Do not be satisfied with the stories that are told to you. Unfold your own myth – Rumi.

Posts tagged “jamnagar

Delhi Stories…

Chandni Chowk by Vishweshwar Pandey

There were mongooses in Palam Air Force base in the late 80s. Besides, there were huge trees, cricket grounds, open air cinemas – all of them filled with that astounding calmness only a service kid knows. It is a calmness of order, of rules, of discipline, and of duty. It is a calmness I recognized in all the Armed Forces installations I grew up on – the Shillong radar station that monitors China, the humungous Jamnagar Indian Air Force base that guards our country’s western borders against Pakistan, the dignified air of the single airstrip in Thanjavur, which was built by the British for the South Asian theatre of World War II and is still maintained by the Indian Air Force for hypothetical future ops against an increasingly hostile Sri Lanka.

I grew up more Punjabi than Tamil in Palam, which was to be expected. My ponytails and fluent Hindi helped too, and though we still spoke Tamil at home, my first language through those early years remained Hindi.
I don’t remember much of Palam; I was too young, though images of quaint service quarters, large playgrounds, long walks, guard rooms, Gold Spot & of course mongooses, remain in my head. This was the Delhi of the late 80s, and my memories are embellished by my parents’ fond recollections of the first city they started living together in, passed on to me by way of the stories that are an intimate part of a service kid’s life.

My father had a big BSA in 1985, one of those bigger, masculine models they don’t make anymore. And with my mother sitting on the carrier, he would pedal to the Russian Embassy, where they would both watch the Indo-Russian film festival all day. This was before the collapse of the Soviet Union, when our country was trying to emulate the Russian economic model, the ‘central planning’ of the Nehruvian era, and relationships between the two countries were at an all time high. Clothes were bought at Chandni Chowk, Lassi was had at Sadar Bazaar, and the Lal Qila was always visited, as was the Qutub Minar. The Republic Day parade was always seen in person, and cries of ‘Jai Hind’ on the base were common.
There is a black & white photograph of my parents at Qutub, a personal favorite, in which my father, stands with an arm around my Kanchivaram saree clad mother with the gardens of the Qutub complex in the background, and a baby with a hat cavorts on the ground before them – me. My sister wasn’t born yet.

Their memories weren’t all beautiful though. My father, then posted in the Air Force Police, was on duty at the Delhi Airport once, when a live bomb was found under the seat of the very bench my father had been asleep on for 4 hours.
I was one year old.

My parents always loved Delhi; they still do. I know it in the way they talk about the city, its gardens, its people, the things they did, the places they saw. I’ve always envied them for it, for the fact that they lived in Delhi when history was being written in its corridors of power, when events were being put in motion from its old buildings, events that would change the face of my country.
When Minister of Finance Manmohan Singh liberalized the economy in 1990, my parents were here, watching proceedings on Doordarshan.

They’ve seen an India I’ll never see, a simpler, definitely poorer, somehow more romantic India. They’ve straddled two eras, two epochs – an age of simple contentedness and a sometimes vulgar age of opulence. I’ll envy them forever.

In William Dalrymple’s celebrated memoir of his time in Delhi, published in the early 90s, he writes about “..a city disjointed in time, a city whose different ages lay suspended side by side as in aspic, a city of djinns..”

When I returned to Delhi three months ago, I found that sentence I read still very much true. And I think that will always be true of this city.

When I chose to come back, I was leaving behind things that were important to me in Madras, the job at a startup I had loved and lived, friends and mentors who wanted me to stay, family who were wary of me going so far away.

But I knew I had to do this; I had to come back to where it all began.

The week I arrived, I took the metro to Chandni Chowk, walked in the old city and sat on the steps of the Jama Masjid, watching the sky fill with colorful kites and grey pigeons. With a friend I went to Nizamuddin the next week, sat on a bench on the road outside the Dargah and ate the most heavenly kababs I’ve ever had in my life. I went to the Red Fort and felt my eyes brim with tears of pride as I stood beneath the fluttering tricolor, the symbol of the Republic, where the Prime Minister, India’s commander in chief, raises it on days of national celebration. I saw the ivory throne of Shah Jahan, locked up in a corner of the Red Fort, and was moved by the sight of it, the seat of the once-mighty emperor of Hindustan. I saw abandoned and in-use British buildings, Mughal monuments, decades old coffee houses, and I saw a people who had endured the loss of possibly the most important idea of human life – the concept of who they are, where they come from; their identity.

It is a broken city, as my father always reminded me. Delhi’s culture was torn apart by partition; a city of poets, artists, craftsmen and intellectuals was turned into something else. And it shows. There’s something sad in Delhi’s air, a tinge of gloom in its winds. And there’s something beautiful in that sadness, like lost love.
It’s easy to become a poet in this city. You just have to listen to the wind.

On the Mehrauli-Gurgaon road, a chaotic, dusty melee of whizzing cars and vrooming bikes, there is a point when, on taking a sudden turn, you’ll raise your head to see the Qutub Minar looming a few miles ahead of you. It is a humbling little moment, one of many this city will give you if you travel on its roads. The Qutub Minar, built by Qutbuddin Aibak of the slave dynasty, is situated in a place the locals call ‘Lal Kot’, and not many understand its significance.
Lal Kot was the first Delhi, built in the 13th century by Raja Anang Pal of the Tomar dynasty, one of the last of the Hindu rulers of Delhi. Even before this, historians believe that this was the site of the mythical Pandava capital of Indraprastha. The word ‘Indraprastha’ is Sanskrit, and means ‘the place where Indra ruled from’.

This was the capital of the kingdom of the Gods.

And this is what you can see when you raise your head on a dusty road in Delhi. History walks through the city with the nonchalant, omnipresent faith of one of the faqirs you can see on Thursdays at Nizamuddin.

If you don’t pay attention to where you are in Delhi, you’ll miss an entire century. Just like that.

My friends still ask me why I chose to travel so far from home & come here. They reason I could have done whatever I wanted to back in Tamil land.
I don’t know how to answer that question.
I can only say that I knew. I knew I had to come back to the imperial city, and try to understand why – why the city and its stories beckoned to me in the way that they did, and why I feel what I feel when I walk through a city alien to me, and yet my own. How do I put into words the tiny streets of Chandni Chowk, the smell of Mughal cooking, traditions passed on across generations, the taste of Lassi in earthen pots, the sickly sweet Masala Chai? How do I make you feel what my heart feels when I climb the steps into Jama Masjid and am struck dumb at the immense beauty of its domes, what I feel when night falls on Hauz Khas lake with a unnerving suddenness, an instant of twilight dissolving into nothing?
I don’t know how to explain that.

I hope they understand that this was my parents’ Delhi. This city is part of who I’m. Its stories are mine too.
And I was worried about losing them.

Not anymore.


Bus Rides in Bangalore…

Marathalli to Banashankari 2nd Stage

30th August   10:15 pm

And I give it all away
Just to have somewhere
To go to
Give it all away
To have someone
To come home to

This is my December
These are my snow-covered trees
This is me pretending
This is all I need

Icy cold it is in Bangalore, worlds away from warm, humid Chennai, as I stand on a desolate little bus stop somewhere in Marathalli. I have no idea why I’m here. I just remember that I wanted to get away from it all. From the monotony of dump entries, margin calculations & my always full mailbox. From the meaninglessness of it all. From the astounding indifference I feel towards life.

Someone told me last week that I’m still running away from something. Maybe I’m. Maybe that’s why I sat on a bus to Bangalore, with absolutely no plans, nowhere to stay, nothing to do. Maybe that’s the way I want my life to be. Uncertain, without boundaries. Maybe I really don’t know.

I have been standing here 10 minutes, 15 minutes. Not a single bus stops or even slows. Now I’m thinking a bit. I don’t wanna get mugged again, that last time in Hyderabad was quite enough. I make up my mind to grab an auto next & go to the nearest hotel.

But then, one bus slows down & stops. I get on & tell him, “Drop me someplace from where I can get a bus to Banashankari.” “Why, you don’t like this bus?” he asks drily. “Sit down; I’ll take you there.”

Bangalore is quite like every other city at night, except that it’s a lot colder. I zip my jacket up to my neck & look out into the darkness of the night. And my soul.

Banashankari to Majestic

31st August 2011   9:35 am

Manathunnu cheelum vilakkae
Keezhe ninnu njaan kandathalle
Kaaru vanne kolettum vanne
Kattu vanne pinnem paranje
Kunnum kadannu njaaningu vanne
Pinneyum nokkumpol njaanangu poye

thera kaanaanju theeram nadanne
therayadikka kadalum kadanne
maanathoonnu vettam pozhinje
maaru moodaan theeram kamanne
thera thallum theeram pada thallum thaalam
thaalam polinjappol neram veluthe

I’ve always loved mornings. There’s something about the breaking dawn that’s almost magical, like rebirth, a daily event that signifies hope like no other. Bangalore is dazzling me this morning. The bus ride is easily one of the best I’ve been on. The weather’s perfect, the sky’s crystal clear & the cold, crisp air refreshes me to the core. There are a few moments in life when you suddenly are aware of how lucky you are & how beautiful it is to be alive. This is one of those moments.

I’m going to meet a friend & her family. She was my friend long before I knew the word “friend.” We grew up in Jamnagar together, defence kids in the 90s. We lived together, her family & ours, in an atmosphere that’s so different from the world I live in today. Life was so much simpler then.  Dudu was 3 years younger to me & a year younger to Sahaana, so I was more of the big brother to them both, but we still have a lot of memories together, captured in the old lenses of Dad’s ancient Kodak. She’d found me on facebook. I suppose modern technology does have its benefits, some of which are abstract, like this one, immeasurable by any kind of metric, priceless.

The bus rolls on towards the Majestic Bus Port, as fresh flowers bedeck both sides of the street. Its Id today as the holy month of Ramzan ends, & it’s Ganesh Chathurthi tomorrow. Festive season in my great country. Believe me, you’d want to be nowhere else in the world.

Deve Gowda to Brigade Road

1st September 2011    4:40 pm

Raining heavily. I sit on the bus, wet & water drips from every orifice.

I’ve just completed the third & final book of Steig Larsson’s “Millennium” Series, “The Girl who kicked the Hornet’s Nest.” Had been reading it all morning.  It’s an intriguing, captivating tale of a Swedish girl who has to fight the world just for her right to live a normal life.

I’m thinking about her as I the bus moves, how would it feel to have no one on your side, no one to call your own, no one to fall back upon, and at the same time, have an entire entourage of people wanting to, almost desperate to make you disappear. This is a theme that appears in almost every crime or mystery novel, but somehow this one struck a chord.

I’ll leave you with this poem I read when I was at school in Petit Seminaire, and which now features as the VO for the Levi’s “Go Forth” campaign. It remains of my all time favorites.

A Laughing Heart –  by Charles Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

*The lyrics featured are from Linkin Park’s “My December” & Avial’s “Ettaam Paatu.”

Our Lives aren’t Ours Alone…

It was one of those breezy Pondicherry winter nights yesterday, as I drove back home from the beach. Another of those evenings, when me and the group of idiots I call my friends sat around, laughed at stupid jokes, ate a lot of junk and basically just wasted a lot of potentially productive time. It’s still astounding to think that just a few years ago, we met each other and today these guys know more about me than anyone, even my parents. Our lives are now intertwined, locked together by memories and the friendship we have forged in the time we spent together. Each decision, each choice of mine has some impact on the others. The day I left for Coimbatore for my masters, my friends came home and waved me on, to the next step in a journey, a journey in which they will remain at the heart of my happiest days.

One of my favourite lines is the one about when a butterfly flaps its wings in one corner of the world; something in the other part of the world is affected. How true this is! If Mahatma Gandhi had not taken that fateful train from which he was thrown out in South Africa, the history of the country in which I live would have been different. Our own lives are dictated by that incident. If Crown Prince Ferdinand of Austria had not been assassinated that fateful day, World War One would have been delayed. And what impact that would have had on this planet? My otherwise fertile imagination fails me when we think of these things. If the person who killed the prince had missed, or aborted, or maybe his wife had locked him in his house that day, the entire known history of the world would have been different.

Let alone such broad things, what about our own decisions, our choices? The smallest things you do and choose to do will have tremendous impact, not just on your life, but on several others. Last year, I made a decision, a choice, whatever I may call it. And it took my world apart. I lost something which could’ve been the most beautiful thing which ever happened to me. It brought me a pain so intense and a shame so profound, I have still to recover from it. But what struck me most of all is that my transgression had affected so many people. There were people whose life would be transformed because of what I did. And some were not even in contact with me. Life is weird I know, but in my pain, I saw good things happen to other people because of bad things happening to me. I’d like to think it’ll all turn out to be good, that I’ll get a second chance, like in the movies, but then, they are movies, right?

Life’s workings are shrouded in mystery and we will probably never ever know the full consequence of our actions. But the very thought of trying to predict what might transpire because of a specific deed might change the consequences of it. In Physics, this is called the Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, which states that the very act of trying to measure a particle’s speed or position will alter the same particle’s speed and position, hence rendering it impossible to calculate them accurately. No wonder Physics is called the Fundamental Science!

My Mother once told me on one of those long freezing winter nights in Shillong, that there will always be two paths in life – the right one and the wrong one. The right one will be a hard choice, you will have to pass through hurdles and probably face your worst fears. The wrong one will be very easy, a tempting shortcut filled with vice and pleasure. She stopped there, telling me that when I had to choose, I would know the difference. When I made that choice, I probably did know which one was right. But I chose wrong. Maybe if we take the right one every time, our life and the lives of those around us, would be happier and productive. Every choice is important, every path is important, because, as I said, our lives are not ours alone.