The Seventh City

Shop in by-lane of Chandni Chowk

Living in ‘New Delhi’, the old city always fascinated me. Before I explored it, Old Delhi seemed like a different city with different rules and different languages, tucked away in the folds of the capital. In some ways, I had been right about Purani Dilli.

The avenues, streets, lanes, all breathed collectively with the crowds. The language here seemed novel to my untrained ears. The consonants fell softer from tongues. The vowels lingered on the lips of the speaker. The songs, wafting in the breeze, smelled like earth. Amidst the jostle of the crowds and the trampling of toes, the language could become harsh in an instant, only for that harshness to evaporate and be lost amidst the sweat and swell of the mass. This city, three centuries old though she may be, is still alive.

We explored Old Delhi without much care for history. We explored for old books, for stories, for a quick taste of phirni. Once, on a quest to find ittar, a friend and I spent the whole afternoon wandering the maze-like lanes of Meena Bazaar, amidst the scurrying people hurrying through. It was hours later that we remembered why we came there, only to realize that the ittar we had been looking for had been right under our noses – we were just too enamoured to see it.

Bus Service along the main avenue of Chandni Chowk, 2009. This service was started with the aim of reducing congestion in the area.

While our aimless explorations were contemporary, the history of the city began in 1639 with the laying of the foundation of Shahjanabad. It would go on to become the seventh city of Delhi, serving as the capital of the Mughal Empire till its decline. The remnants of this city – the gates, the walls, the mosques, the memories of the rulers who built them – make up this vibrant part of Delhi.

Shabab-ud-din Muhammad Khurram was born in 1592 in Lahore, to Prince Salim, who wasn’t the Emperor Jahangir we know him as just yet, and the Rajput princess Jagat Gosaini. Akbar fondly gave his grandson the name Khurram – Persian for ‘joyous’. He grew up under the care of Empress Ruqaiya Sultan Begum, who had aspirations of raising a Mughal Emperor.

Upon Akbar’s death, Salim ascended the throne as Nur-ud-din Muhammad Jahangir Badshah Ghazi, and immediately had to quell the onslaught on the throne. In 1608, now in control of his empire, Jahangir passed the fiefdom of the sarkar of Hissar-Firoza to Khurram, thus cementing his position as heir-apparent.

In 1611, Jahangir married Nur Jahan. Over the years, as Jahangir became more clouded with wine and opium, Nur Jahan along with her brother Asaf Khan claimed larger shares in Jahangir’s court. Nur Jahan would go on to play an important role in the writing of Mughal history, and shaping the princely aspirations of Prince Khurram. The marriage of Asaf Khan’s daughter, Arujumand, to Khurram consolidated the power of the court in his hand too.

Nur Jahan played her cards well by having her daughter from her first marriage, marry Khurram’s half-brother, Shahzada Shahryar. This led to further splintering in the fragile Mughal court of Jahangir. Khurram resented both Nur Jahan, for polluting his father’s ear, and being usurped by his half-brother Shahzada Shahryar who was Nur Jahan’s favourite.

Mosque Minaret, Chandni Chowk

Upon the death of Jahangir in 1627, Asaf Khan became the instrument of Khurram’s ascension to power. He forestalled Nur Jahan’s plans of placing Shahzada Shahryar on the throne by putting her in close confinement and seizing control of Khurram’s three sons under her care. Prince Khurram was crowned Emperor on 19 January, 1628 as Abu ud-Muzaffar Shihab ud-Din Mohammad Sahib ud-Quiran ud-Thani Shah Jahan Padshah Ghazi.

He ordered the executions of his chief rivals and arrested Nur Jahan. Shahryar, his own half-brother and Nur Jahan’s favourite, was put to death as one of Shah Jahan’s first acts as Emperor. With these rivals out of the way, Shah Jahan’s rule was absolute.

By 1638, Shah Jahan began to feel constricted in the cramped city of Agra. A new plan for a new city along the Yamuna was envisioned, and the building of Shahjahanabad commenced. The city was built through 1649 with the Red Fort, Jama Masjid and Chandni Chowk becoming the iconic landmarks.

With the later Mughal Emperors ruling from Lal Qila, a number of markets and settlements mushroomed within the city. Shahjahanabad became a flourishing capital that saw the Mughal Empire through to its decline in 1857, when the British forces took over the controls of the country.

