This was due to the good offices of Mehr Chand Khanna, then the Minister for Rehabilitation. A Congress politico from the Northwest Frontier Province, he is more or less universally acknowledged as the godfather of this area. He sanctioned the allotment of shops and house plots at the nearby BK Dutt colony. Gradually, the markets were regularized and permanent structures replaced the wooden shacks. The shops follow the same pattern: the counter in front and a godown at the back (this design has been followed in Delhi since Shahjahanabad’s builders built shops to a similar design in Chandni Chowk in the seventeenth century). The shopkeepers expressed their gratitude by naming two markets—Khanna and Mehr Chand—after their benefactor. The initial rent was Rs 13 and 11 annas, which rose in the 1960s to Rs 64. The freehold was given to them in 1982. Even today, when most south-Delhi general merchants are transforming their shops into open-shelved supermarkets, Lodi Colony’s shops have rows of open sacks from which dried chillies, varieties of rice and daals spill out, practically blocking the entrance. Lifebuoy soap, detergents and asafoetida are crammed at random on the roughly-hewn shelves; at the back the well-stocked godown smells of sacking and garam masala. Changes? Mr Pritviraj reflects. He sells more cosmetics these days, he says, gesturing at a row of Ponds Moisturising Facewash. ‘It’s the beauty contests.’
The 152 shops in both markets have a well-established sense of community spirit and Mr P exudes the sense of being part of an organized, smoothly-run private world. The traders organize two jaagrans a year. Cards are sent out to politicians of all persuasions and many of them come. Most shops still belong to the original alottees or their children, but the ubiquitous Archies has entered. The halwais and dhabas, however, still provide giant bread pakoras and chhole bhature—pizza and burgers are yet to make an appearance. But international cuisine is represented in the form of chowmein, which all the eating places—wooden benches and formica-topped tables—serve.
Near Lodi Colony Market, the Rohanlal and Sons Band live in a chik-hung enclosure. The chiks are to shelter the well-groomed white horses. They have been here thirty years, but the bandwalas still sleep in the open on charpoys all around; a nearby dhaba supplies the essentials of breakfast. Drying clothes festoon the elaborate chariot that fetches the more timorous grooms—the ones too scared to ride on horseback. Business is good, they say, and not just in the marriage season—‘We are booked at a farmhouse this evening.’
Within Lodi Colony relationships are friendly, with just the occasional undercurrent of mistrust or competition. By and large, Tamils and Bengalis, Khatris and Kasyasths, live together equably enough. Children intermingle freely: everyone between four and eighteen is sent out to ‘play’ in the evenings. Inside, things are fairly identical too—the three-piece sofa set (usually of rexene or dull brown cloth), a TV in the pride of place, a divan made of trunks covered with a printed bedcover.
There are three kinds of quarters in the eighteen blocks enfolding the markets: A-type, B-type and D-type (no one knows why there is no C type), alerting the cognoscenti as to the specific grade of their occupants. The quarters may be marginally different, but the whole colony spills over on to the street on Sunday evenings. Women in voluminous Lajpat Nagar nighties sit together on their doorsteps and watch their children play. Some play pat-ball cricket with their out-of-condition dads, but serious games of cricket using a dining chair as a wicket take place on the road itself, while cars considerately use other routes. Toddlers lurch around on tricycles, while a group of small boys try, not very seriously, to fly a kite. Teenage girls sit in a row on one of the colony’s low walls, whispering about whatever teenage girls whisper about. They wear the universal south-Delhi uniform of jeans and T-shirts, while the local male talent, sporting identical tight black jeans and centre-parted hair, make their slow progress up the street. Mango sellers do brisk, sometimes acrimonious business (‘Why should I give you the mangoes at ten rupees a kilo?’ one of them asks a hard-bargaining matron), while the chaat seller sets up his wicker stand for a family on its way to the bus stop but hijacked by the thought of some bhelpuri. Here is all the nitty gritty of real life, the magic of the everyday, the internal rhythm of lives less ordinary … Here is the irreplaceable moment in time when the woman watering her unbelievably giant cannas talks to the woman in the balcony above, who is picking out the stones from a portion of daal.
‘This is a good colony,’ says Mr C, who has lived here for fifteen years, matter-of-factly. ‘Our block has clubbed together to buy a duree and a mike and every month we organize a quiz or games or a cultural show. They have a bonfire at Lohri and a joint function at Holi.’ The Fiats and Marutis and scooters, the coolers and even a few air conditioners gleam in the evening sunlight. This seems a place at peace with itself.
Yet Lodi Colony is an island; it comprises one kind of world, which, like all Delhi’s many fragmented universes, has complicated interfaces with the worlds around it. Najaf Khan, scion of the Safavid dynasty, lies in a tomb to the west of Lodi Colony, enclosed by a well-tended (in the NDMC sense) garden. He was, according to Khushwant Singh, one of the few to rally Delhi’s troops against Nadir Shah, refusing to simply surrender his city to the raider. Imprisoned, but freed at the behest of Safdarjang’s brother, he joined the service of the Emperor Shah Alam II, ‘attaining high rank’—something Lodi Colony’s residents would appreciate. No one knew who he was; they said, however, that the gardens were a good place for morning walks. Najaf Khan died in 1782 and is buried alongside his daughter Fatima in a low tomb, from the flat roof of which is a superb view of the garden’s ruined gateway, framed against the blooms of a late-flowering gulmohar. It is a peaceful spot and only the wheeze of buses inching up the Safdarjung flyover just beyond, and the manic sounds made by the early-morning laughter-therapy group, disturb his rest.
To the north of Najaf Khan’s tomb is the peaceful, secluded dargah Shahi Mardan, a complex dating to the late Mughal period, which has a footprint cast in stone, said to be that of Ali. Legend has it that Qudsia Begum (she of Qudsia Gardens fame) installed it here. Within the dargah is the tomb of the twelve-year-old saint Arif Ali Shah, a square domed structure, small as befits a child. There is also a tiny shrine to Ali’s wife, called Bibi ka Rauza, which men cannot enter. The dargah is a secretive world within a world. In the early-morning light it seems to float in a timeless space. It is hard to believe that the brisk bustle of Kotla’s vegetable market is just kilometres away and that the occupants of Lodi Colony are getting set for their morning rush to file-stuffed locales like Shashtri and Nirman Bhavans, or North and South Blocks.
The Class IV colony of Aliganj (that is how it is referred to) squats in the middle of Lodi Colony. It is a densely populated enclave of single-storey dwellings surrounded by a low yellow wall. Tall pipal trees shade the tiny houses and through the open doors are glimpses of open courtyards where bartans are being vigorously washed. For Lodi Colony, Aliganj, like the dargah, the tomb and the adjacent upmarket enclaves of Jorbagh and Golf Links, exists in another dimension, physically present but virtually invisible. You can seek to explain this through history, religion, class, but ultimately this is how Delhi’s fragmented worlds, where you traverse galaxies in the space of inches, coexist.
Lodi Colony like the rest of government Delhi is both an address and a state of mind, but behind that self-contained serenity (complacency, the uncharitable would say) is change. Not coincidentally, a government colony, Sarojini Nagar, was one of the main centres of opposition to the Mandal report in 1990. The children of these government quarters saw their grasp on the civil services—and with it a well-charted, stable future—slipping. Today, the walls of Lodi Colony, like all walls in Delhi, are plastered with posters for special coaching classes. Computer training, engineering and medical college entrance tutorials outnumber civil services study circles by about four to one. The old future doesn’t live here anymore.
Lovers, They Are Everywhere
RADHIKA CHANDIRAMANI
Lovers,
they are everywhere. In Mumbai they sit on the rocks by the sea, watching the sun set, the water turn grey, the lights coming on to trace the shoreline. In Calcutta you will find them in Eden Gardens or in the shadow of the angel atop Victoria Memorial. They have their haunts in Chennai, they have them in Bangalore, they have them in every city.
