by Saurav Jha
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Fine. So this was a girl in the first group I was travelling with. Before Motty came down from Nepal. She was beautiful.’
‘Jewish? I mean, Israeli?’
‘Yes,’ he says, his expression clearly saying, does it matter?
‘But not Baghdadi?’
‘No, Dippy. Why are you asking these mom questions?’
‘Just asking. Go on.’
‘Anyway, she was very beautiful and sweet and kind. I think everyone was in love with her a little. At least, I fell in love with her from the first day. But I didn’t want to do anything silly, so we became good friends. I would try to make her laugh. That was the main thing. The days went on. We travelled in a large group, and I thought we were becoming close. You know? Every morning, I would feel restless and sick in my stomach until I saw her. There would be one perfect moment. Peace. My stomach would relax. I would feel hungry suddenly. And immediately after that, I’d feel restless again. As she moved around, ate breakfast, my stomach would flutter at the smallest thing. It was intense, whatever it was I felt. Like pins and needles. I thought it was love.’
He pauses. I sigh and eat the last mouthful of my cake.
S and Motty exchange a glance.
‘You could try to tell this story a little quickly,’ S states.
‘No,’ I order. ‘Tell it at this exact pace. You two shut up and listen.’
‘I discussed it with this one mate. He said I should do something about it. So this is what I did. I wrote a note…’ At this the boys begin to snicker. I shush them, listening intently. Zvika smiles goofily and continues, ‘I put it in an envelope and slipped it under her door.’ The boys begin to guffaw. ‘Ignore them, ignore them,’ I instruct Zvika.
‘So I slip the letter under her door, and wait for morning. In fact, I can’t sleep all night. Then, morning comes. We go for breakfast. She comes in, smiles at me, smiles at the other mates, sits next to her friend Shosh, exactly like on other days. I can hardly eat in tension. But she doesn’t say anything at all. Nothing. One day, two days, three days, a week goes by. I don’t understand what happened. Meanwhile, we’ve moved on to another place. I think maybe she didn’t get my letter at all. Maybe there was a doormat or something and the letter remained under it. I said this only to console myself. There were no doormats in the other rooms, so what was the chance of a doormat in hers? Then one day there was a bonfire and stuff. All of us were sitting around it. One guy was singing with a guitar. A few people even danced. After a few drinks everyone was relaxed and very open. People were confessing stuff. Then this girl told a story. She said her best friend had gone travelling. To Thailand or Cambodia or something. One guy fell in love with her. He slipped a letter under her door. And the friend – she liked this guy a lot, he was a real gem of a guy, blah blah blah – only liked this guy as a friend, nothing more. My ears were burning. I made some excuse and left. The next few days were very hard. Then thankfully Motty decided to join me and it was a big relief. Then I saw her in Jaisalmer again. But now she is dating an Australian surfer.’
‘Ugh,’ Motty and S say in unison.
‘Bet she’s sorry as hell now,’ I say, patting Zvika’s hand.
He laughs bravely but it is a hollow laugh and there is pain in his eyes. ‘But at least I did something. Something stupid, sure. But at least I took some action. Dippy, SJ, you should say something to this Motty. He is too shy. Never says anything to any girl he likes.’
‘Is true.’ Motty nods in agreement. ‘My hands become cold. I can’t speak. My tongue feels really heavy. SJ, why don’t you give me some tips?’
‘Please, if anyone is to be consulted, it’s me. Obviously.’
‘Just wait before you start the consultations, Dippy. I’m feeling hungry,’ Zvika announces. He is always hungry. ‘I am going to get a slice of cake. Or maybe the apple pie. Anyone want anything?’
He climbs down the plinth and hops to the glass counter, places his request and then walks down to the main doorway. ‘Not raining any more,’ he calls out from there. ‘Nice weather outside.’
The German Bakery is deserted because of the rain, I think. Just one elderly Spaniard sits next to the cakes and reads a book. He doesn’t seem to mind us.
‘Zvika, get me the newspaper if it’s lying around,’ S tells him. ‘I’ll do the Sudoku.’
‘Guys, guys, come here a second,’ Zvika calls out. ‘Now!’
We instantly troop down the plinth and get to the door. I do not even bother with my shoes but pad across the floor in my woollen socks. ‘Is it that girl? Have you suddenly spotted her?’ I ask hopefully, pressing my nose to the glass pane.
Outside, the rain has washed off the dust and grime of Paharganj, leaving a vista that is cleansed, almost newly minted; in fact, Paharganj, where derelict beauty jostles with ugly modernity, is suddenly altered, suffused with a greenish-gold glow as some complex formula of the sun and the grey clouds refracts the light in a peculiarly poetic way. People who were waiting under dripping awnings have begun to crowd the road again. ‘Look, it’s our rabbi,’ Zvika says. And finally I see.
Amid the regulars of Paharganj, the locals, firangs, beggars, hawkers and assorted others, I finally spot a starkly contrasting figure. Like a lone figure from Victorian literature, the rabbi moves through the crowd, pushing a pink pram. In his traditional long beard and black trousers, long black coat, black closed shoes and a Borsalino hat, he would have been an outsider alright, but for the nature of Paharganj, where the margin is the centre. The baby is not visible from where we stand. But the tall thin man walks slowly, reflectively, his eyes lovingly fixed on the pink pram. An old-fashioned umbrella hangs from the back of the pram. Zvika excuses himself and steps out to talk to him. The rest of us go back to our coffee table, but somehow the mood has become serious. S remembers his article. After a few minutes, the three of us decide to clear the tab and go out into the rain-washed streets. Zvika is still deep in conversation with Rabbi Moshe.
49
The next day is surprisingly clement. It’s warm and sunny, and there is a spring breeze blowing. We convene for breakfast at around half past ten, early by Paharganj – and our own decadent – standards, and over omelettes, it is suddenly decided that instead of waiting till next week or whenever, after the Chabad House party and after Saurav finishes his article and what seems to be really after the end of time, we should simply consider the blue skies and the mellow breeze and conduct our outing today. I can’t remember whose idea it is. But soon we all agree that given how, for once, we’ve risen above our Paharganj postures to come down for breakfast, not brunch, and given how chirpy each of us is feeling, it is our moral responsibility to act on the plentiful sunshine and do something as a group. We are in one of the greatest cities in the world – old, haunting, crazy and new – and all we’ve done in the last few days is walk up and down the Main Bazaar! It is criminal.
We turn right from Madan Café and begin to walk to the other end of Paharganj – not the railway station side but towards Panchkuiyan Road, a broad avenue famed for its furniture shops. We don’t have to go that far down the road though, to where the beds and dressing tables stand by the road. Where Panchkuiyan Road meets Ramakrishna Ashram Marg, on the left, is the huge compound of the Ramakrishna Mission Order of Monks, and next to that stands the eponymous metro station. The station gleams with frosted glass. Smug commuters press forward in endless rolling waves. For S and me, who have in the past conducted a major part of our romance in Calcutta while commuting together on the metro rail, it is a peculiar sensation to take the metro here in Delhi – where we have only ever taken autos and buses and occasional cabs. For a major world city, the metro came to Delhi very late. So whenever we venture underground there is a little thrill, followed by a typical Bengali-style nostalgia for the slightly shabby warmth of the Calcutta stations.
It is rush hour. We, who have nothing
to do and sport a distinct backpacker aura, get bitter looks from co-passengers who jostle and hustle, quarrel and shove, balance tiffin boxes with laptop bags and earphones in a compartment that is jam-packed with dead-eyed office-goers. We feel simultaneously grateful and guilty. It’s as though our Paharganj posture has suddenly met its nemesis: the purposeful commuter. Three stations later, we emerge, slightly roughed up, onto the leafy avenues of Lutyens’s. We relax and find our rhythm again; we stick our eyeballs back in and soothe our bruised egos.
We walk and walk. The sunlight seems more finely spun here, with due regard perhaps to the way square-foot rates have zoomed in the NDMC area. The breeze is delicate as it rustles through the neem trees. We point various landmarks out to the twins: that’s the Sahitya Akademi, the government academy of letters, my first-ever job and the place which inspired me to write my novel; that’s a restaurant where a friend of ours came with a cockroach in a matchbox to demand a free meal and was caught on CCTV; that’s where a Maruti went over Saurav’s foot and we fought hard with the driver and went to report him to a police station; there’s ‘The Imperial’ on Janpath, offering classiest service and some of the most expensive rooms in Delhi, as well as lobbies of understated elegance where, people say, foreign agents parlay; that’s the round bookshop which has every book you might want – it saved a term paper of mine at the very
last minute.
After we get to India Gate on Rajpath, we realize that in addition to the surprise appearance of the sun and blue skies, it is also one of the last few days of winter vacations. There are literally thousands of people teeming in the grounds, mostly harried parents, but also a fair number of lovers who sit tightly entwined, looking towards the water. There is candyfloss and ice cream. A huge number of children, high on sugar, courtesy the said ice cream and candyfloss, shriek and run and demand rides on the bright-red-and-sunflower-yellow paddle boats. They insist on buying whittled wooden flutes, from which the thin men who sell them coax out the most romantic melodies. But when the children place their untrained lips on the flutes, only funny squeaks emerge. Within minutes the flutes transform into rulers that are used to whack each other. Several chips-and-chocolate-wallahs have displayed their wares seductively, and almost on invisible strings Zvika and I are pulled that way. But S grabs me by my long red muffler and I, in turn, pull Zvika by his knapsack.
S takes his role as guide uber-seriously. We realize we are about to be lectured and gather soberly on a green patch next to the Zabta Ganj Masjid, all clean lines and white walls, which floats on a sparkling waterbody. S stands erect against the blue sky and distracting greens and declaims, while Motty is the proverbial first-bencher on a school trip, listening carefully and, later, asking intelligent questions. ‘The India Gate was built as a war memorial arch to remember the 70,000 Indian soldiers who died fighting in the First World War on the side of the British. … It was designed by Edwin Lutyens, the British architect who was the main architect and planner appointed to design the new capital of British India when, during the 1911–12 Durbar, it was announced that the capital would be shifted from Calcutta to Delhi. However, one of the legends of Delhi is that every time a ruler built a new capital, sooner rather than later, his kingdom would fall. Thus the expanse of Delhi is dotted by the several old capitals that the city has witnessed in its time. It was no different for the British. In 1931, when the grand new capital, now named after Edwin Lutyens, was inaugurated, that same week a delegation returned from London after attending the first round-table conference.’
‘Papa, we want ice cream. Papa, we want ice cream. Papa we want ice cream,’ Zvika begins to chant lustily, and I immediately add my voice in support. Finally, Motty too caves in, and in view of our robust appetite, S relents. Ice creams are handed out. I cannot remember what flavours were selected, only that an inordinate amount of time is spent in decision making. Zvika, like many of the children buying ice cream, drops the wrapper on the grass. S gives him a withering look while Motty fastidiously picks it up and drops it in a bin which the ice-cream seller has solicitously placed next to his cart. ‘Pick the other ones up, then,’ Zvika tells Motty, ‘since you are so goody-goody.’ Motty silently begins to, and a few shame faced parents and I join in. Our ice creams begin to melt.
Sucking our poison and dragging our sweaters, we begin to look for an auto that is willing to risk police action by carrying four adults. It is easily found – for a price, of course – and soon we are cruising southward, past the flower shops at the turn of Lodhi Road, past Safdarjung’s tomb, past Dilli Haat and AIIMS, to Vasant Vihar, past our old house. S points them out to the boys, they compliment the place, but I only half-hear all this. It is here, outside the gate that we used to rush in and out of several times a day, that I realize, with numbing clarity, this heart-crushing city is no longer ours. Not any more. Not really. We sent our stuff back in a truck. That was it. End of ownership. What a fool I was to have not realized this before!
From the auto, every view of the city is framed by a fluttering tarpaulin that on very cold days is meant to be tied firmly to bar the cold wind from streaming in through the right window. Today it flaps loosely and the sunshine and blue sky fade in and out with regularity.
When we step into Priya Complex, for the twins want to buy us coffee and sandwiches or quiches or croissants or something (since Zvika is hungry again), the sensation solidifies into a bitter freedom. Priya Complex is busy today. We used to come here to the bookstores to browse every other day, to the PVR cinemas for night shows on weekdays, when the prices were low, to the magazine stand to check out their second-hand book collection, to Modern Bazaar to shop and generally amble around the arcade and sit on the benches near the dry fountain where hundreds of pigeons roost. But I resolutely refuse to give in to memory, and am decidedly boisterous over coffee and sandwiches, happy that it has been established, once and for all, that Delhi is not my home. I am a traveller living in Paharganj. In fact, the road is my home.
Later, at dusk, we will walk around the Qutb Minar Complex, as a fragrant twilight descends on the city. The boys will move ahead, S acquainting them with stories of the sultanate, and a history of the place. I will circle the minar, cross over to the other side, and walk among the pillars. At one end of the compound, I will sit under the arches of what used to be Alauddin’s Madrasa, and from outside, the muffled sound of traffic will appear to me as though from another world. A tour group will walk towards me, and a little distance away, a group of Americans will stand in a circle and hear their guide tell them the histories. The Americans wear uniform pastel t-shirts and carry heavy cameras. Several look bored out of their wits. The guide is in his mid-thirties. His voice rises and falls, and from his choice of words it is clear that the episodes he is narrating have passed through the sieve of Bollywood. When a young couple wanders towards the group vaguely and hovers around, looking this way and that, the guide breaks off his narration to address them in cutting Hindi: ‘Please don’t try to overhear. You want to hear the wonderful stories from history, you have to pay. There are desi guides available. Contact them. Now please go. My stories are not for free.’ The couple scoot, and even I get up and walk away.
A quarter of an hour later, after the twins have exhausted themselves with their competitive photography, we stand by the famed iron pillar. Moths circle over our heads.
‘We give you five minutes of full attention,’ I tell S. ‘Shoot.’
‘Take ten, take ten,’ Motty says, kindly.
‘Fine,’ S replies. And then he tells us the following. I notice the couple who were shooed off by the guide standing next to us. I smile at them.
‘The iron pillar exemplifies the technological prowess of ancient India. It was made by welding together wrought iron, and as you can see, it has not rusted. This technology was perfected in the West as late as the twentieth century, more than 1,500 years later. The process of iron making they had perfected so many years ago in cen
tral India produced wrought iron with a relatively high level of phosphorus. Once an initial level of corrosion took place in the pillar, the iron oxides and iron hydroxides formed on the surface would react with the phosphorous to yield iron hydrogen phosphate hydrates that provide excellent resistance to rust and form a passive protective layer that grows over time, reinforcing protection to the metal that lies beneath. It is an ingenious solution which allows some corrosion to take place initially to form a passive protective film that reacts with the environment to grow over time.
‘The history of the iron pillar is shrouded in mystery. It is a Gupta era artefact dating from the fourth century ad and its inscriptions state that the pillar was erected in the honour of Vishnu by a certain King Chandra, who is now widely accepted to be Emperor Chandragupta Vikramaditya of the Gupta dynasty and son of Samudragupta.
‘In the time of the Delhi Tomars, it was believed that the pillar rested upon the head of Vasuki, the king of serpents, and as long as Vasuki’s blessing remained, the kingdom would flourish. One Tomar king decided to investigate this story. He gave orders for the iron pillar to be pulled out. It was, and the king was horrified to see the bottom coated in blood. He tried to put it back immediately, but the pillar would not stay. Soon after, the empire fell.’
Twelve:
How (Not) to Go to Heaven Hanging on to a Carrot (or a Book)
Consider, for instance, the national anthem. The Czech anthem begins with a simple question: ‘Where is my homeland?’ The homeland is understood as a question. As an eternal uncertainty. Or consider the Polish national anthem, which begins with the words ‘Poland has not yet’. And now compare this with the national anthem of the Soviet Union: ‘The indissoluble union of three republics, has joined for ever by the Great Russia.’ Or the British ‘Victorious, happy and glorious…’ These are the words of a great country’s anthem – glory, glorious, victorious, grandeur, pride, immortality – yes, immortality, because great nations think of themselves as immortal. You see, if you’re English, you never question the immortality of your nation because you’re English. Your Englishness will never be put in doubt. You may question England’s politics, but not its existence.