By-lane of Chandni Chowk

One of the most iconic British constructions is the Delhi Town Hall of Chandni Chowk. Since its completion, it has seen many uses by the British and Indian administration – known as Lawrence Institute during which it housed the Delhi College of Higher Studies; later it housed a library and a European club, and was the seat of the Municipal Corporation. Parts of the building are still used as government offices.

Town Hall, Chandni Chowk

Stairs leading up to the Town Hall

The yellow walls merged smoothly with the overcast skies of the day. The white trims on the walls shone bright as we made our way through the high-ceilinged façade. A painting of Mahatma Gandhi hung in the entrance hall and from within, we could hear the hum of air conditioners working in the offices. Towards the center of the building, surrounded by high walls in yellow and white, was a well-maintained garden with tall trees and large leaves. The cool air and the quiet that surrounded us was a respite from the humidity and the bustle of the city that lay just beyond the walls.

Town Hall Entrance

Towards the north of the Town Hall is the Mahatma Gandhi Park, where a towering statue of Mahatma Gandhi stands. A pathway encircles it, and eight pillars of red sandstone with lamps surround the statue.

At the south end of the Town Hall stands a statue of Swami Sraddhanand. He was an educationist and Arya Samaj missionary. He founded the Gurukul Kangri University, Haridwar. He was a keen follower of Dayanand Saraswati. He was assassinated on 23rd December, 1926.

Mahatma Gandhi Park

Swami Sraddhanand Statue

This area, the Southern end of the Town Hall, is still referred to as Ghantaghar. In 1870, a clock-tower termed Northbrook Clocktower was built at this location. It became an iconic landmark, with its Gothic architecture, four faces and chime of five bells. It was named after the Viceroy of India from 1872 to 1876, Thomas Northbrook. The tower collapsed partially in 1950, following which it was dismantled over the years.

Where the town hall now stands, there stood a Caravanserai built by Jahanara Begum, Shah Jahan’s daughter and the designer of Chandni Chowk. Jahanara Begum was the daughter of Mumtaz Mahal, and Shah Jahan, and is frequently called Shah Jahan’s favourite daughter. Ascending to the post of Padshah Begum upon her mother’s death, she became one of the most powerful women of the Mughal times. Jahanara Begum was seventeen at the time of her ascension. She was a supporter of Dara Shikoh during Shah Jahan’s lifetime and during the war of ascension between Shah Jahan’s sons. When Aurangzeb placed Shah Jahan under arrest at the Agra Fort, she joined him and took care of him until his death in 1666. Jahanara died in the year 1681 and was buried at the Nizamuddin Dargah complex.

Jahanara’s Chandni Chowk has grown and evolved over the years, witness to many important landmarks of history. Lanes have become congested, streets bursting at its seams. Yet there is a taste of the halcyon days amidst the impatient honks of the cars, the tinkle of rickshaw bells in meek protest against the traffic, the betel-stained walls. The avenue is still telling its stories through the voices that haggle, the footsteps that stomp through the lanes, the sizzle of frying tikkis and aloo chaat. These stories still beat with the collective thump of Old Delhi’s heart.

~

Down the streets of Nizamuddin

The purpose of our visit to the Nizamuddin Basti area was to search and find the reclusive heritage sites that we had heard about a lot, but never had the chance to see with our own eyes. With a joint conservation effort on in full swing in the area, we knew that this would be the best time to see the many monuments that were in various states of conservation.

Having reached quite early on in the day, we saw the basti before the activities of the day took over. Shop owners were still washing the thresholds of their shops, while a few young boys overlooked the entire operation with keen interest. Some shops had opened already - tea stalls selling fresh creamy tea to their patrons, and various paanwallas already catering to the shoppers that surrounded them. We headed on through the narrow lanes towards a school that had been developed, as part of the inclusive heritage conservation effort which considers the people living in the area as much as the monuments and heritage sites they aim to conserve and protect.

 I saw a pair of children getting ready for the day with an eagerness - the elder helping the younger putting on a shirt. Beyond, we could see the school day had already begun. We could see glimpses of young boys and girls running within the school courtyard, all dressed in smart uniforms, running around in the warm September sunlight. We saw the two children, now all dressed up and ready for the day, run off into the small black gate of the school and disappear out of sight. Our guide showed us where they had headed off to, and took us beyond the remnants of a park - broken slides and swings littered one end, while makeshift tents had sprung up on the other - to another, cleaner and greener park. He told us that the park, maintained under the conservation effort itself, was a small sanctuary they provided to all women and children of the area, not just the ones studying in the school, to come and enjoy the swings that had become so hard to find in the area. A small wide-eyed girl, still entirely enamored by the swings and the surrounding park, patiently waited her turn by the side while a group of younger boys swung by without a care in the world. Finally, it was her turn, and the camera in my hand thrilled her.