Where do you go to track an average middle-class love story in Delhi? Lodi Garden is a good place. So is Deer Park, and Nehru Park, and Buddha Jayanti Park. It has to be a public park; privacy lurks in public spaces. Colony parks are too dangerous. Everyone knows you: the aunties on their constitutionals, the uncles exchanging yarns, the kids who recognize you and run up screaming. The larger parks are best for romance, even better for sex: no one really cares, the fitness freaks are busy counting laps, the families too involved in the unpacking and packing of their puri-subzi dabbas, and the yoga oldies just look away. Afternoons are a good time, not too many people around and there are enough trees for cover and shade.
Delhi is littered with monuments: Humayun’s tomb, Safdarjung’s tomb, the Old Fort, the monuments in Lodi Garden, monuments with names no one remembers. Where there’s a monument, there usually is a park. The trees carry hearts, hearts with arrows, hearts with names, hearts dripping blood, carved deep into the bark. Where there’s a monument, there always is graffiti: PINKI LOVES PAPPU, NOOR AND AHMED FOREVER, RAKESH + KAJAL—each a modern testament to love etched into weathered domes and old Mughal walls.
You see them from about ten in the morning (office time or college time, it’s a good excuse), trysting under the trees, some in the bushes, all with their backs to the paths where the walkers walk. There are couples in varying degrees of proximity. Some talk earnestly—these usually sit face to face, taking it in turns to look upset. Sometimes the woman nervously pulls at a once-white handkerchief or the corner of her dupatta or shawl. The dupatta or shawl—this is an essential for the park. He can play with it, she can pull at it, they can cover themselves with it, exploring each other under its cover. Some lovers sit side by side, slowly edging closer. Sometimes one is half-lying in the other’s lap. It’s easier that way. Rarely do you find them one astride the other’s lap. That’s too blatant, attracts too many stares. What you can do indoors you cannot in a park. The park is a stage in a journey.
A journey that begins with a look. A look across terraces—in a row of govermnent quarters in Sector VI, RK Puram, let’s say. Across concrete and clusters of TV antennae and lines of washing hung out to dry. Or on the road coming home from work or college or school or vegetable shopping. The young men on scooters or motorbikes, or just hanging around, chatting, people-watching, the usual ‘timepass’ things. The women walking together, giggling, holding their bodies into themselves both to avoid traffic on the narrow lanes and the gaze of men. It happens suddenly. Just a look. Like in the movies. He’s in a flurry, a flurry of love. If he doesn’t know where she lives he finds out: quarter number this, sector that. He hangs around waiting. He knows when she will emerge. She notices him there, begins to appear in the balcony at regular intervals. They have a routine now, he thinks. That’s how he knows she loves him too. If she didn’t love him she wouldn’t come to the terrace or the balcony or walk down the road when he’s around, would she? And would she look at him while he drives past on his scooter, timing it so he can smartly take the turn and watch from the corner of his eye to see if she’s looking?
How to proceed now? Should he give her a card? With hearts or roses, or both? Will she think he is like any other fellow? He’s not like them, simply playing with girls’ feelings, just to get them to bed. He’s a decent chap. And she? Of course she’s decent. How does he know? He knows. He has watched her enough, hasn’t he? A decent woman walks in a certain way—like a well-trained dog, she keeps straight to a path. She doesn’t look at men. She has looked at him, hasn’t she? But that’s different. She doesn’t stare in a loose-charactered way; he knows girls who do that. And she always wears a dupatta when she goes out. The other day he summoned up the courage to talk to her when she was on her way to the Sector VI bus stand to catch her bus to college. But she was joined by a friend so that put paid to his well-laid plan. The card seems like the best idea. The one with roses.
She accepts the card. Smiles even. The next day he is at the bus stand waiting for her, watching the DTC buses belching black smoke—the only ones on the road still doing so. The insouciance of the govermnent! The black exhaust from the buses sticks to the clothes, to the skin. Pollution’s decreased, yes, with CNG, but then the autorickshaws charge too much and the buses are too crowded, it’s hard to get anywhere looking fresh and smelling good. Ah, there she is. They say hullo, stumble over the first steps in what becomes a conversation. She liked the card, loves roses.
They meet at the Sector VI bus stand every morning and the Gargi College bus stand every afternoon (why can’t they have classes on weekends, too?). They talk on the phone in the evenings, setting up a different time every day so no one guesses. If anyone else answers the phone there’s a silence. ‘Blank call!’ mutters whoever picks up the phone.
Now that they are talking, how to proceed? He wants to touch her. What will she think? He gets so excited near her that sometimes it’s embarrassing. He makes sure he always has a file or a book to hold over his crotch in case he bulges too much. All the time he’s thinking of her. His friends tell him women are easy. ‘Just get that chewing gum that creates sexual excitement. Give her some, and she’ll be yours, yaar. What’s to worry? If anything happens, get it cleaned up.’ They laugh at him and say, ‘Act fast. Too many hand jobs cause weakness—you’ll have to go to that sex clinic in Daryaganj and eat those gold capsules …’
No more hand jobs for him. He wants more, much more. Where to do it? Can’t do it at home. There’s no way he can bring her home or go to her house. No longer any friends in hostel who could give up their room for an hour or so. One has to be careful what one does. This may be love, but there’s family duty too. There should be no loose talk leading to trouble later. After all, it’s still a conservative society and one can’t marry whom one chooses.
What if she says no? They always do, at least in the beginning, that’s what he’s heard. He hasn’t kissed her yet. Three days ago, in the park, when he asked her for a kiss she just giggled and looked away. Then the moment was gone. He will try again. She’s a decent girl; she won’t give in so easily.
They go to Nehru Park sometimes. Meet at the bus stand. Sit together, if they can, in the bus, she by the window, he by the aisle, bodies touching. For thirty minutes till they get to the park, consciousness becomes one-sided: the side in contact with the other’s body. No one notices. Privacy lurks in public spaces. The more crowded the bus the better it is. More room for touch, less for responsibility; if she doesn’t press back he can pretend it is the others pushing him on to her. So can she actually … He gets a bit confused when he thinks about this. Still, it’s good to feel a body.
There’s safety in the park. The park sets limits. One can’t get too carried away. They hold hands, press palms together, play with each other’s fingers. Pleasure is measured touch by touch, inch by inch. The hand becomes the body, each finger a limb, the curve of the palm is the curve of the hip, the edge of a finger is the line of a lip. Privacy lurks in public spaces; pleasure lies in the palm of a hand.
‘Worried by an increasing number of couples nestling under trees, in tombs and in monuments, the Archaeological Survey of India plans to dissuade lovebirds from displaying their feelings in historical backdrops.’
—‘Sad End to Monumental Love Stories’,
The Times of India, Delhi edition, 24 August 2001.
The Kingdom of Waste
BHARATI CHATURVEDI
On a damp and humid morning, Santosh clean disappeared. Save for a few scraps of plastic and bits of metal still glistening with stale rain, there was no telling that he had actually ever worked here. Day after day in this makeshift oasis in the middle of a gloom
y graveyard in central Delhi, a dozen scrawny men hunched like giant embryos would expressionlessly sift through heaps of garbage. Now they were all gone as well. Gone, too, was Santosh’s uncle, whose own connections to the area went back to the early 1960s. The vast markets, the bribes, the networking of a lifetime—all these investments born of money, sweat, humiliation—were unable in the end to hold them back.
One might have imagined that someone would miss Santosh: an old colleague who wasn’t around to say farewell; an on-and-off creditor, an off-and-on debtor. Instead, the other kabaris blandly remarked: ‘Woh ghar chala gaya apne. Banaras. (He’s gone back home. Banaras.)’ A tatabye-bye kind of tone.
Santosh stood obliterated the instant he left. I was the only one who might have spent a moment thinking of him, half sentimentally, recalling breakfast-time cajoling: ‘Have something, madam. Okay, have an egg at least. Half an egg. Boiled anda?’ We always compromised on a Pepsi, because he remained convinced that I asked for a chai only to save his money. Early-morning pity? Not acceptable to Santosh.
City Improbable- Writings on Delhi Page 23