City Improbable- Writings on Delhi

by Khuswant Singh

  In those days it used to be a slow and hot twenty-four-hour train journey from Patna to Delhi, but Tauji and his wife Taiji always looked fresh and radiant as they got out of the old family Ford that brought them from the railway station. They used to bring several trunks, suitcases, attache cases, canvas bedrolls and dozens of assorted packages with them. These were first stacked on one side in the veranda while we danced and shouted with joy at their coming. Sometimes Taiji would bring along her khansamah Naggu as a special treat for the Delhi household as they considered him a wizard of a cook who could turn out cakes, puddings and other ‘English’ delicacies quite outside the beat of the Delhi kitchen, where the skills were limited to more homely fare.

  Taiji had a clear, ringing laugh which to me was a most reassuring sound. We would crowd round her as she gleefully unpacked, waiting for her to pull out her delightful surprises. There were always cartons of home-made biscuits and lozenge-shaped chocolates, undoubtedly the product of Naggu’s skills and her forethought, imported tins of lemon drops and toffees specially chosen for the coloured pictures on them; golden-haired girls in pink, lacy frocks and pretty ribbons, fluffy puppies and beautiful but unrecognizable flowers. We cherished these tins long after the sweets were gone and they became the natural resting places for all our precious trinkets and mementos.

  My grandfather expected each of his daughters-in-law to treat every child in the joint family as her own. This was the traditional ideal.

  Therefore he thoroughly approved of Taiji’s attitude. So far as the world outside was concerned, he was a firm believer in being on the right side of the powers that be. He had studied law in England and the entire Mathur Kayastha community to which we belonged was awestruck by his knowledge of the ways of the British upper classes and secretly envious of his station in life.

  I heard from my grandmother that his journey to England in his youth had become the subject matter of many ballads in the repertoire of professional folk singers of the old city who performed at weddings and festivals. From her demeanour I understood that some of the themes of these songs were satirical and highly improper. For instance there was one that referred to how he had learnt to ease himself standing up instead of squatting on the roadside like the other natives. According to the sarcastic refrain of the song, this was indeed a lesson worth crossing the seven seas for! I was amazed to learn that the song got permanently deposited in the local folk music repertoire of naughty material and was performed mechanically over the years by singers who had no idea who it was about. My aunts once got very flustered when they heard and recognized it at a wedding in the down-town area. The cleverest of them tried to divert the attention of the assemblage by babbling pleasantries in an unnecessarily loud voice. The strategy probably worked, but nobody could be absolutely sure.

  My grandfather Westernized himself and his family to a moderate extent for the benefit of his own career and that of his sons. He even employed an Englishwoman to come to the house and teach my grandmother some English. Her lessons seemed to be limited to practising some polite phrases which would enable her to be a suitable hostess at the garden party my grandfather might one day arrange in honour of the Chief Commissioner of Delhi. She went along with whatever her husband wished her to do, but the linguistic contortions she was engaging in so late in life were a source of great amusement to her. ‘When Lady so-and-so collects her furs after the reception and prepares to leave, she will offer me her paw to shake and say “tank yoo” and I must answer “manshan not”’, she once told us, rocking with laughter at her own predicament. The English teacher also left her imprint on grandmother’s style of dressing. Victorian ruffles gradually appeared on the neckline and cuffs of the blouses she wore with her traditional starched white voile sari and were recognized in the Mathur Kayastha community as a mark of the stylishly dressed woman.

  Another revolutionary achievement of my grandfather was providing an English education for his two younger daughters who graduated from college, once again making headlines in the Mathur Kayastha community. However, enlightenment and modern ways of thinking did not help in getting them suitably married. This is not to say that matches were not found. They were, but the most stable tree of life for my aunts still remained the old family homestead presided over by their father. All my aunts, English-knowing or not, felt superior to their husbands and managed to tame their spouses to defer to their paternal home in all matters of style, taste and values.