Carefully, with poise and grace, as though a million cameras and a large spotlight was upon her, she took to the swing and gently started swaying back and forth, always seemingly aware of the camera with which I snapped her photos. As the swing gathered speed, she lost her little inhibitions, and I could see her swinging more freely than before. Once, as the swing reached the fullest height, she threw back her head, her face upside-down, her hair hanging free, and laughed out loud at the timid young ones too reluctant to try such daring games, and as they laughed back at her, she turned and smiled at me. It was an infectious smile, and I found myself grinning back at her as well, while the young ones still whooped behind her.

Just outside of the school, there was a group of kids, all of school age, but in stark contrast with the ones running inside the courtyard in the sunlight, chasing each other. Yet, the children outside were learning new things on their own. As I walked by, I found them huddled around a bright red and yellow computer, eagerly looking into the screen. The installation was part of the hole-in-the-wall initiative; the concept being that even in unsupervised conditions, if the children have an opportunity to learn new things, they will pick it up. Seeing the group of children huddled around the computer figuring out how to use it, all on their own, I could see the hunger in their eyes to learn something new and exciting, even if it was outside the supervised classrooms just a few meters beyond. The children, although outside the structure of the school, had enough curiosity to teach themselves from whatever resources they had around them. We walked away from the school as more and more children gathered around the computer, often helping each other out when they got stuck with it somewhere.

In all the years that I've spent in Delhi, I've heard a lot of mention about the Baolis that dot the city. Still, I had only ever seen one, Argasen-ki-Baoli near Connaught Place. I knew about the existence of Nizamuddin's baoli, and had heard about the importance of the place from friends and friends of friends who visited the place earlier, but never did I get the chance to see it for myself. This time, though, we were headed off to see it.

We saw the well only from behind the closed gates, but we could see the importance that the place must have had in the area. Renovation efforts were most noticeable here, with the structure of the well being strengthened from the core. A group of young boys were bathing in the water, jumping from the surrounding structures into the water, while a recorded voice all around the area kept reminding all that water was sacred, and it is our duty to keep the well clean. The preservation of this particular baoli becomes even more important when I learned that it is perhaps the only one in the city which is still connected to an active water spring. For both the residents of the immediate area and for the heritage of the city, this is an important site that needs to be preserved and nurtured for years to come.

Before heading out of the area, there was one place that still needed to be seen - Mirza Ghalib's tomb, hidden away within the winding lanes of Nizamuddin.

Nested in the midst of residences, a small white marble structure marks the place where the legendary poet lay. Restored as part of the conservation effort, the marble tomb within a small courtyard is an intricate piece of sculpture. The courtyard also contains graves of Ghalib's family, and a few words from his poems etched in marble at one end. The tomb, right next to the Ghalib academy, is a wonderful testament to the simplistic beauty that the poet used in his own poems.

With the setting sun behind us, and wrapping up a day well spent at Nizamuddin, we walked out of the narrow lanes, and into the life that we know once more. Spending a few hours in the basti, it seemed as though the place and the people were both separated from the city that trudged on beyond the lanes by centuries - we could feel the history and culture of the area up close and personal, always present but always kept preserved and nurtured within those winding lanes.

As we walked out, the sizzling sound and wafting smells of the kababs and tikkas roasting on tandoors came our way, and we had to stop and sample a few. Sitting in one of the small hovel-turned-restaurants, as we savoured the sights, sounds and the smells of the market and the bustle of the business around us, we realised that in spite of being centuries away, Nizamuddin is always happy to see new faces come its way, and hear the stories that the place has told for ages - if only we stop, listen, and know that it's something worth caring for.

~

Conversations with the city

Every day, Delhi expands and shrinks. It took me a long time to get used to such a paradox and learn to enjoy it instead. There are parts of the city still frozen in time, while the rest of the city races past. She is a city that grows on you, the more time you spend with her. You can hear her whisper stories about the broken walls that dot her landscape.

Delhi always seems to surprise me by how much smaller she seems as the years pass. Like watching children grow up, you never realize before it's happened. Maybe it's us who grow up faster than her.

I spent an afternoon with a friend once, meandering the roads of Chawri Bazaar. She had introduced me to the hidden facets of the city a long time ago. Now, she had returned, and I wanted to show-off how much I had come to know Delhi during that time. So, we walked down the road from the metro station and headed right into the heart of the old city. As the road turned a corner, we caught glimpses of the past, both ours and the city's. Up ahead, we saw a familiar wall, but my friend asked, "What's that?

Her question took me by surprise. It was the Jama Masjid, where we spent many afternoons and evenings. We would visit the older city only to spend some time beneath the chhatris of the walls. We would climb the stairs of one of the minarets and look down at the busy streets. She looked from me to the mosque and back, and said, "Seems smaller than I remember it to be."

In all the years of visiting these same streets, I had failed to notice it. Maybe in those years, we grew up. While New Delhi had expanded, maybe the ancient Delhi had shrunk inwards. The metro stations, the new shops and the crowds seemed to spill onto the narrow lanes. The new Delhi grew.

I took the bus home that day. I wanted to look at the roads instead of zipping away through underground tunnels. I blessed the snarling traffic which allowed me to take in the sights. I savored the parts of the city that I had grown to cherish, but had forgot to remember in a while.

Catching the bus from the Red Fort, I passed the Lahori Gate. Leaving behind the Jama Masjid, the bus rolled to a stop at the Daryaganj crossing. I noticed the roadside chicken shop, one of our favorites from back in the day. Our pocket money only allowed us the luxury of cheap chicken from a roadside shack. But in those years, even that shack had grown into a restaurant. I doubt if the taste of the chicken has changed though; some things stay the same.

We went on, past the Dilli Gate, Feroz Shah Kotla and the remnants of the Shahjanabad wall. Dusk slipped in as we headed on towards the southern side of the city. We reached the Old Fort, the broken walls of an even older city lit with warm halogen lamps. A slight left along the old Mathura Road led us straight to the Subz Burj with its iconic blue dome. I got off here on impulse, wanting to taste the famous kababs and tikkas of Nizamuddin. This old settlement takes on a new life as the day slips by. With the smells of sizzling meat hanging heavy in the air, I know I am home.

Growing up in Delhi, history surrounds us since childhood. We grow so accustomed to it that we miss what's right in front of us. We pass our jaded eyes over the intricate architecture of Mehrauli. We tend to skip over the stories that lay dormant in the stone walls of Hauz Khas. But these are timeless tales buried beneath mighty walls. They have stood guard around the city for centuries. These are the vivid stories that make me love this city.

College life brought with it its own sense of freedom for us. Travelling long distances became second nature. It was just a matter of time before I started feeling at home anywhere in the city. I started venturing out into parts of the city that were hitherto unknown to me. Such was the allure that it took us little time to get acquainted. Sneaking out of classes, we would hop on to the new metro trains and be out exploring. 

We spent a significant part of our college days aboard the DTC city buses. The buses were the best option for cheap daily travel from one end of the city to another. For me, the buses also proved to be my window to the city that I knew little. Every day, I learnt more about Delhi and her people from the vantage point of the bus window. As time went by, the city took on a familiar look. Thanks to those big green buses rolling around, I always knew I was never too far from home.

Thus, many warm afternoons gave way to cool evenings. We spent hours chatting with friends amidst the imposing masonry of the Agrasen Baoli. The cheap Kulche-Chhole found all over the city became our staple food. We took siestas beneath the cool shades of the chhatris of Hauz Khas. We discussed art, history, sports and politics over cups of coffee. And almost always, coffee led us straight over to Coffee Home of Connaught Place.

Connaught Place sees the duality of progress and preservation as well. Perhaps the best example of this is the Agrasen Baoli. Tucked away amidst modern buildings of the capital's commercial center, it is well hidden. Yet, this juxtaposition makes the sheer depth of the step-well all the more fascinating. With every step down the well, the busy world that surrounds it seems to recede away. Even in the heart of the city, this ancient well proves that history is never too far in Delhi.

Step-wells such as the Agrasen Baoli used to be a popular feature in Delhi. They conserved water from run-off, providing easy access to fresh water across the city. Land slope and underground water channels were strategic indicators for their location. Agrasen Baoli functioned as a rain-water harvesting well. Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya's baoli is another familiar step-well in the city. Named in his memory, it taps into an active water spring that still feeds it today. Over the years, the passages leading to the underground springs choked. The well dried and was soon wiped from memory. In recent years, a massive clean-up exercise repaired those choked passages. Water from the active spring gushed in to reclaim the step-well. Today, the Baoli stands restored to its original glory, fitting for its impressive age.

Delhi is an aged city. She has been home to her people long before becoming an important urban center. She has seen the rise and fall of countless rulers, shared the ambitions of kings. Yet, through it all, Delhi continues to welcome us with open arms.

To understand Delhi, we must peel away the layers of history and see underneath. The most compelling site for ancient Delhi lies near the Kalkaji Temple. Historians uncovered an edict carved during the rule of Emperor Ashoka that dates back to the 3rd Century.

Near the Purana Quila excavation sites, village habitations are dated back to 300 BC. Archaeologists have found evidence of late-Harappan culture in some old villages of Delhi. These artifacts take us back to 1,000 BC. Folklore takes us even further back. According to the legend Mahabharat, Indraprastha stood on the banks of the Yamuna. The Pandavas laid the foundations of the ancient capital city around 3,500 BC.

These stories about Delhi aim to look at the history of this imposing city. They aim to look at these half-remembered tales, lost in the cracks of time. It brings to life the ancient story that still surrounds us. To read all Delhi Stories, click here.

~

The River

Part One: The First Look

A slight way off the road, in Rishikesh, a set of stairs ran down to a secluded Ghat, waiting for us like an old man waits for wanderers, hoping that they have a few moments to spare. We did have those few moments to spare, and so we stepped away from the planned route, and went down the ghat. She was there, at the bottom of those stairs; one look at her majestic charm, and I knew why people respected The Ganga, and loved her so.

As was customary at all ghats, a few steps separated us from the gushing river below. Each step I took, the river seemed to sigh back, as if nothing pleased her more than having me beside her – like old friends catching up after a long time.

My friends joined me; an old man sat and lit a beedi while observing us; my friends took about a zillion pictures of each other, of me, and of the river – but I was so mesmerized by the indefinable attraction the river held, that I failed to notice most of it.

The silt from the river had been deposited on the steps, and the places the river had visited were all marked out; like familiar footprints on wet sand.

Soon, it was time for us to leave for Harki Pauri, another ghat on the banks of the Ganges. I didn’t want to leave this new friend so soon, but as my old friend put it very rightly, the more time I spent there, the more I’d want to linger on.

With one final look at the river, we left, while the murmur of the river followed us. I wanted to return, and desperately cling on to a few more moments, and was looking for an excuse to run back. In a flash, I had the excuse. I wanted the name of the ghat we had visited, and since I didn’t remember it, I had to turn back.

Telling my friends to carry on (of course, with a bit of resistance from their side), I turned back and ran to the ghat. Down the steps, almost slipping, I dipped one hand quickly into the ice-cold water, and a smile escaped my lips.

In my haste, I had failed to notice the old man sitting there, still smoking his beedi. He was observing me, and had seen the smile on my face that reflected the strange calm spreading inside me. He took a long drag of the beedi, exhaled, and said, “Haan beta, ek ajeeb sa sukoon milta hai.”

P. S. The name of the ghat was Sri Vishwanath Ghat, and it had been inaugurated in August, 1947. I knew this all along.

Part Two: The Last Look

Harki Pauri is one of the most famous ghats of Haridwar. Thousands throng this place daily, and during the peak hour of the Aarti, it becomes almost impossible to see anything but human figures all around.

It was at Harki Pauri that I met the Holy Ganga again. I knew I was in love the moment I saw the river. Little green leaf-baskets, each of them decorated with rose petals, marigold petals, a single lotus, and one diya, floated downstream, gently rocking along rhythmically, dancing to the waves caused by the river’s flow.

One step down, two steps down, and the water welcomed my toes. I groped around in the murky water, and with my friend’s help, finally managed to go down two steps, and was knee-deep in the water.My feet were numb with cold, my jeans were soaked with the river, and I was standing in a strong current, and yet I knew I never wanted to get out.

Nightfall was coming, and we had to make our way back to the hotel. By this time, it seemed every one of us had somehow been infused with that intoxicating something this river held in great quantities. As one, we all sat down on the stairs leading down to the ghat, to catch the last few glimpses of the river before we left.

Finally, we got up to leave. The narrow lanes back to the bridge leading to the auto stand allowed a few flashes of the river I’d begun to adore. Between the buildings, through cracks in the walls, I could see her flowing beyond. A few final steps over the bridge, and we had reached the rickshaw stand. It really was time to say goodbye.

As the rickshaw slowly navigated the streets of Haridwar, the night life on the banks of Ganga greeted us from afar. Soon, however, these few sights were all behind us, and I had already begun to miss her.

We came across a bridge, a surprise the little town had sprung up for me. The river gushed on from below, and even over the hubbub of traffic, and the crinkle of the rickshaw chain, I could hear the river whispering three magical words to me. “Come back soon.”

I know I will.

Technorati Tags: Holiday,River,Ganga,Adventure,Friends,Non-Fiction,Photography

A Little Change…

It’s been quite a while since I’ve posted something here, and I could see just how much you guys have missed me in the meantime. Thanks to everyone who’s been following this blog. Although I don’t have any stories to put up out here, I still wanted to come by and tell you that I haven’t crawled under a rock somewhere and died… I’m still alive and kicking!

This post is a bit different… instead of a story, I’m putting up some random photos that I’ve taken a while back, of my favorite subject there is – Delhi. I hope you like the photos here. There will be some more shots coming out here, along with some short stories too… haven’t really decided that just yet. For the time being though, enjoy the pics.

  

Taken at Chandni Chowk. A man lighting his kerosene lamp to prepare for the oncoming night. Business as usual.

 
Coffee Home at Connaught Place, New Delhi


Two eagles in the backdrop of a cloudy day. It rained soon after this, much to the relief of Delhi. I wonder what the eagles thought, though…

One of the many, many hawkers on the streets of Chandni Chowk. So preoccupied was he with his evening cup of tea, that he didn’t even seem to notice me taking this picture of his.

Connect the Pigeon Dots? Oh well, it’s already been done by that wire up there… a little inside story about this particular photo, I got a nice little drop of “blessing” from my beautiful models right after taking this picture, much to the amusement of all my classmates! I think somewhere, there’s a picture of me posing with a little white blob on the my jacket sleeve as well…

More stories and/or photos to come in future. In the meantime, you can head over to my Flickr account to see

some more pics that I’ve taken. That page would be (hopefully) updated quite frequently too.

Cheers to all.

Technorati Tags: Appreciation,Non-Fiction,Photography,Delhi

A “Real” Blog Post

Maybe a Blog, in some ways, should reflect the kind of stuff that I'm thinking at the moment.

Maybe a Blog should, sometimes, be a little more about me, rather than made-up stuff. Things have changed manifold; I never thought three years ago was such a helluva long time.

This post was inspired by two things that happened almost simultaneously. First, I wanted to write a story (as always), and had the perfect idea for it too – but somehow I couldn't put the story in words. Frustrated, I went online, and that's when a friend suggested that I write something about myself for a change, and in her words, something for myself. On my part, I think it's quite a boring topic to be writing about – honestly, I'm quite a normal guy, living a very normal life.

Second, while online, I stumbled across the blog that I used to write on about three years back. I had completely forgotten the existence of that blog, but the sight of that page jogged a lot of memories. Hence, this post.

A little while back, I said something about a blog being composed of things more than what is made-up. There was a time when I used to write only the non-made-up things, which is something that I can't really relate to right now. I mean, forget writing things about myself in the blog; I don't think I've written anything but fiction in my diary also for a really long time now, more than three years to be precise. However, in the viewpoint of the 2006 me, "I don't want to write about people I make up, and about the problems these made up people face, day after day, in their own fictitious world…"

This is probably what our FHRM lecturer meant when she was talking about change. Tonight, I found out that change somehow does creep up quietly from behind you, and alters your world, so gradually, that you hardly notice that change sometimes.

One line still holds totally true from that old blog of mine.

I still want to be a writer.

***
Two links I'd like to post here, the first one being something my friend Isha wrote about Change. The other, for the ultra curious folks out there, my old blog on yahoo360. I don't visit that blog, nor do I operate that one, and I'd like to keep it that way. Any comments posted there would most probably not be replied to. There are some weird things about me after all.

Life’s Little Adventures

His tiny feet pattered on the freshly wiped floor. The door to the balcony was thrown open, and the sun shone at him. He laughed back at the sun in greeting, trying to catch the intangible sunlight in his tiny hands. Outside was a new, fresh world, created just for his entertainment. He couldn't wait to be a part of it.

Half walking and half crawling, he covered the last few feet to the balcony, through the big wooden doors. He was outside, taking in the wonderful first-floor air. It was a new perspective for him, where everything looked different from way above; the cat sitting lazily on the wall, soaking up the sun; the three big dogs next door that barked continuously; the children in the park running and screaming. He felt elated at his new freedom, to look at so many things at once. Once, he shouted back at the children, letting them know that he, too, was there.

Looking around, he spotted a little treasure trove. A collection of pebbles, decorated on a little tray, just for him. Glinting in the sunlight, they looked like grey candies that had to be tasted. With a big smile on his face, he started moving towards them. Black, Blue, Green, the pebbles smiled at him in all colors. He smiled back, extending a hand towards them to touch the cool stones glinting in the afternoon sunshine. He let his fingers take in the smoothness of the pebbles, the textures of them, before clasping one stone in each of his hands.

The pigeon cooed, startling him for a moment. He dropped the stones with a clatter to the floor, looking around for the source of this new sound. He spotted the pigeon, and was intrigued immediately. The pebbles lay forgotten on the floor, as he started moving forward towards the pigeon, one little baby step at a time. He stepped on one of the dropped pebbles, and that's when he noticed them again.

Picking up one of the small pebbles, he handed it to me and moved on, eager to stumble upon the next big adventure waiting for him in this fresh new world.

The First Flight

Poised at the edge of the balcony, in the backdrop of the inky sky lit up by the floodlights of a nearby factory, he waited. Like a little child waiting to blow out the candles, and leave the inky sky jet black; devoid of the amber light.

He paused for a moment, waiting. The right breeze, that would carry him on. That would carry him over the floodlights that looked like birthday cake candles.

He watched for a moment, spotting things untrained human eyes tend to miss out. The panorama being his guide, he readied himself.

He ruffled his feathers one last time. Moments before he took to the endless skies.

That night, he flew.

“A Crush on Delhi”

The title for this post comes not from my head. Coined by Kshitij Sharma (classmate, friend, fellow passionate-photographer), I do however share the feelings that simple line brings out. The city I grew up in, it's been my home for the last twenty years. I've seen this city breathe, live, and grow. One of the earliest memories I have about the city is the existence of the Double Decker buses of DTC. They were quickly replaced by the boring buses, and the longing to ride one of them remained but a longing. The city kept on growing though, and so did I.
It had been a long time since I had captured a moment of time within a little box… more than a year to be precise. Thus, when the opportunity presented itself, I did not hesitate (not even to bunk the Marketing Strategy class!) to get out of Greater Noida to come back to Delhi, the home housing my home. The one lesson I learnt that day was that City is full of surprises, some brand new while others ancient…
As always, when coming anywhere near Delhi, it was Connaught Place that beckoned us. Almost naturally, we drove down the roads that led us to the beating Heart of the city. However, the first surprise came in the form of a little detour near CP, that led us to a place called Bawli (correct that if I'm wrong there please) a water tank that was used during the Mughal era. Another interesting claim that I heard that day about that place was that it was a tunnel that led all the way to Agra. I don't know whether to believe that claim or not, but still it was quite an intriguing claim.
The most fascinating aspect of this monument was the sheer depth of the tank. Since there was no water there, we could see how far down the steps went, and from where we stood it was quite clear that the tank had been filled up. Another claim I heard there was that it was an 11 storey deep tank. This could be true, but the first question that jumped up in my head was the obvious… how did they build that tank? It goes without saying that a tank of that size would certainly not have been built first and filled up later, but the intricacies of the architecture certainly posed a difficult-to-answer question: how did they build the tank? Even the guard from the ASI did not have an answer to the question, but then again, that's quite okay. A few unsolved mysteries in life certainly spice up life itself.
I could have spent at least another few hours out there, but the main purpose of our visit to the beloved city was to go to Chandni Chowk. It was one place that has drawn me towards itself, like a moth to a flame, ever since the beginning of last year. I really cannot count the number of hours I've spent roaming around in the narrow pathways of Chandni Chowk, always finding myself at a new place, always presented by a new surprise in a different ancient looking shop. