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Saturday, October 31, 2009

City Secret – Aleksandr Pushkin, Mandi House

The Delhi walla's pretension in writing makes me want to lodge a bullet in his balls - Blogger Nimpipi, the woodchuck chucks
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City Landmark – Aleksandr Pushkin, Mandi House

The Russian abroad.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

The Moscow-born Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin does not mind the smog of Mandi House, Delhi’s one-stop destination for art exhibitions, dance performances and theater plays. The Russian poet's statue is standing at one corner of the square, next to Lalilt Kala Academy, for… how many years?

Abdul Qadir, a mechanic resting on a nearby bench, says that it was installed in 1933. India was a British colony then. Why would the English ignore their Wordsworth or Keats for a Russian? “This Roosi writer must’ve have done something good for them,” Mr Qadir says. A school dropout, he has never read any Pushkin but since his workshop is close-by, he has been seeing the poet since a decade. “The statue needs a djinn for it to come alive,” he says.

Pushkin died in 1837. Almost 150 years later, he became the reason for the international success of a Delhi writer. The Golden Gate, Vikram Seth’s first novel, was written in verse style, patterned after Pushkin's masterpiece, Eugene Onegin.

Has Mr Seth ever walked past the statue of his former muse? The coat buttons are open, the hands crossed behind the back, the eyes looking… surely not at Mandi House traffic. The statue is spotty with bird droppings. There are cobwebs, too.

A fruit seller says that it is washed once a year. “The cleaners are sent by the Russian Cultural Center,” he says. On the pedestal’s back, a Russian-language passage is crudely etched, along with the number ‘1988’. Is it the year when the statue was put up?

The Russian Cultural Center is a ten-minute walk away, on Ferozeshah Road. On the way, my thoughts turn to another Pushkin, a friend. This Pushkin was an Indian. He was so named because his parents were first drawn towards each other due to their passion for the Russian poet. I would often see Pushkin at second-hand bookstalls in Basant Lok. In 2004 he was murdered at his home in Gulmohar Park. The newspapers turned the tragedy into a scandal. The Pushkin Chandra Murder Case became a popular conversation starter in Delhi drawing rooms. For a month or so.

The Russian Cultural Center is a white building. The lobby is empty. The first floor gallery, lined with Hindi translations of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, too, is empty. One book is titled 15 years of Soviet-Indian Friendship Treaty. On the next landing, the walls are done up with old photographs of places with names like Astrakhan, Novogrod and Kazan. Suddenly someone comes out from a corner room. SV Nair is an employee here. He knows about Pushkin’s statue. “It was put up during Gorbachev’s time,” he says referring to Soviet Union’s last head-of-state. “Each year on Pushkin’s birth anniversary floral tributes are paid at his statue by students of the Institute of Russian Language.”

Query satisfactorily addressed. Pushkin's birth anniversary falls on June. Try coming then.

Note Russian Cultural Center regularly host events. It also has a library. For more information, call 233-29100

Pushkin and Mr Qadir

Shaded by trees

Threatened by smog

At home

Pushkin's world

The Russian Cultural Center

See you

Thursday, October 29, 2009

City Landmark – Fatehpuri Masjid, Walled City

Its simplicity is magical

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

This could be the poor man’s Jama Masjid, that gigantic Old Delhi landmark. Fatehpuri mosque, the Walled City’s third largest, circa 1650, is made of red sandstone but it has no huge domes, no tall minarets. The central dome looks as if it’s made of marble, but it’s lime mortar, actually. No wonder, guidebooks don’t go gaga over the place. Lucy Peck’s Delhi – A Thousand Years of Building dismisses it in 11 lines.

Tucked into one end of Chandni Chowk, Old Delhi’s signature street, Fatehpuri Masjid lacks the flamboyance of its counterpart at the other end – Lal Qila. Instead of being glorious, its history is bloated with drama queen pathos – damaged by the British following the 1857 rebellion, sold to a Hindu banker, returned to Muslims only 20 years later.

The mosque was commissioned by a wife of Shah Jahan, the emperor who built the Taj Mahal over the tomb of his favourite queen, Mumtaz Mahal. It was Nawab Fatehpuri Begum, who had this mosque built and the shrine takes its name from her. But if Fatehpuri Masjid were a woman, it would have said, “Nobody loves me, nobody cares.”

Its corridors, walls and three gateways do not inspire awe. No flight of stone steps leads to the courtyard, which in turn cannot offer any spectacular Old Delhi scenes.

Then why should you care?

Because the mosque’s seeming weakness is its strength. In a city where most monuments are too loud, too ‘great’, its simplicity offers a refreshing contrast. It is a touristy getaway with hardly any tourists and no touts.

Come during the twilight hours. Then the sky over the courtyard is pale blue, the moon newborn. The Mecca-facing prayer hall begins to look unearthly against the blue-pink-orange of the last sunrays. Very soon, it would be just a silhouette.

Before the approaching night swallows the shade of the courtyard’s giant gular tree, the muezzin’s call starts echoing from all sides. Devotees stream in from the mosque’s in-house madrassa and from the shops outside. All head first to the vazukhana, the little fish-filled water tank, for the ritual ablution. Then, to the prayer hall.

As the men pray – kneeling, bowing, standing up, kneeling again – the courtyard becomes as quiet as its 21 tombs clustered next to the vazukhana. Calmness descends. Existential banalities are stripped away. Delhi disappears. Removed from the world, you feel closer to your self. Of course, the illusion vanishes the moment you step out into bustling Chandni Chowk. But no worries. There is always the next evening.

Nearest Metro Station Chandni Chowk Best Time Evening

Doorway to quietness

Getting ready for prayers

Calm and limpid

Do you, too, feel Fatehpuri's beauty?

Pray for me, too

Be pure

The moon is rising

It's God's sky

Come again

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

City History - Sunday Book Bazaar, Daryaganj

The origins of the market.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

There are many eclectic titles available at the popular second-hand book market held weekly in Daryaganj, but you would never find this one – The Definitive History of the Sunday Book Bazaar. There isn’t any. With around 200 booksellers, there are as many versions of the market's history. Sample this: The bazaar was established outside Red Fort. No... below the lohe walla pul in Daryaganj. The bazaar was founded thirty years ago. No... actually, in the time of Akbar Badshah. And so on.

After chatting with four really old booksellers, and cross-checking their reminisces, a more credible chronicle has emerged. Be warned: it could still be a fact-fiction hash.

Fifty years ago, a kabadi bazaar selling used clothes, sandals and furniture was held each Sunday near Jama Masjid in the Walled City. The shops would be lined on both sides of what was once Delhi’s biggest fish market. In 1964, three men gate crashed the bazaar, set up stalls next to the Victoria Janana Hospital (later renamed after Mahatma Gandhi’s wife, Kasturba) and started selling second-hand books.

After five years, the kabadi bazaar was moved to Red Fort’s ‘backside’. It is unclear who ordered the move: Delhi Police or Municipal Council of Delhi (MCD) or some other government organisation. In any case the few booksellers there had a tough time. The 'backside' was not easily accessible by public transport; there was no water, no shade. Within six months, Kuldeep Raj Nanda, one of the three original booksellers of Jama Masjid’s kabadi bazaar, left the place. By setting up a Sunday stall just below the lohe walla pul, the pedestrian overbridge made of iron, he became the first bookseller of Daryaganj’s weekly book bazaar.

Mr Nanda was soon joined by another bookseller, then another, and another, and one more, and then one more. For six straight days, these men would ride all over the town on their scooters visiting the kabadis – from South Extension to Mehrauli to Malviya Nagar to Safdarjang Hospital’s backside to Garhi in Lajpat Nagar, and also to trans-Yamuna neighbourhoods. The kabadis would get used books from wealthy families in the city, and these booksellers bought them on the per-kilo basis. On the seventh day - that would be Sunday - the books would be displayed on a little stretch in Daryaganj.

