By Sunil Kumar
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. This is not a tale of two cities; Mumbai and Delhi; but maybe something to do with food and my stomach. The national capital is a rather brash introduction to brusque manners; but then the great nation of India never ceases to amaze even the most skeptical and hardened world traveller.
The Rashtrapati Bhawan which is the residence …
Visit sunil-kumar.co.in The Rashtrapati Bhawan which is the residence of the President Of India. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The world as I see it is a narcissistic enterprise; opinions formed, expressed and delivered in quick time without even a slight hint of reflection. Philosophy and common sense often remind me that the sensations of the present matter; you are supposed to live in the here and now. But; then any sense of life would be incomplete without even a fleeting reference to the past; or looking at the shape of things to come.
As I make my way to Rashtrapati Bhavan(the Indian president‘s residence); Delhi’s famed politicking and affection for “sarkar” talk accosts me at every nook and corner. The day after the much-anticipated election; and life seems to be abuzz with dramatic possibilities. The affected mannerisms of Downton Abbey have made a visible dent in my consciousness; so I am expecting something grand and eloquent. This is supposed to be the denouement; the Indo-Anglian tryst reaching a culmination; the former home of the Viceroy.
A visibly cheerful guide meets us at the entrance; well intentioned, informed; but her prowess with the English language rather suspect. This is a place that I’ve wanted to see for some time; my enthusiasm tempered with the realisation that in India; anything culturally, aesthetically or historically significant is generally treated with contempt. Edwin Lutyens has designed this magnificent structure; poetry in stone. Standing at the top of Raisina Hill; it was a dialogue between the rulers and the governed; a testament to an empire.
My main agenda in the national capital; apart from a few meetings; is a wedding. The city has mutated like everything else in India; beyond belief. I reminisce about the relatively quiet streets I saw in childhood; as I set out walking to the main street; where I got books or comics. The whole thing was conjured up as a great adventure in my mind; bigger than the Ramayana; or as grand as Sinbad. I only see flowing beards and streets filled with Afghans in the Central Market these days; as our national capital shows the legendary Indian tolerance for the status quo; fueled by apathy; and oiled by corruption.
The wedding is a dandy affair; the bride and groom smug in their belief of a techno-nibbanic existence; happily dance to the tunes of the Punjabi-Western Bollywood songs that blare out of every “desi” street corner. This is the comparatively swisher set; rubbing shoulders with the world of tradition; centuries of ingrained behaviour that probably does not need any disruptive innovation.
Life partners and chief ministers need to be chosen after some deliberation; but Delhi probably reminds me that it does not need any external advice; the unsolicited variety which I detest myself. It is sheer bravado that propels this city, me and the universe to the next instant; scripting at every instant the story of our lives.
The Buddhists talk about anicca; impermenance; the universe in a state of constant flux. The sort of Matrix-like scenario that confronts every prospective Neo in the “maya” like realm of reality. Finding the sublime in the mundane; or the opposite in the divine is the nature of the universe.
Try telling that to the loud people that you meet every day; and you will be met with expressions of utter bewilderment; surprise, derision, laughter or something else. Money is and remains the conditioner and the balm for this ongoing engagement with life; as this rather coarse existence is what probably makes the human mind imagine transcendental realms; heaven, moksha; salvation.
The wedding ended today; after the customary invocation to that other imagined world. A honeymoon follows; one of the most discussed aspects of marital existence. On the other hand, the city of Delhi; jilted by its muffler man suitor in 49 days; seems to have given him another chance. For the couple however; a few home truths will set in after their brief dalliance in the enchanted world of the Mediterranean.
India has spurned the sari-wearing godmother from the West; and its capital seems to be in love with the subaltern; where every story in this country revolves around the traditional divide between the rich and the poor; caste, community and religion. Angry young men need not look at Amitabh for inspiration; the morphing of tradition and modernity seems to have reached a natural crescendo; and we are heading for a new beginning; again. Love in the time of Palak Paneer is complete; and I need generous doses of chocolate ice-cream; so that I remain committed to the path of terrestrially transcendent wisdom.
