City Improbable- Writings on Delhi

by Khuswant Singh

  Hijras may perhaps envy women for their ability to bear children, for the apparent ‘naturalness’ of their gender. But Indian women, in turn, may envy the hijra the confidence and ease with which she flaunts her femininity. There is this terrifying or liberatory thought: that the hijra represents what ‘real’ women might be if they were to become as sexually confident as ‘real’ men. The invisibles of Jaffrey’s title have much to teach the women of Delhi who have long been hidden behind the stifling veil of decency.

  Shahjahanabad: The City That Once Was

  PAVAN K. VARMA

  I do not belong to Delhi but I have grown up in this city. In many ways, it has become my city of adoption. I first really discovered Shahjahanabad when I was researching the life of one of its most talented citizens, Mirza Ghalib. What struck me most then was the manner in which the Old City was disappearing—almost brick by brick and stone by stone—before our very eyes. The destruction seemed to be relentless. I felt compelled to try and chronicle what little remained, and through this process, to resurrect also what it must have been like in its prime. Thus was born my book Havelis of Old Delhi.

  It is not entirely clear why Shah Jahan, the great Mughal emperor, left Agra to make Delhi the seat of his empire. Perhaps, he realized that only Delhi, the mistress of centuries of imperial endeavour, could provide a truly legitimate seat to his architectural aspirations. Whatever the reason, construction began on 12 May 1639, and a little over nine years later, Shah Jahan arrived at the head of a magnificent retinue, with his favourite son, Prince Dara Shikoh, showering gold and silver along the way, to hold his first court at the Diwan-i-Aam.

  The decapitated bodies of several criminals had been interred in the foundation as a sacrifice, in accordance with a bizarre but long-standing ritual. Perhaps, this juxtaposition of death with renewal, of endings with beginnings, was symbolic, for, like the many incarnations of Delhi before her, Shahjahanabad too would fade away into history in but a couple of centuries, recalling the famous line by Ghalib: Har bulandi ke nasibon mein hai pasti ek din (In the destiny of every apogee lies the seed of its ending).

  Yet such thoughts must have been farthest from the mind of Shah Jahan on the day when he made the journey from Agra to Delhi. With the fort ready, his first concern was to build a city adjoining it. The wall enclosing the city took seven years to build, costing a princely sum of four lakh rupees. It was 6,664 yards in circumference with twenty-seven bastions and fourteen gates. Next in importance to security was the need to provide water. A disused canal, built in the fourteenth century by Feroz Shah Tughlak which had tapped the waters of the river Yamuna, was extended to Delhi. One branch flowed down Chandni Chowk. Another flowed through the Red Fort, its waters raised to the level of the fort through an ingenious mechanism called shutrgulu (camel’s neck). For the citizens of Delhi, the canal not only became a source of sweet water but provided a coolness and greenery that made Shahjahanabad unique among the cities of India. No wonder then that they named it the Nahar-i-Bahisht, the stream of paradise!

  As I walked along the kuchas and galis and the alleyways and the by lanes of the walled city, I could almost visualize the picture, when, during Shah Jahan’s rule, Chandni Chowk ran resplendently from the Lahori Gate of the Red Fort to the Fatehpuri Mosque. Trees would have lined its entire stretch; the Nahar-i-Bahisht would have flowed down its centre; about halfway down the street the Nahar would have traversed a circular pool built by Shah Jahan’s sister Jahanara. It is said that the name Chandni Chowk came from the silvery reflection of the moon in this pool. Contemporary records describe the different segments of this imperial avenue. The section from the Lahori Gate of the fort to Dariba was known as Urdu Bazar or the Lahori Bazar, catering to the needs of the imperial retinue—soldiers, clerks and artisans—residing within the fort. The section west of Dariba to the Kotwali was called Phul ki Mandi or flower sellers’ market. The area from there up to Johari Chowk was called Ashrafi Bazar or Johari Bazar (jewellers’ market); the last section from Johari Chowk to the Fatehpuri Mosque was called Fatehpuri Bazar. In my mind’s eye, I could see people gathered under the shade of the avenue’s trees, or along the waters of the canal, or in the many eateries that were situated along it. I could see the colourful facades of shops selling every conceivable commodity: spices, precious stones, firearms, textiles, birds. I could hear the dastangos (storytellers) holding their audience mesmerized. I could see astrologers predicting sequined futures for an inexhaustible number of the gullible. I could almost smell the aroma of kababwalas jostling with each other to attract customers.