Initially, a small number of passers-by would notice the stalls and stop to check out the books. Some ended up buying. Gradually, a few of these became regulars. They talked to friends about this row of book stalls, about cheaper rates compared to other such stalls in the city, about the variety - from sociology, anthropology, philosophy to fiction, current affairs, childrens’ literature. More people started coming. More booksellers joined. The little stretch extended from the lohe walla pul to Golcha Cinema; then to the Telephone Exchange, near Dilli Gate; then to Broadway Hotel. At the time of writing this piece, the last book stall lies next to Delite Cinema’s box office.

The Sunday Book Bazaar has evolved to be a city institution but its existence remains threatened. Periodically the Delhi Police blames the huge book-buying crowd to cause traffic congestion. The MCD frowns at the encroaching of the public land. Such talk spread rumors of the bazaar’s impending closure. Then a few newspapers carry stories with quotes by ‘intellectuals’ on the bazaar’s preciousness. This creates outrage among the 'right thinking people'. Things cool down. The following Sunday thousands of booklovers from Delhi and other Indian cities again gather in Daryaganj to make a bargain.

Note There's an underground parking area opposite Broadway Hotel, on Asaf Ali Road

Encroaching of the public land

But that's OK with the bookworms

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Photo Essay – Chhat Pooja, India Gate

Delhi's several colours.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Each year as the winter sets in, the east Indian state of Bihar gets down to worship the sun. The festival is called Chhath Pooja.

Since a large number of Delhiwallas happen to be Biharis, this is the Capital’s carnival, too. On the penultimate day of the four-day-long festivities, the devotees wade into a water body (it could be a river, stream, canal, or even a puddle), fold their hands into a namaste, and pray to Surya Devta as he sinks into the western skies.

On the evening of October 24th, 2009, The Delhi Walla went to the India Gate maidan, the open green ground usually crowded with picnickers. There I stood by the pond to witness how people from faraway lands, in search of a better life, make a new home in an unfamiliar city, and ends up enriching its cosmopolitan culture.

As you look at the images, remember that the Bihari community continues to be unfairly perceived in this city due to various reasons. You may read more on that here. Happy Chhath.

Delhiwallas

Delhiwallas

Friday, October 23, 2009

Special Feature – Why is Old Delhi So Dirty?

The existential question.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

The old quarters of any ‘World Class City’, say, like Madrid, are always beautiful and clean. Then why is the touristy Old Delhi, also called Delhi-6 due to its pin code, so chaotic and dirty?

The Delhi Walla is at Chitli Qabar chowk, the heart of the walled city, the one-time Capital of the Mughal Empire. From this intersection, one lane leads to Matia Mahal bazaar, another to Daryaganj, the third to Turkman Gate.

Instead of a cop, there is a fishmonger at the intersection – not managing traffic, but selling his catch. The result: jam. Rickshaws, scooters, bikes, pedestrians. Honking. Rickshaw bells ringing. Drains overflowing. Banana peels on roadsides. Paan stains on walls. Electric wires blocking the sky.

Three boys are hanging around at one side of the chowk. “Why is Old Delhi so dirty?” I ask them. “Yes, there’s filth for sure,” says 20-year-old Kamran Khan, a school dropout. “But there are things that make you love this place.”

And what are those?

“Come during Eid,” he says. “You would see hundreds of us hugging each other and exchanging festive greetings. It’s great to watch so many Muslims together.”

I then cross the lane to talk to a man called Raja. He has been selling Bollywood postcards at this spot for more than 20 years. “Why is this place so dirty?” I repeat the question. “Too many people live here and municipal workers are too careless,” he says.

I jump over the open drain to enter Mansoor Ahmad’s readymade garment store, called Taj Fashion. He too says, “Too many people.”

I then look up at a four-storey mansion. It is said that in the 19th century this was the residence of a popular dastango, an oral storyteller in Urdu. That art is now lost. The entrance is from a side lane. I enter. Silence, peace. Unlit stairs going up to a first floor courtyard. On one side, an open door. Inside, a drawing room. A middle-aged man lounging in white kurta pajama.

“Sir, why is Old Delhi so dirty?”

“Do you know there are around eight lakh people living in a radius of 1.5 km?” the man says in flawless English. An alumnus of Delhi's uppity St Stephen’s College, Nasirul Hassan Jhinjiaani owns this beautiful house, including the pigeons on the rooftop. He takes me up to show the Delhi-6 skyline. It is a zigzag line of concrete structures on all sides, looking as if invading army is closing in. No view of the grand Jama Masjid, though. Even now you can see its dome from Connaught Place L block, but not from its own neighbourhood. “No parks here, no sports complexes, no banquet halls,” Mr Hassan says. “Here, people live like mosquitoes.”

But do they have to live like that? Does this place have to be so dirty? “It’s corruption,” he shakes his head. “If this place still resonates with beauty, it is because of its heritage, though we have spared no efforts to ruin it.”

In 1990, Mr Hassan’s father, an Urdu poet, suffered a heart attack. Since there was a traffic jam outside, there was a delay in taking him to the hospital. He died on the way. “People don’t have space to walk,” he says. “Encroaching shops have eaten up the roads.”

Back in his drawing room, Mr Hassan reflects on the neighbourhood’s past glory. “Before the Partition, before many Muslims went to Pakistan, the cream lived here,” he said. “Sir Syed Ahmad, the founder of Aligarh Muslim University, had a house here. So did barrister Asaf Ali.”

“Still, why is Old Delhi so dirty?”

“You know, there are also nice things about Purani Dilli,” Mr Hassan says. “There is tehzeeb, mohabbat, traditions. We haven’t lost all of that.”

Perhaps. But why is Old Delhi... ?

Is this beautiful?

Is it modern art?

Is it romantic?

The quiet bubble

Mr Hassan at his drawing room

Is this pretty?

Is it World Class?

Are we indifferent?

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Photo Essay – Will in the World

Chasing Delhi’s most popular historian.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Five evenings after the formal launch of his book Nine Lives – In Search of the Sacred in Modern India, author William Dalrymple (Will, if you please) was spotted at Bahrisons Booksellers in Khan Market.

Sitting next to a shelf stacked with coffee table volumes, he had some 300 copies of Nine Lives piled neatly on his right. Rajni Bahri, the store's owner, was handing him the hardbounds one by one. Mr Dalrymple was chatty with her. He discussed children, joked about learning Bengali, praised a new book on Hinduism.

After half an hour Mr Dalrymple was seen in front of the foreign magazine stall run by Mercury Audio Video. Next, his car was driving into Jor Bagh Market. He checked into The Book Shop.

A Jor Bagh resident waiting for him cried out a ‘Hey’ and clapped her hands. She was the only customer, besides Nini Singh and husband KD Singh, the store owners. A friend had tipped her off that Mr Dalrymple could be coming for an impromptu book signing. She was carrying a copy of Nine Lives she had bought there the week before.

After signing some 25 copies, including his earlier books like City of Djinns, The White Mughal, and The Last Mughal, Mr Dalrymple spent around ten minutes browsing at the store. When Mr Singh said that City of Djinns, the award-winning Delhi travelogue, still sold the most among his several books, the author laughed and made the indulgent face a parent does when hearing of the popularity of his favourite child. The Jor Bagh resident said, “City of Djinns was the reason why I moved from Hong Kong to Delhi.”

Once the author drove away, presumably, to his farmhouse near Mehrauli, Mr Singh shared an old anecdote with The Delhi Walla. Once Mr Dalrymple came to The Book Shop in Khan Market (that branch shut down in 2006) to sign 100 copies of his collection of essays, At the Court of the Fish-Eyed Goddess, now available as The Age of Kali. The author was with his artist wife, Olivia, who had illustrated the book. The event was well-publicised, the store was in the footfall-rich Khan Market, and this was William Dalrymple. A crowd was expected. Three hours passed; no one came. “Not a single person,” said Mr Singh with a twinkle in his eye. “William was very good about it. He laughed all the time saying that it was his most memorable signing session.” Within three days, all copies had sold out.

More than a decade later, Mr Dalrymple remains as marketable. After he left the Bahrisons, Mithilesh Singh, the store assistant, was heard predicting, “All 300 copies will be out in five days. We should have got Dalrymple to sign more.” At The Book Shop, KD Singh said, “There has not been a single day that we have not sold a William Dalrymple.”

At Bahrisons Booksellers, Khan Market