  The house we lived in was a sprawling colonial bungalow that my grandfather designed and planned himself, without help from any architect, incredible though this may seem. His chief aide in the building project was an illiterate, wizened old master mason called Mangal, who turned out to be perfectly adequate for what he had in mind. Their partnership in the daily construction activity was an enjoyable sport, for my grandfather relied more on spontaneous common sense than any professional architectural skills. As a result, every door and window in the house was of a different width and height. The intended symmetries and finish of many features were just roughly workable. This was because the focus of my grandfather’s life was the convenience and well being of his family. The design of the house had to echo the life style of the family as well as the specific needs of individual members. Apart from the huge living quarters in the main house where most of the family were expected to herd together in loving harmony, there was a prayer room where my grandmother could put up a little temple of her own. My father who was romantic and artistic and liked his own private space away from everybody else was provided with an annexe. He was the only one who was indulged in this respect. For the rest, my grandparents considered privacy an alien and undesirable notion. There was a huge kitchen area with a pantry and storehouse and the longest dining room anybody could ever imagine. Its tubular shape was disproportionate but it adequately served its purpose which was to accommodate all sixty-two members of the household at the same time. However, we all thought the façade of the house extremely graceful. The colonial-style pillars were perfectly fashioned and successfully masked the crudities and arbitrariness of the internal structure. The house was surrounded by generous verandas, balconies and terraces on all sides. There were many outhouses which were used as offices, guest rooms, servants quarters and cattle sheds. Masonry stairways led down to a spacious cellar which always smelt of wet earth and mystery. Similar stairways led to many levels of the roof from where we got a clear view of the old bridge over the river Jamuna. Most of us children thought our home the most interesting playground we had ever been in.

  The road on which our house was located was named after my grandfather, and we were all very proud of this. He was an eminent and respected citizen, titled by the government and obviously worthy of official trust. He served on a very large number of civic bodies and his voice carried weight. He arbitrarily chose the number seven for the family house because he liked the sound of it. The municipal authority never dreamed of questioning the decision. There was no number six at all and the house next to ours was called number sixteen because the occupants had followed my grandfather’s example and chosen the number as though it were a name.

  Our house opened in front to vast grounds which had two lawns separated by a hedge of sweetpeas. On both sides of the curving driveway that led up to the front veranda, there were fruit trees and flowering shrubs. Some of these trees were like special people in our lives and we loved to be near them and touch them. There was an old ber tree in the front lawn around which the family gathered on holiday afternoons in the winter and on summer evenings. This tree was definitely a member of the family for everybody. There was an enormous tamarind tree near the garages on one side of the grounds and several tall mango trees the top branches of which were accessible to the more daring of us from the roof. The unripe fruit of these trees was the most coveted delicacy there could be, especially as we were told it would make us ill and ruin our throats.

  There were so many interesting things to do and so many excitin
g places to play in that to be at home was always the best prospect. The house bustled with activity and rang with happy sounds. One could almost choose one’s entertainment The prize thing to do was to trail grandfather on his rounds and see the cows and buffaloes, the horse and the coachman, examine the fodder, listen to him instruct the gardeners and other retainers. If this was not happening one could go to the kitchen area and watch grandfather’s valet Ishri churning the butter, which only he was privileged to do, or see my mother making pickles or supervising the cooking. My eldest brother would often be on the roof with his home-made telescope after dinner. The night watchman Bhola, who was supposed to have wonderful eyesight and knew something about stars, acted as his assistant and pointed out planets to whoever was interested. Grandmother’s pooja room was yet another focus of fascinating activity. Besides her daily morning prayers which were heartily but somewhat tunelessly sung to the accompaniment of votive bells and castanets, she observed numerous other cheerful and homely rituals which involved bathing, dressing, feeding and decorating the deity. In addition there were frequent major or minor festivals which were observed with community singing of hymns, the serving of special food and social get-togethers afterwards. It was permissible for the women of the household to shed their routine chores on these occasions. They would dress up, wear shiny bindis on their foreheads and gather in the pooja room, smelling of sandalwood and looking festive. The children were welcome to come in and watch as a treat though the main participants were my grandmother, her daughters-in-law and her married daughters.