  As always, my reveries would inevitably be broken by the discordant cacophony of what Chandni Chowk has come to symbolize today. Today, Chandni Chowk no longer has trees lining it, nor does it have the Nahar-i-Bahisht flowing through its centre; there is no longer Jahanara’s pool to catch the reflection of the moon; no longer are there the eateries for people to sit and wile away their hours. There are only a mass of people, gradually being asphyxiated by unrelenting noise and noise pollution. Chandni Chowk, like the rest of Shahjahanabad, has become a commercial slum.

  When a city has moved so far away from its original inspiration, it is difficult to judge its place in history. What did Shahjahanabad achieve that its predecessors did not, or that its successor, New Delhi, has not undone? For me, Shahjahanabad will always be immortalized for two things above all: First, the authenticity of its architectural tradition; and, second, the authenticity of its cultural milieu, which, ironically, grew in depth and acceptance even as the imperial power that could sustain it went irreversibly into decline.

  Shahjahanabad may have been built as a planned city, but it was soon overtaken by the chaos of spontaneous evolution which is the true hallmark of historic cities. The ideological inspiration of the city was predictable: one more monarch seeking to build a habitat within the finite space of a walled enclosure. But beyond such a stereotype, the edifice of the city grew according to a pattern unwilled by its founder, gradually reaching out, like all such settlements, to a gracious but unplanned destiny of its own. Katras, kuchas, mohallas, bazaars, waras, chowks and baghs came up at different intervals, not in accordance with any master plan, but in tandem with the city’s evolution and growth. Every landmark recalled an authentic association with individuals or events, not yet erased from memory or lore: Habash Khan ka Phatak, Bangash ka Sarai, Haveli Haider Quli, Qasim Jan ki Gali, Jarnail Bibi ki Haveli, Begum ka Bagh, Kucha Ghasi Ram, Namak Haram ki Haveli.

  If the palace-fortress dominated the urban area as a whole, the havelis dominated the areas immediately in their vicinity. In this sense, the havelis became the architectural motif of the city. An arched gateway, often richly decorated, was usually the external proclamation of the existence of a haveli. From the gateway leading inwards was an extended vestibule or long passage. Sometimes, this was covered by a low roofway, a chhatta, where the common visitors and retainers would spend a considerable part of their day. At the end of the vestibule, or to one side of it, there opened another door leading into the haveli proper. This door usually opened to a blank wall—the purdah diwar, which prevented visitors from looking in and reinforced the privacy of the havelis. In more imperial constructions, an arched gateway on the outside led to another gateway inside—the naqqarkhana, or literally the house of the drums—from whose vantage point the drummers, musicians and trumpeters of the nobleman’s household would proclaim the four watches of the day and announce important visitors.

  In basic format, havelis had two divisions, an outer area where the amir conducted his official business, entertained visitors and interacted with his staff, and an inner area which constituted the personal living area, the mahalsarai and zenana. The diwankhana was the centrepiece of the public area. In effect, it corresponded to the modern drawing room, but because the amir also held court there, there was much greater formality. An office and a library were the other important rooms in this segment.

  Havelis have been called ‘in
troverted gardens’. The appositeness of this expression becomes evident when we look at the planning of the innermost spaces, the sanctum sanctorum of the secluded mahalsarai. Apartments and pavilions were nestled amidst exquisitely laid out gardens and pools, fountains and fruit trees. An observer standing outside a haveli would scarcely have reason to believe that behind the forbidding blank wall were lovingly indulged areas of light and openness. Even where elaborate formal gardens were not laid, the basic pattern of construction was to have verandas and rooms around a private open space—the aangan (courtyard), chowk or sehan. It was not unusual to find a huge tree growing even in a small aangan. Care was also taken to ensure that the aangan received a great deal of sunlight. The verandas surrounding the open chowk were mostly two-tiered: the outer one (dalan), more overtly an accessory to the courtyard, giving way to an inner veranda (dardalan), less open and more private. Abutting the dalan on both sides was often a mezzanine space, the duchhatti or dohashmi or janashin, from whose vantage point, unseen behind intricately worked jafries or screens, the ladies of the house could witness ‘private-public’ functions, such as a mujra or a music performance.

  Within the mahalsarai, an essential feature was the tehkhana or underground chamber. This was not merely a basement: it was an integral part of the residential quarters where the entire family would retreat during the long days of summer. But the tehkhana was not the only refuge against the Delhi summer. High ceilings and thick walls served this purpose as well. Terraces too were cleverly planned: they were bereft of awkward architectural appurtenances that would block the much-loved purvaiya, the wind from the east, that blew crisp and cool in the pre-dawn darkness, or at night, when one lay back on cool, white bedsheets and gazed at the stars above. Khas screens, kept constantly wet, were used extensively in summer. Jalis or sunscreens, beautifully worked in geometric patterns, also played a functional role in controlling the harsh light while providing ventilation. The luxurious hammam or bath was also a noteworthy feature of most havelis. Built of marble, these shallow pools were fed with waters drawn from wells or through a tributary of the Nahar-i-Bahisht. The bath complex usually consisted of a minimum of three rooms: separate rooms for hot and cold water baths, and a dressing room. The ultimate structure to dilute the travails of summer was the baradari or garden pavilion. Built on a raised platform in the midst of a garden, it was open to the breeze from all directions and was surrounded by pools of water and fountains. It was the nawab saheb’s pride, as it was indeed that of his emperor within the Qila.

  Shahjahanabad was not a big city. There are no reliable figures but estimates place the number of people living within the walled city at between 100,000 and 150,000 from 1800 to 1857. Perhaps, the numbers would have been more when Mughal power was at its peak, but still they point to a city whose population was small and manageable in relation to other cities, such as, for instance, Lucknow, whose population, according to British census, totalled 350,000 in the 1850s. It would appear therefore that in relative terms, Delhi was certainly not one of the largest cities, for Calcutta, Bombay and Madras were even larger than Lucknow, and this could be one contributing reason for the quite remarkable degree of cultural homogeneity that had then begun to characterize a Dilliwala, be it in language, witticism or attire.

  In fact, even in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries when Mughal power declined, Shahjahanabad survived because it had come to be for its often beleaguered citizens both the seed and the fruit of a distinct and effortless cultural identity. This identity transcended class barriers. Both the nobility and the common man were bound by the vibrant Urdu tehzibiyat, and towards the final decades of Mughal rule the dominant theme of the age was undoubtedly the Sufi tariqah. There was a truly laudable degree of communal harmony, leading C.F. Andrews to remark that:

  The intimate residence together side by side in the same city of Mussalmans and Hindus had brought about a noticeable amalgamation of customs and usages among the common people … I have had more convincing and corroborative evidence about this especially friendly relationship between Hindus and Mussalmans in old Delhi than I have had concerning any other factor.

  Such an eclectic mood played a catalytic role in the development of the Urdu language and by the 1850s Urdu had almost fully replaced Persian as the popular literary medium. Mushairas were much in vogue and established poets much in demand. Along with this literary efflorescence, there was also the beginning of western scientific learning or what Andrews has called ‘the new learning’ whose institutional focus was the Delhi College. New innovations found place along with old signposts, although the passage from the old to the new was not always smooth. When in 1854 the British introduced the more impersonal letterbox, Ghalib’s reaction was one of indignation and suspicion!

  The rhythm of the city included all sections in its sweep; the poor, in spite of their deprivations, remained active participants in many of its divergent entertainments. The sandy slopes of the Yamuna near Delhi Gate—Mahabat Khan ki Reti—was the kite flyers’ arena, and it is said that patang baazi matches were arranged here with teams from as far away as Lucknow. Pigeon flying or kabutar baazi was another popular sport. Once a year, the swimming competition was held—Tairaki ka Mela—for which almost the entire city gathered along the Yamuna. Interested groups maintained several akhadas or wrestling clubs in the city. And on the steps of the Jama Masjid, the storytellers—dastangos—always attracted large crowds.

  1857 marked the beginning of the end of Shahjahanabad. In its aftermath, the painstakingly built, centuries-old socio-cultural edifice of the Mughals came crashing down. On the night of the fall of the city, General Wilson, the commander of the British Forces, celebrated his victory with a festive dinner laid out in the Diwan-i-Khas, the sanctum sanctorum of more than three centuries of Mughal power. In the days that followed, the palace was systematically ransacked. Twenty-one princes of the imperial family were ‘condemned, hanged and carted off’ in one day. The last Mughal king Bahadur Shah Zafar was incarcerated within the Red Fort in a small dingy room, with a low roof and plain whitewashed walls. The Lahori and Delhi Gates were renamed Victoria and Alexandra Gates. The palace was converted into barracks. A host of other buildings, including the Jama Masjid and Delhi College, were also converted into barracks. The exquisite Fatehpuri Masjid was sold to a Hindu merchant as private property, and the Zinat-ul-Masjid was converted by order into a bakery. The famous bazaars of Delhi—Khas Bazar, Lahori Bazar, Khanam ka Bazar—were reduced to rubble and innumerable havelis and kuchas were raised to the ground to disappear for ever.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal emperor, was exiled for life to Rangoon in October 1858. The British officer escorting his small convoy, as it left the Red Fort, would perhaps not have known that Bahadur Shah Zafar, even if no longer suzerain of a mighty empire, was the acknowledged symbol of the definite zeitgeist that symbolized all that was best in the culture of Shahjahanabad. He was the touchstone of correct etiquette. He was a fine marksman and a good horseman. He was an accomplished poet, adopting the takhallus Zafar as his nom de plume. He was a scholar, who authored a learned commentary on Saadi’s Gulistan. He composed khayals and thumries under the pen name Shauq Rang. He was an accomplished calligraphist and a patron of painting. Notwithstanding his empty coffers, he found the means to somehow express the Mughal love for gardens, laying out one in Shahdara and one below the palace wall. He played chess and cards, enjoyed kite flying and liked bird fighting. His own bulbul—bulbul-ehazaar dastaan—was greatly admired by the public. He liked good food and beautiful women. He was poor but dignified, politically impotent but still a Jahanpanah in the eyes of the people of Shahjahanabad.

  The decision by the British in 1911 to build New Delhi, without integrating the old city with the new, sealed the fate of Shahjahanabad. From then onwards, purani Dilli would live on but only like an ageing courtesan abandoned by her new suitors, waiting to die.

  Mere nostalgia of the past will not resurrect Shahjahanabad. N
or need its past be resurrected in its entirety. What is required is to try and preserve some of the special character and beauty of this historic city. Small beginnings need to be made, not dramatic statements of intention. If even one haveli is partially restored and converted on a commercially viable basis to a restaurant, or a period hotel, or a speciality theatre, others are likely to emulate the venture. In Rajasthan, the restoration of one fort, Neemrana, on a commercially viable basis, has led to dozens of forts being restored. I have not lost hope, but if nothing is done there is little doubt that Shahjahanabad will soon cease to exist. As I wrote in Havelis of Old Delhi, in its place would be a vast and nondescript commercial slum, and the soul of the city would say with Ghalib:

  If Ghalib continues to weep this way,

  Then O people of this world,

  Watch these settlements,

  They will be barren one day.

  Public Relief

  MANJULA PADMANABHAN

  On the left-hand side of Mathura Road, going towards Nizamuddin, I once saw a gigantic man, a truck driver perhaps, perched atop the culvert-railing with his salwar down around his ankles. On his face was an expression of unholy delight as he balanced on his heels, frontally exposed to the traffic. In this precarious position he was expelling what appeared to be a week’s worth of digestive by-products from the prison of his gut. The car I was in was moving fast but even in that fleeting moment I noticed with horrified fascination that he was generously hung both fore and aft.

  I realize it’s disgusting beyond belief to mention such incidents. We are all brought up to turn our heads daintily to one side at the first indication that someone in our vicinity is about to expel a load of personal wastes. ‘Don’t look!’ our mothers might say, as a man fumbling with the string of his pajamas prepares to squat down by the side of a road. ‘Turn your head away! It’s not polite!’ we might be told when a woman holds a bare-bottomed young baby over an open drain.