot roof. Nor could he bear to sit idly at Khubchand’s shop. He began walking towards Sayyad Abdul Samad’s house. Soldiers with bayonets stood at the corners of the streets. In the Silwali Gali, where Panditji had first met the maulana, there were cots in front of many doors. Seated on these cots, Punjabi women were going through their bundles of clothes and their tin trunks. Panditji was surprised; where did these people come from during curfew? Outside Sayyad’s door in Durrani Gali, four armed soldiers sat on the small platforms next to the gate.
Panditji knocked on the door. ‘Sayyad bhai! … Bhai Bijang.’
The soldiers standing near by looked at Panditji. As he was alone and unarmed, they did not object. Panditji again called out to Bijang and Sayyad sahib.
‘Who is it … Who are you?’ a scared voice called from inside.
Panditji gave his name. The gate opened slightly. He entered and asked Sayyad how he was. The sun was bright in the courtyard. Leaving Panditji on the threshold, Sayyad fetched a low stool. He called Kareem to get a second stool.
As Sayyad picked up the stool, Panditji objected with embarrassment: ‘What are you doing, Sayyad sahib! Leave it! I will myself …! Isn’t Bijang here? Why are you troubling yourself?’
Sayyad spoke sadly, ‘Bijang has gone to the bazaar for some things … What can I tell you, there is no flour in the house. I cannot even get milk for the child. Oh, what savagery!’
Panditji expressed great sorrow at the madness spreading through the city, the whole country. ‘Sayyad sahib, humans have turned into animals. Exactly the same thing was happening in Lahore. On 11 August, the procession that came out with bared swords, axes, spears … At least here the government is punishing the rioters, they are trying to restore peace. There the government itself confiscated weapons from the Hindus, and the Mussalmans were walking about openly with all kinds of arms. The same sickness has reached here. What will happen to the nation, Sayyad sahib?’
Sayyad spoke with great sadness: ‘Should we be made to pay for their crimes?’
‘Of course not! This is madness, savagery!’
‘Where is the question of religion in this? This is hooliganism. We have always been nationalists, Panditji. For me, Ram-Raheem are one, but here people are just determined to kill. They kill the faces they see, no one can see the hearts …’
The Girl from Delhi
SADAAT HASAN MANTO
This story has been translated by Khalid Hasan.
The religious killings had shown no sign of abating. India had been partitioned, but the bloodletting continued: Hindus killing Muslims, Muslims killing Hindus.
So one day, Nasim Akhtar, the young and much-sought-after nautch girl from Delhi’s ‘red light’ quarter, said to her old mother, ‘Let’s get out of here.’
The old woman carefully placed a betel leaf in her toothless mouth and asked, ‘But where will we go, sweetheart?’
‘Pakistan,’ Nasim Akhtar replied, and looked at her music teacher, old Ustad Achhan Khan. ‘Khan sahib, what do you think? Is it any longer safe for us Muslims to live in Delhi?’
Achhan Khan had perhaps been thinking along the same lines, because he immediately said, ‘You are quite right, but we must have your mother’s—our burri baiji’s—permission.’
But that was the difficult bit. Despite Nasim Akhtar’s fervent pleading, the old woman would not go along. One day, the young woman told her mother, ‘It is going to be Hindu raj; they don’t want any Muslims around.’
‘So what,’ her mother replied. ‘We are in business because of our Hindu patrons and clients. All your admirers and regulars are Hindus, don’t you forget that. There’s nothing the Muslims can do for us or that we want from them, I am telling you.’
‘Don’t say that, mother,’ Nasim Akhtar reacted sharply. ‘The Quaid-e-Azam, Jinnah sahib, has worked so hard and got us our own country, Pakistan, and that’s where we should go and live.’
City Improbable- Writings on Delhi Page 10