  My grandfather had cast himself in the role of a Westernized gentleman, a sahib who pooh-poohed such observances as benighted superstition and never lost an opportunity to needle my grandmother about the hocus pocus she engaged in. He let it be known that he disapproved. But we all knew that this was only his official stance. In his heart of hearts he was relieved that his wife asserted the old tradition. This gave him a kind of safety insurance and enabled him to indulge in the luxury of denouncing all grandmother’s fussy rituals as an enlightened modern Indian educated in English ways of thinking should. Only at one stage did this superior and distant attitude undergo a change.

  My grandmother had adopted a religious guru whose centre of activity used to be a neighbouring temple on the banks of the river Jamuna. She would invite him frequently to the house, to give discourses, lead kirtan singing, or read the Ramayana to the assembled ladies. Apart from the dozen or so women of the household in attendance, my grandmother invited women from the extended family, distant relatives and neighbours. These invitations were greatly prized. Each such occasion, which was invariably arranged in the middle of a working day so that it did not disturb the hardworking men of the house, ended with an elegant vegetarian feast which was an exciting social high point for all the women present.

  This guru, Swami Satyanand, was an extremely attractive personality. He was tall and had a smooth, serene pink and white face with penetrating brown eyes under gold-rimmed glasses. He looked quite spectacular in his flowing saffron robes. When he propounded some philosophical truth in his deep voice, the ladies would melt and sigh and almost fall into a trance. Once my grandfather unexpectedly came home in the middle of the day and ran into Swami Satyanand by accident. That day something changed. The Swami stopped being just a name that could be casually dismissed and became a person of whom my grandfather was distinctly jealous. I did not understand the psychology of my grandparents at the time but looking back I am sure that my grandfather was unprepared for the physical attractiveness of the Swami. The day he met him in person, he knew that this was someone who was used to commanding attention, just like himself. The issue, though not really a serious one, was my grandfather’s exclusive right to his wife’s attention.

  His protest took the form of a pointed refusal to speak to my grandmother directly. This was particularly noticeable at the dining table. But she was a very self-possessed and confident matriarch and was not in the least fazed by his sulking in this fashion. She simply carried on her usual polite ministrations to him as though nothing had happened. This situation continued for about three days and then my grandfather began to break down. He started by announcing in a peeved voice to no one in particular that he was not feeling well. ‘Oh I’m so sorry. What’s the matter?’ grandmother said, turning towards him with the utmost solicitude. ‘Constipation’ he replied, but he pronounced the word as though it was plague or worse, and still addressed the monosyllable to the middle distance. ‘Oh really? How strange that I hear you flush the toilet many times each day as usual’, she said sweetly. My grandfather’s face became red like that of a little boy caught in a lie. And that was the end of that. The religious festivities presided over by the charismatic Swami continued as before and everyone’s life was the richer for it.

  The way the dining table was laid for dinner, when all the sixty-odd members of the household sat down to eat together, reflected the family’s hierarchical attitudes. Grandfather, at the head of the table, was honoured with the most elaborate place-setting the household could rise to. There was a gleaming dinner plate and a side plate from an expensive set we owned, polished silver cutlery, a drinking glass of crystal and a starched white napkin. Grandmother who sat to his left on the long end had a dinner plate and side plate from the same set but no cutlery and no starched white napkin as this was somehow considered unfeminine from the Indian end of things. However, she had small Indian-style metal bowls to serve herself daal or curds and ate with her fingers. Next came the sons, daughters and daughters-in-law. Their places at the table depended on their age and seniority. The eldest sat nearest to what was literally the seat of power. The other adult members of the household deployed themselves according to their own polite, self-denying interpretation of their status in the hierarchical structure. Frequently there were extra people who were persuaded to stay on for a meal and on these occasions it was not uncommon at the humbler end of the table for two family members to double up on one chair. Each place was marked by a dinner plate, but only the men seemed to be entitled to additional side plates as well. They also had forks and spoons but no knives or napkins. The only cutlery the women were entitled to was for some mysterious reason the versatile and low-profile teaspoon which could serve many unforeseeable purposes. In addition they had the optional use of the kind of metal bowls provided for my grandmother, except that at this distance from the head of the table these were stacked in the middle of the table and had to be reached for if desired.

