Tag Archives: Afterwords

“Afterwords” is an occasional back-page column I write for Time Out Delhi.

The company of strangers

In the neighbourhood ♦

I have never found Buddhist kitsch a particularly comforting form of interior decoration. But about two weeks ago, I found myself sitting in Hawker’s House, my neighbourhood’s beloved little sandwich shop, and something about the photo of a standing Buddha sculpture, its smooth, lean arm raised reassuringly in the abhaya mudra, and the roly-poly laughing Budai figurine near him, behind the cash counter, made me feel calmer than I had in days.

It was evening, but still hot; I had stopped by the store in front of Hawker’s to stock up on Rooh Afza, but had been lured into the long back room by the promise of strong air-conditioning and creamy cold coffee straight from the bottle. I squeezed myself onto a corner stool at the counter, which was crammed with young Jangpurians on their way home from work. Next to me, the woman at the till fielded phone calls, dispatching chicken sandwiches with their crusts cut off  and veg burgers in wax paper and issuing shorthand instructions to the delivery man: “Wahin, jahan Mr Rajat rehte hain – uske bagal mein.”

I sat dipping my toasted sandwich in green chutney, my heat-liquefied brain coalescing under the cool breeze of the fan, its sun-seared thoughts taking coherent shape. The plastic rotundity of the Budai’s belly in front of me was strangely soothing, but so was the pleasantly anonymous cocoon of strangers around me, a group of which I was both part and apart. With the ambit of daily life collapsed into a constant rotation of home-to-office-to-mediawallon ki mehfil, it seemed like days since I had seen an unfamiliar face.

The wider world—social media’s hollow promise of endless newness and unlimited connections—was limited to being accessed from my desk. “Facebook supplanted MySpace, which supplanted Friendster, which supplanted actually having friends,” John Oliver had quipped the other day in his tirade on net neutrality. “Do you remember physically having friends? It was awful. You couldn’t tap people’s faces to make them go away.”

Maybe the appeal of strangers is that even physical friendships nowadays devolve into “interactions”, fuelled by a relentless need to comment and share with competing wit, and interrupted constantly by the ping of another notification. Lately, some friends in the physical world had been discussing the new app “Secret”, which displays a list of anonymous comments posted by people in a user’s contacts lists. I am incredulous. Twitter has already reduced culpability into near meaninglessness. Secret pairs the titillation of good old-fashioned gossip and leaked fact with a complete lack of accountability—a joyful embrace of misinformation, cowardice and backstabbing.

When offline friendships tend towards extensions of online conversations, the thrill of intimate anonymity in the virtual world is perhaps understandable. But what happens when the corresponding lack of culpability spills out into the real world? As the restorative cold coffee worked its magic, the dark thing that had been lurking on the edge of my thoughts floated into the centre of the congealing soup of my brain.

A mob in Pune had run amok a few days earlier. The rioters had supposedly been spurred on by morphed images of Shivaji, model Kate Upton, Bal Thackeray and various animals—pictures posted by persons unknown, from proxy addresses halfway around the world. Enraged, perhaps encouraged, a bunch of young men went out into their city, singled out a stranger based on the markers of his religion, and beat him to death.

On my phone, I read the latest reports of the “violent response” to the “pictures and comments” defaming two long-deceased men. An FIR had been filed and the image-posting perpetrators of this alleged hate crime would be found, their whereabouts traced, IP address by IP address. The men who had reduced Mohsin Shaikh to a one-dimensional target would also be booked and punished, yet there was no official condemnation of their actions. Instead, there was an odd absolution from responsibility; BJP MP Anil Shirole told reporters “What appeared on Facebook was very painful. Some amount of repercussions was natural.”

In the physical world, a father, mother and brother grieved. A colleague recalled sharing food with the dead man. And the official silence gave weight to the idea that beating someone to death isn’t all that different from tapping an unpleasant image to make it go away.

The woman at the counter cut through my thoughts, calling out an address that happened to be on my block. “Woh kaahan padega?” the delivery man asked. I considered answering, but kept my eyes glued to my phone. Once he had left, I took a breath, looked up and smiled at the woman standing in front of Buddha. “That’s where I live too,” I told her.

Originally published in Time Out Delhi, July 20, 2014

Published: June 20, 2014

Poster politics

Theatre of persuasion ♦

Last month, a strange plant took root in the hard soil of the Capital. Its season is rare – roughly once every five years; and its life cycle determined not by the laws of nature, but by those of the nation. Its steel stems and plastic foliage flourish in a hotbed of corruption, fertilised by the scum of ill-gotten gains. Gone now, its flowers – the beaming faces of our political hopefuls – briefly colonised every Delhi road, blooming black and white, orange and green, lotuses rising out of the muck.

When, as in this election, there seems to be no ethical lines left uncrossed, one turns to aesthetics out of a sort of desperate petulance. The two are fairly inextricable when it comes to political advertising; spending on “outdoor activations” (ie, eyesores) and other marketing tools has been particularly egregious this year. It’s difficult not to wonder what this expensive, collective subjection to billboards plunged into the ground and tacked over the sky is all for. This onslaught, in what Susan Sontag has called the “theatre of persuasion” of public space – compounded with the incessant phone calls and radio spots, the infinite regress of social media  updates, and high-pitch television coverage invading private space – is a convincing sign that electioneering in India has reached an unapologetically commercial apex that is disturbingly reminiscent of high-spend campaigning elsewhere in the world, particularly the United States.