  In general, the services and trappings at the dining table declined sharply as the eye travelled to the far end of the long eating surface. This surface was made up of three structures placed end to end; the first was a fine piece of furniture, a regular dining table of polished teak wood. The second table was a much cheaper, rougher affair, bought from the local market by my grandfather’s clerk, along with serviceable wooden chairs with crude cane seats to match. The third consisted of wooden planks on sturdy legs, the kind one could hire in any Indian town for large wedding feasts. This last structure was the joyous children’s area and was flanked on both sides by long, smooth benches to sit on. This kind of seating arrangement was a wonderful, free and flexible idea and gave us the opportunity to have fun and eat at the same time. We would play at horse-riding, invent ways of weaving our legs into the runners of the benches and slide along their surfaces to make room for others to get in or out. The children’s end of the dining surface had no resemblance to the elegant starting point at grandfather’s end and did not even merit a table cloth. Here the basic food was plonked in the middle by a sweaty junior kitchen aide along with a stack of wet plates and everyone had to scramble for whatever else they needed. We loved the picnic atmosphere and considered it a treat to coexist with the grown-ups at mealtimes and listen to their ‘real life’ conversation. This was the only time when things were at rest, when every pillar of our lives was stationary and visible, and we could bask in the reassuring glow that radiated fr
om the other end of the table.

  Grandfather’s benign but piercing eye never failed to detect an absence even from the gaggle of children at the far end of the table thirty feet away. He thoroughly disapproved of any member of his household going out for entertainment or pleasure and quite justifiably saw no need for it. ‘A friend’s house? What on earth for?’ was a familiar and much feared expostulation. On the other hand we were free, in fact encouraged, to bring our friends to the dining table benches and present them to the family over a meal. As we moved into adolescence, there were more and more lapses and nervous explanations about birthday parties of friends, or special functions at school or college from erring absentees became more common. But everybody’s best friends were inducted into the dining room at some point of time. Some continued to appear off and on for years and almost grew up with us on the benches. One of these was my elder brother’s friend who brought his bride to dinner so that she could be introduced to the adults of the family. Two years later he got divorced and remarried and the new incumbent also ended up on the benches one Sunday at lunch. On this occasion, my grandparents were sharp enough to register that this person looked different from what they had seen in the same grid three years earlier. My grandmother could not help expressing her confusion and asked my brother directly and loudly for a clarification just in case she was mistaken. ‘What I remember was tall and fair, not short and dark like this one’, she said, tracing the remembered figure in the air with her hands, to the great embarrassment of the adolescents. She subsided only when one of her daughters repeatedly nudged her under the table.

  My grandfather was both masterful and benevolent. His passage through the house was always significant for whoever he encountered. Whether it was a servant, a daughter-in-law, a house guest or a child, he would always greet them, ask them what they were doing and invariably offer suggestions on how whatever it was could be done better. In general, the household was divided into those who welcomed these encounters and were flattered by his attention, and those who shrank from the prospect of facing his well-intentioned scrutiny. For the first fourteen years of my life I was definitely in the first category. He had always had a special tenderness for me and my two brothers. I heard it whispered among my aunts that this was because he wanted to compensate for my father’s much flaunted distaste for my mother and her offspring. Whatever the reason, I have a wealth of warm memories of times when I was given special treatment by my grandfather although no one including me and my mother thought I deserved it. I remember sitting on his lap and sharing with him a bowl of grapes which were meant only for him, while a number of hostile adult eyes glared at me for the impertinence. To this day the sight of fresh green grapes brings back to me the smell of grandfather’s hookah, the feel of his not so silky white beard, and the reassuring sensation of a dependable and protective love. In later years when I discovered a world of my own through the windows of school, our relationship suffered somewhat.