In 1969, Sontag wrote about political posters in Cuba in an essay (“Posters: Advertisement, Art, Political Artifact, Commodity”), in which she argued that “the aim of an effective political poster is rarely more than the stimulation (and simplification) of moral sentiments.” Expanding on this, she wrote that the most common way to simplify “a thing or an idea”, in political advertising is to attach it to “the emblematic image of a person… the heroic figure.” During this Lok Sabha election, the campaign posters in Delhi were limited to celebrated leaders, and contained the innate tension between elevating these men as heroes, and projecting their humility as self-effacing saints – what Sontag described as a “willingness to renounce private desires and liberties”. The theatre of persuasion began to look more and more like a theatre of the absurd, entirely divorced from reality. The audience of journalists and commentators watched each new act with increasingly weary fortitude. Liberals grew exasperated with other liberals, trolls trampled over all sensible dialogue and the unending debates over the existence of various waves could actually induce seasickness in our landlocked city.

If the circular public conversation remained focused on ethics, in private, a lot of frustration found its final expression in the form of juvenile bitchery about the physical repugnance of the men holding court over our streets. Given the advertising invasion and its emphasis on candidates’ blown-up faces and bodies, this was understandable, if not entirely excusable. More than once, serious discussions ended up fixated on this one’s deceitful, pillowy lips or that one’s smug, doughy dimples. In a more dismissive tone, that one’s bristling, indignant little moustache.

I think there was a real sense of betrayal animating these private, surface judgments – an unedited response to the hypocrisy of can­didates who are supposed to represent the people, but have made themselves the objects of veneration instead. Take, for example, the creepiness of the now ubiquitous candidate masks that turn a nameless and the faceless citizenry (sometimes identifiable only by essentialising sartorial markers) into politically-branded bodies, literally poster-stands for the logo of a candidate’s face. Or the #SelfieWithModi campaign that turned photographs of voters into an interactive online mosaic picture of the man himself – each supporter a tiny piece of his famously wide chest or grinning face.

Then there was the attempt at self-abnegation in the catchphrase “main nahin, hum”, which rang entirely false when coupled with the heroic, paternalistic political imagery of campaign posters. And the petty fight between the Congress and the BJP, over which party deserved “creative credit” for that profoundly disingenuous slogan, really said it all.

Originally published in Time Out Delhi, May 2014.

Published: May 17, 2014

Here’s looking at you

The eyes have it ♦

On the occasional morning, a tall, dark, handsome man and his short, dark, even more handsome Labrador visit the pocket-handkerchief of a park opposite my house. Once in awhile, the man happens to look up towards my balcony and, suddenly, the world is transformed. The scraggly park becomes a charbagh set with generously leafy trees, rustling and reticulated in myriad shades of green, from parrot’s feather to peacock’s tail. The weedy flowerbeds into which the dog is relieving himself become a many-splendoured gulistaan. And I’m no longer a half-asleep lecher in rumpled nightie with a pillow-streaked face, but the girl in a Bru ad, looking out mysteriously over a suggestively steamy mug of coffee, my cheeks dewy and flushed, hair impossibly kempt.

Then he guiltily looks down at his mobile, and I dart back behind my newspaper, and the spell is broken.

I’d almost forgotten, over the past year or so, about this game of harmless flirtation, played with two pairs of eyes, and with no real object but momentary elation. From newspaper articles to Internet forums, concern about the violence of the male gaze has been so much more in focus. As a viral video released by film students last December 16 suggested, all escalating eve-teasing – brushing, nudging, whistling, pinching and worse – is built upon this foundation of ladki ko galat dekhna. In “Dekh Le”, the ogling men find their daft expressions reflected back to them when the object of their gaze slams down a visor, slips on a mirror pendant or dark glasses, or adjusts a purse. In this fantasy, the daily negotiation of public space is won by women who put the coffee shop creeps and scooter sideys firmly in their place.

But if the current moment is all about reflecting and correcting the inherent violence of the Indian leer, a part of me still romanticises the abundant celebration in our art – in poetry, film and fiction – of the look of lust. If the brazen, impudent looks of the drunken lout worry us now, it was also the mischievous, flashing eyes of the lover that drove the poets to drink. I may be ideali­sing an aesthetic device; nigahon ka khel is a safer game in theory than in practice; but I still hope that between nazron ke teer chalana and aankhon pe mar jana, there’s some possibility of agency, and pleasure, for both parties.

I remember the summer of my awakening, in my early teens, into a world of unfettered visual impulse, of constant sizing-up of men. Until then, I was mostly disdainful of the hot gossip of who-liked-who and who-did-who that kept the pubescent student body of my American middle school on a constant boil. But on a visit to India that summer, my dormant hormones kicked into high gear. I couldn’t stop ogling and mentally ordering. I became a connoisseur of jaw-lines, hairlines and degrees of stubble. You name it, I objectified it: men in tight jeans with non-existent asses; men in uniforms that creased awkwardly around their hips; men in bright spandex shirts and cotton bush-shirts and particularly men in graceful kurtas and flowing pyjamas; men with puffy hair like old film stars, or centre-parts like Salman Khan; even Salman Khan himself, larger than life and hotter than the summer sun, a star fixed in a firmament of PVC flex.

Eventually superego caught up with id and I learned to look away, or not at all. For women on the street, it’s easier to think of men as one undifferentiated pack to be avoided, rather than a species with many variations, to be observed with curiosity, to be considered individually, or catalogued for future fantasising. We use the phrase “shamelessly ogle”, but it seems to me unfortunate that the familiar male stare is always either laden with shame, or else lascivious, but laced with moral judgment.

The past year has brought editorials, articles and umpteen tweets suggesting that India needs a sexual revolution – a good cleansing romp and a round through the wringer to rid us of our dirty shame. I fear the reality of such a revolution would be even more excruciating, and even less cathartic, than sitting through Imtiaz Ali’s Highway.

But I do wish there was something between engaging with the unbearably cocky head-to-toe appraisal and going around blinkered like a gelded horse – and not just in the socially sanctioned spaces of the city where the rules of class and gender are complex but clearly understood.

Maybe romance is just the art of channeling the heat behind an initial look, through the complicated conduits of language, and back to pure heat. Still, what separates the men and women from the dogs and pigeons is the ability to indulge in the pointless yet pleasurable exchange of glances that can be its own reward. I believe the man with the Labrador in the park understands this. We’ll probably never exchange more than a half-smile each, but he knows I’m keeping an eye on him.

Originally published in Time Out Delhi, March 2014

Published: April 12, 2014

Scent of a season

Farewell to winter ♦

Winter ends as it began, its first and last trace a lingering scent, like the whiff of tobacco on a smoker’s shawl. All season, the city has mostly been a smudged landscape in indeterminate shades of grey, lifted from a palette of fog, smog, smoke, haze and mist. Hindi might have even more words to describe Delhi’s mix of pollution and precipitation in all its hoary proportions – from the frosty tuhin and tushaar to the dusty dundh, dud and gubaar, not to mention the many variations on kohra: kuha, kuhasa, kuheri, kohar.

If the many gradations of fog can be named, the scents of winter deserve a proper cataloguing too. Compared to the heavy summer attars of jasmine and khas – or, if you prefer, of sweat spiked with coriander and slow-baked asphalt marinated in piss – the dry, ephemeral perfumes of winter are harder to pin down. All the more so because they’re often sniffed through snot-blocked olfactory passages.

The early winter festivals and initial round of auspicious wedding dates assail the senses first, with loud bangs and puffs of gunpowder. An instantly recognisable seasonal marker is the acrid, floating aroma of firecrackers, slightly mellowed by wafts of perfume from the blooming alstonia scholaris trees – what a friend once poetically called saptaparni and cordite.

As winter progresses and the nightly mist descends, black spumes unfurl against the white, pungent petrol exhaust spewing from the backsides of incontinent cars and buses. But the diesel fumes sputtering forth from generators all summer give way to the more chemical odour of trash and plastic being burned, mixing with the leafy smoke curling up from tightly rolled beedis, which glow between the tightly cupped hands of squatting men, swaddled in beige shawls. Trailed gently by must and hay, off-white horses trot past them, sporting faded red caparisons. Our own pea soupers taste more than smell – soft and almost liquid on the tongue. The stench of the Yamuna is tamped down and masked by the flourishing carpet of greenery spreading over its banks. Gardens around the city are fragrant with the light, flirty scents of chrysanthemums and sweet peas. Expensive synthetic colognes mix with gladioli in guldastas bound for parties, where the strangely spearminty smell of dark rum swirls out of glasses, mingling with wisps of clove-spiced smoke from lit gudang garams. Not to mention the seductively boozy bouquet of brandy-soaked plum puddings.

Of course, the best winter smells are the ones that seem to filter straight down to the stomach. Hot tea, frothing up from saucepans and releasing gingery steam. Cast iron, heated by coal – the base note for a whole subgenre of charred smells: desiccated kernels of corn; salty peanuts; floury, crumbly roasted naan khatai.

Then there’s the thick, sweetish smoke rising from knobbly piles of shakarkandi, its thin skin singed; its insides soft. And the buttery, sugary, sesame-tinged aroma of chikki and gajjak and laddoos made of gur. The gooey, ghee and cashew fragrance of halwa emanating from great pans of either the earthy moong daal stuff or the juicier, more vegetal gajar. And finally, the faintly milky, pistachio-and-saffron perfume of daulat ki chaat, which is less food, more transubstantiated winter cloud.

Signalling the beginning of the end, the wood-stacked fires of Lohri blaze before the houses in my neighbourhood, and large families gather around the flames. Red-cheeked, powder-caked babies in their pom-pom caps with tasselled ear flaps cuddle in their mothers’ arms. Fattened these past few months on kababs and paneer pakoras, the young men emanate undertones of cheese and grease, with top notes of deodorant and hair gel, while the girls give off traces of fresh methi, gulab jal and hot jalebis.

The old men throw popcorn into the fire, sitting spread-legged in plastic chairs, their bald heads cosy under turbans, hats and scarves. Grandmothers with tiny, scraped-together buns huddle under woollies, their feet toasty in thick socks with toes, easy to slip between their rubber chappal thongs. The bodies of the elderly, like well-varnished antique instruments, are suffused with heavy oils of mustard and almond. But the strong infusion of camphor has finally faded from their shawls.

Originally published in Time Out Delhi, January 2014

Published: January 31, 2014

Burnt offerings

Seasonal rituals ♦

IMG_20111022_215251In the narrow confines of Eve’s tailoring shop in Greater Kailash, bunched up between the brocade-covered, sequin-strewn counters and the walls plastered with neckline patterns, a queue of ladies jostles surreptitiously, packed like the rack of blouses hanging behind the unflappable form and appraising eyes of owner Vineet Kumar. In the old city, where Nai Sarak spills into Chawri Bazaar, a flurry of stiff orange, red and golden paper, embossed with elephant heads, swastikas and cursive letters, eddies between the kuchas and katras, trails from boxfuls of last-minute orders being fetched and carried by cycle rickshaw.

Deghs of biryani, sent up from the smoke-singed kitchens of Nizamuddin and Jamia Nagar, traverse Delhi in tempos; tandoors and live pasta stations are lugged by caterers in their brand-emblazoned vans. People stuck in traffic on the road to Chhatarpur sit in their SUVs and sedans, clutching gifts wrapped in silver paper, craning their necks to look at intermittent fireworks in the sky. White horses prance past florist shops, where men snip flower stems, tease petals apart, plump up blossoms and pad cellophane bouquets with strange, glittery foliage. From Shalimar Bagh to Shahdara, the desolate bulwark of banquet halls that rings the city suddenly comes alive with coloured lights and dhinchak remixes. Besides the season’s roses and chrysanthemums, lawns everywhere sprout orchids and marigolds, tent-poles, braziers and dance floors. On the phone from Sadar Bazaar, a leaf-plate wholesaler informs me that one hundred guests is laughably small for a Delhi party; he will be obliged to charge retail rates.

It’s that time of year – when the weather and the stars align, and the city plays host to people from all over the country and the world, supporting a seasonal economy in which to sink one’s Diwali bonus. There are friends and relatives to squeeze in, politicians to pander to with extra-gilded invitations, acquaintances to cull into lists of varying importance, and party crashers to prevent from getting to the bar.

The occasion of marriage somehow transforms individuals into an array of stereotypes; the wedding guests assemble as a recurrent cast of characters: blingy aunty and boozehound uncle, pedantic panditji, stressed saas-to-be, nervous bridegroom and gora guest of honour. Anyone who’s been to a Delhi party would find Flaubert’s description of the attendees of the wedding in Madame Bovary utterly familiar: “The ladies, in their best bonnets, wore town-made costumes, gold watch-chains, tippets with ends crossing over at the waist… The little boys, dressed like their papas, seemed rather ill at ease in their new clothes… and alongside of them, not daring to utter a word, and wearing her white first communion dress lengthened for the occasion… a gawky girl of anything from fourteen to sixteen – a sister or a cousin, no doubt – all red and flustered, her hair plastered down with strong-smelling pomade and terribly afraid of soiling her gloves.” Just replace the communion dress with an over-starched sari, the gloves with its dragging pallu.

The Bovary wedding – a grand, provincial contrast to Emma’s later aspirations and penury – was “a great party where they sat down forty-three to table and remained there sixteen hours, a party which started again next day, and went on, more or less, for several days following”. “Old quarrels had been patched up” in its honour. At a south Delhi wedding I attended, two aunts – sisters who don’t speak to each other – sat on opposite sides of the room at the sangeet. Someone opened a composition notebook with raunchy Punjabi lyrics and the singing began. One sister was shepherded towards the other. Their mother had been famous for her particularly saucy renditions, and though the estranged sisters didn’t look at each other, they couldn’t resist the chorus of shaavaas, and suddenly both were singing with one voice. Not a patching up, but a temporary seam, tacked together during a moment of celebration. And then a Pakistani guest who knew the Punjabi folksongs better than most of us joined in, prompting more emotion than the Google “Reunion” video.

Maybe it was all this getting together that inspired me to host my own winter get-together. And as fun as that was, it was also a reminder that while Delhi parties sometimes bridge divides, they are also clannish moments of exclusion that reinforce the rules of distance between those who provide and those who consume.

After the party and probably due to said consumption, I dreamt that our security guard stood in the lawn with a whiskey in hand, chatting with a newspaper columnist about the impending elections. The dream, like the final scene in Monsoon Wedding where the maid dances with memsahib, like the urge to start chatting up the guys who come around with kebabs, was pure fantasy. The staff whose ceremonies I’ve attended over the years haven’t exactly been guests at our parties. When I first moved to Delhi, I tried throwing together friends from diverse backgrounds, but a couple of awkward situations led to more carefully curated lists.

The next morning, while clearing away half-drunk bottles of cheap wine, I was reminded of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, who wondered how to defend herself from the accusation that she entertained only because “she enjoyed imposing herself; liked to have famous people about her; great names; was simply a snob in short.” “What’s the sense of your parties?” she imagines another character asking. The hostess comes to believe she is motivated by an impulse to stitch together the disconnected realities of the people she knows: “the sense of their existence; and she felt what a waste; and she felt what a pity; and she felt if only they could be brought together; so she did it. And it was an offering; to combine, to create; but to whom?

“An offering for the sake of offering, perhaps,” Mrs Dalloway concludes. Yet in Delhi during party season, her question hangs like smog over the idling traffic fumes, the fireworks and flowers, the piles of trash people burn to stay warm.

Originally published in Time Out Delhi, December 20, 2013.

Published: December 21, 2013

Shelved selves

Unpacking literary baggage ♦

booksThe first library I fell in love with was my great-grandfather’s study in Shimla. An angular room with thick glass windows, dark wood furniture and a scuffed, burnt orange carpet, it looked out over the misty tops of ragged pine trees and rounded hills. Like any good study, its architect knew that the delicate work of the mind needs buffering from the shrill sounds of the household, and the library was accessible only from the front veranda. Encircling the room were shelves enclosed within stubborn sliding glass doors; each shelf lined with dusty newspapers – some of which were probably worthy of preservation themselves. Hardcover books were packed tightly together, many of them doubly secured in homemade plastic jackets. Prying a spine loose would set a shoal of silverfish darting into different directions, and large hairy spiders lurked in the corners of the ceiling, spinning their own stories in a spiky gossamer font.

My great-grandfather was a historian and educator, and many of the books were too academic for me on those early summer vacations, but it didn’t matter. Adding to the literary clutter, my brother and I would cart our summer reading in suitcases all the way from the US. We’d sink into the new plastic weave seats of old dining chairs, our noses close to the pages, breathing in the book-must while sneaking glances at my grandfather as he composed letters with a fountain pen at his father’s writing table. This quietly thrilling collegiality was disturbed only by the sudden clatter of monkeys on the tin roof above, or my grandmother calling us for garam chai and butter-smeared, currant-filled fruit buns. Inhaling the dust of these old history books (some of them bundled up and brought all the way from Lahore during Partition) was like absorbing a sense of my own past – recuperating something I thought I’d lost as an angsty first-generation American.

Back then, the contents of the library didn’t matter so much, but age demands prejudice and  I’ve since become one of those people who makes a beeline for the bookshelf upon entering a new home. Recognising an obscure personal favourite in an acquaintance’s collection has often perfectly bound a friendship. And when a new love interest goes off to make tea or pour wine, examining his private life through a shelf of Russian literature or radical politics makes me wonder how neatly this catalogue might complement mine.

My own bookshelves have felt like a distinct disadvantage. Sparsely filled with random titles and castoffs from friends who have also shuttled cities and continents for work, they reflect the fact that carting books in suitcases, or cardboard boxes, has become a fixed feature of a transient life. My childhood library sits on white shelves in America, neatly ordered by author, waiting for when I have my own kids. I haven’t revisited the Shimla study in a decade. But after yet another move, I recently had the chance to rip open the boxes, dust, order by genre and stuff into shelves what felt like various chapters of my life. Worn classics from childhood, theoretical texts scrawled with earnest marginalia from college, all the Delhiana hoarded from editing a city magazine, old postcard bookmarks, a glut of contemporary Indian literature and many volumes with stiff spines and crisp pages set aside for future reading.

“Owning books has been only intermittently of importance to me,” writes Claire Messud in Unpacking My Library: Writers and Their Books. In this edition of a Yale University Press series, Messud continues, “To be weighed down by things – books, furniture – seems somehow terrible to me. It’s important to be ready to move on.” I’ve often felt the same way in the face of heavy boxes and duct tape. In the same book, Gary Shteyngart says, “Some books are just crap and have to be thrown out. But some crappy books remind you of certain times in your life and have to be kept. In the closet.” Why not just throw them all out, I wonder, when that third half-read copy of Moby Dick turns up. Or put a moratorium on book-buying and get a tablet?

But as I sit surrounded by stacks of fresh and faded titles, sniffling not just because of the dust, arranging my shelves gives weight to the task of putting myself back in order. I’m sure digital libraries have their place, but maybe my personal history still needs this hefty cover: this old baggage of beloved literature, those potent, unread volumes taking up space, and yes, even that stash of romance novels, stuffed spine-inward behind the Derrida.

Originally published in Time Out Delhi, October 2013.

Published: October 31, 2013

Footloose

Walking with a purpose ♦

“Every walk is a sort of crusade,” wrote Henry David Thoreau in his essay on “Walking”. His particular idea of a stroll had more to do with venturing into nature to reclaim one’s wildness than ambling through a city, but his words feel like a true characterization of walking in Delhi too. Thoreau further explained: “No wealth can buy the requisite leisure, freedom, and independence, which are the capital in this profession… You must be born into the family of the Walkers.”

We generally start to walk before we even talk, but who in this city is truly born into that family? Not the commuting pedestrians, navigating the petty commerce of the pavement like contestants on Takeshi’s Castle. Not the rich who stroll the city’s parks, but rarely its streets. Not the middle classes who increasingly limit their wanderings to the insides of malls and shopping centres – and who are increasingly forced to do so by the barricading of public areas like India Gate. And certainly not those who stride about the halls of power ensuring that those barricades stay up. On every level, the fundamental human right to walk is frustrated by flawed urban architecture and discouraged by the dictates of society.

But one group of people is especially excluded from this family of walkers. Thoreau noted its absence tongue-in-cheek: “How womankind, who are confined to the house still more than men, stand it I do not know; but I have ground to suspect that most of them do not stand it at all.” Pressured by challenges as mundane as having shoes that stand up to the sidewalk and clothes that cover the body appropriately, to labour laws and curfews enforced by family, wardens and city authorities, Delhi’s women are notably shut out of its streets.

Besides the daily irritant of ogling that manages to be simultaneously rapacious and judgemental, the fear of physical violence has grown steadily alongside the shrill crescendo of reports of sexual assault since that grey day last winter. With every new story, the fear starts as gut-wrenching anger and sickness, dulls into a weary, heartsick paranoia, and eventually settles into cold lead in the shoes, a kind of dead weight of caution in every step.

However, I’ve been lucky to be doing a bit of flying lately. First to Greece, where I saw women walk naked along the Mediterranean coast, garnering less attention than a man peeing on a Delhi road. Then to Medellín in Colombia, where men and women – sometimes unknown to each other before nightfall – walked in the parks and plazas until sunrise, drinking, talking, sometimes even dancing. Finally to the brightly lit, Google-mapped streets of New York, with their double-wide, garbage-scented sidewalks and unending subterranean current of public transport. As I walked, the lead in my shoes melted away. There was a spring in my step all summer.

I flew back to Delhi last week, in the midst of the verdict announcement of the December 16 gang rape and murder trial. I remembered actor Maya Krishna Rao’s performance “Walk”, in which she states powerfully and simply:  “I wanna walk. Sit on a bus. Walk on the street. Lie in the park. I try not to be afraid of the dark.” I recalled walking from SDA to Vasant Vihar in high heels, trying to ignore the cacophony of catcalls and car horns following me down the Outer Ring Road. I remembered going on assignment with a photographer along the city’s bridges at night. She and I were about the same age as the young photojournalist attacked in Mumbai last month.

And I remembered the woman who walked out of a movie with her friend last winter and tried to catch a ride home from Munirka to Dwarka. I thought about the men who killed her, for whom walking as equals beside a woman was unfathomable, and how that fact was in itself unremarkable. I thought how killing them would do nothing to protect my freedom to walk – at any time, in any place, for any purpose – to stop where I wish, to stride, skip or saunter.

Sauntering, Thoreau wrote, could be derived from “‘idle people who roved about the country, in the middle ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going à la sainte terre’ – to the holy land…’”. But after a summer of idle sauntering in other cities (and with cooler weather hopefully around the corner) I’m ready to keep putting one foot in front of the other in the little crusade for Delhi’s streets too.

Originally published in Time Out Delhi, September 2013

Published: September 1, 2013

A room on the roof

Notes from the last barsati ♦

BannerDelhi, early morning. The sun burns through the haze, like a lighthouse lamp growing brighter as the bustling port of waking life approaches, pulling the tides of thought out of the ocean of dreams and towards the shores of reality, where I find myself cast up, suddenly solid, embodied. My eyes open to a view of pirate-black plastic water tanks, glinting like crows’ nests, and beige and ochre rooftops like ships afloat in a sea of green leaves, hugged by low white mist. The clouds come down to lightly kiss the ground and dissolve into dew.

It’s a different world up here in this tree-house of a barsati – a magic faraway world. I moved in two years ago and for the first half of my stay, most mornings were like this – a view of light softly stealing over sleepy streets, pale green foliage, the neighbours standing and blinking in their balconies. Then, the house opposite this one came down, and in a matter of months, my picture windows looked out onto the grey prospect of a mountainous slab of concrete. Yet I always knew that those mornings sailing above the Delhi madness were moments snatched from the city’s onward, upward march. The dark mark had long been set above my little barsati as well, and finally, after half a century, its date with a wrecking ball too draws close.

The romance of the room on the roof is related to the trope of the artist in a garret or the musician in a garage – but it has its own special, archetypical place in the blueprint of urban Indian culture. In instances too numerous to recount here, literature and cinema use the barsati as shorthand for the lushness of new love, creativity in full spate, and independence from the stifling air of social propriety below decks. In the memory palaces of Delhi’s older generations, the barsati is a room crammed with nostalgic recollections of youth and of freedom without responsibility.

There have even been attempts at barsati tourism in the city, but of course I’m convinced, like the rest of us living the high life, that mine is the best, and the last. It has had everything a tenant could ever want – not just in terms of physical layout and dimensions. My dear landlord, overturning every stereotype related to his station, certainly never put a price on my soul, allowing me to pay quite possibly the kindest rent in the colony – fulfilling a social obligation more than generating an income. He used to live up here himself during the early days of his marriage and smiles fondly when recounting moving in on his wedding night.

The barsati exudes a pleasant sense of history too, shaded by a tall Ashoka tree, supposedly one of the city’s oldest specimens. Prabuddha Dasgupta had a darkroom here some years ago, and before that the room sheltered Afghani doctors who came to the city as refugees. As the house comes down, inevitably giving way to a more vertically oriented city to house its citizenry, another little edifice of local history will be consigned to dust.

It’s as if the house knows that its tryst with developer destiny is nigh and won’t go down without complaint. The ceiling fan, from the 1960s, whines and squeaks with insistent regularity. In the bathroom, a petulant tap drips all day, the toilet’s tank fills, then sometimes suddenly overflows, exhausting the supply of the Sintex tank above. The other day, a power surge knocked out every light bulb and fried the Internet router. Out on the terrace, the terracotta pots – thick with tomatoes and lettuce all winter – have dried up and gone to seed. The last rainfall brought down a deluge of plaster flakes in the stairwell. The geckos have left, but in the rolled-up chiks, two turtle doves carry on their romance, fluttering incessantly and shredding the tatting to build their own nest, hopefully at a safe distance.

Pretty soon, the house will be reduced to yet another heap of rubble surrounded by piles of grit and sand that cradle the colony’s yellow pye-dogs by night. In time the building will rise again – likely gleaming, probably partitioned into neat little boxes. But by then, I’ll be long gone.

Originally published in Time Out Delhi, July 2013.

Published: July 6, 2013

Song of the open road

Street music ♦

Concerts go down in history for attracting record crowds, for the debut of a groundbreaking work, or the return of a long-absent musician to the gig circuit. Rarely are they remembered for being completely ignored. Yet a performance by American violin virtuoso Joshua Bell became legendary precisely for that reason – and for what it revealed about context and the perception of talent.

In 2007, on a chilly winter morning in Washington DC, the Grammy-awarded musician played at a subway station in an experiment with The Washington Post columnist Gene Weingarten. But Bell’s deft rendition of technically difficult passages of Bach and his interpretation of the soulful strains of Schubert’s “Ave Maria” fell on deaf ears. Hundreds of harried commuters rushed by, barely registering the musician the Post described as “a heartthrob” and his multimillion-dollar Stradivarius. Few people tipped, only one recognised Bell, and just a couple stopped to listen at all.

Living in the capital of the USA or India, it’s not cynical to acknowledge that aesthetic discrimination is a socially learned, even marketable, value – that taste is based more on trends than judgement. People are busy and context matters, whether it’s a violin prodigy in a subway station, or Rajasthani folk musicians playing Defence Colony bar. As discussed in this issue’s cover story, performance is increasingly moving to ticketed venues and private funding. We ought also to pay attention to music (or the lack thereof) in public.

The street musician has been a familiar fixture in Indian literature and cinema long before the little Lata singing for her supper in Bombay Talkies. In the film, the child sounds like she’s in a studio rather than on a pedestrian overpass, but her song’s uncluttered mastering does suggest one truth about the unexpected encounter with street music: it can take the listener out of his immediate surroundings, lifting life to the realm of the cinematic, creating narrative where before there was only noise.

The beggar girl singing “Ajeeb Dastan Hai Yeh” also speaks to a truth about Mumbai – that street musicians are still relatively audible in that city, particularly in and around its commuter trains. There’s even an initiative called National Streets for Performing Arts, founded last year, which collaborates with the Railways to bring music to the tracks and other public spaces. Artists recruited for the program have played everything from didgeridoo and djembe to dholak in public.

Programmed in detail and supported by a mutual fund, NSPA is perhaps less indie than some like their buskers to be – but it fits with the way street performance is regulated in cities around the world. The paragon is Music Under New York – going strong for nearly 30 years – with blogs and books written about its roster of auditioned artists. Occasionally a charismatic performer almost makes the city’s subway system seem too efficient. There are also freelancers; once, when riding the NYC subway on John Lennon’s birthday, I heard a long-haired guy with a guitar whose simple cover of “Imagine” had more than a few passengers sniffling surreptitiously into their sleeves.

Elsewhere in India there are some efforts to promote street music. I spent a pleasant morning in a public park in Panaji recently, listening to a Goa Tourism-sponsored performer cuing up Chris Perry and Lorna hits with a young girl from the audience joining in. But what of Delhi? I’ve seen maybe a couple of folk musicians out and about – and no sponsored artists, except maybe at fairs or Dilli Haat.

Yet there is music on the streets, ranging in scale from pure cacophony to passable melody. Religious music crackles out of the inner courtyards of Sufi shrines, gurudwaras and mandirs, or blasts from MP3 CD shops. There are the outdoor speakers of Delhi’s various temples to hedonism too. Bandwallas blow away at “Tequila” and “Gangnam Style”. My favourite – as someone who’s lived a long time in the zipped-lips, eye contact-avoiding USA – are snatches of singing by random passersby. No soundtrack is a success until its hits are being belted lustily by every third hero that walks by.

Maybe the fact that walking isn’t much encouraged in Delhi is one reason why its street music scene isn’t thriving. Women rarely amble, and everyone else is too busy trying not to get run over or dehydrated. What public space exists is regulated by systemic corruption. Every day, more of it vanishes into malls with canned pop piped in alongside central airconditioning, or it disappears under another road for cars blasting electronica late at night. There are some free concerts in parks – but few initiatives that actually bring music to those who don’t seek it. How brilliant if the Delhi Metro hosted a series of performances. Or DTC buses. Who knows? The next Bell or Mangeshkar could be out there, just looking for a platform.

Originally published in Time Out Delhi, May 2013.

Published: May 20, 2013

Take notice

Resignedly yours ♦

cakeLeave-taking has been on my mind lately, and my thoughts found their reflection in a photo currently making the social media rounds. The picture shows a resignation letter in edible form: a passion cake (prosaically: carrot cake) with white icing, over which is piped a letter by one Chris “Mr Cake” Holmes, formerly of the St­­ansted Airport immigration control force. “Today is my 31st birthday,” Holmes neatly scrawls, “and having recently become a father I now realise how precious life is and how important it is to spend my time doing something that makes me, and other people, happy.”

Holmes may not have anticipated his letter going viral after his brother-in-law tweeted the picture. But a plug in the note for his new cake company garnered the most brilliant word-of-mouth publicity he could ever have hoped for – closing out one career while launching another. The photo’s virality speaks not only to the widespread love of cake but also to that other universal desire – niggling in some people, burning in others – to dig into one’s passions with both hands, or possibly head first.

Following one’s dreams is a sentiment common to the resignation letter genre, which surely deserves recognition as a literary form. As with Holmes’ epistolary cake, it often consists of self-reflective stock-taking; it offers the writer a chance to articulate feelings about a new beginning in a semi-public way. A foot-long cake isn’t always required; sometimes a short note has more impact. Famously, though probably apocryphally, when travel writer Bruce Chatwin resigned from London’s The Sunday Times to finally chase the open road, he did it via telegram, simply telling his editor he had “Gone to Patagonia” for a few months and never coming back.

Yet these parting missives often have a purpose beyond declaring one’s dreams. As a rare type of written expression relatively free from payment or patronage, resignation letters are among the most honest forms of communication. Some veer toward whistle-blowing, like the Goldman Sachs executive who published an account in The New York Times last year, describing why, after over a decade, he was leaving his employer. Such leave-takings of conscience ring with a noble self-righteousness.

But there is also plain, old-fashioned bitching, moaning and damning – the sheer joy of crafting a parting shot that vents all the pent-up frustration of working life. One of the most devil-may-care letters I’ve read is by William Faulkner, quitting his position as postmaster at a US university: “As long as I live under the capitalistic system, I expect to have my life influenced by the demands of moneyed people,” he acknowledges. “But I will be damned if I propose to be at the beck and call of every itinerant scoundrel who has two cents to invest in a postage stamp. This, sir, is my resignation.” One might argue that 90 years later, Holmes’ cake-letter contains the same basic sentiment – just extremely well sugar-coated.

Some letters damn with faint praise – and it’s not surprising that George Orwell’s resignation from the BBC is a masterful example. In his 1943 letter, he thanks his employer for its “very great latitude” and “generous attitude”. He continues with a confessional critique: “I have been conscious that I was wasting my own time and the public money on doing work that produces no result. I believe that in the present political situation the broadcasting of British propaganda to India is an almost hopeless task… I could be occupying myself with journalism which does produce some measurable effect.” For its part, the BBC released him with a gracious assessment: “He is of a rare moral dignity: his literary and artistic taste is unerring.”

A less coherent resignation is found in Upendranath Ashk’s short story “Letter of Resignation” (see p71), in which a sub-editor says he’s quit a national daily due to “the sorrowful condition of my grandfather… the terrible ill health of my wife… I’ve started to suffer from insomnia… I’ve developed bleeding haemorrhoids from sitting in a chair all the time and diabetes is eating away at my insides.” In another medium, Cy Twombly, king of doodlers, echoes this process of revisionist justification in a drawing series called “Letter of Resignation”, consisting mostly of enumerated lists with scratched-out entries. Some gems have floated through my inbox too – one in particular cited an employer’s “panopticon gaze” and overbearing emphasis on deadlines as the excuse for not being able to adhere to them.

The reason I’ve been thinking about resignations and goodbyes is that this is in fact my last issue as the editor of Time Out Delhi. As I leave, I won’t start confessing, grousing or enumerating my motivations here (unfortunately they don’t involve cake), but I would like to thank the magazine’s readers, long-time contributors and my colleagues for making working on a total of 108 issues very much worth writing home about. All the best – and a happy May Day to all the workers of the world.

Originally published in Time Out Delhi, April 2013.

Published: April 26, 2013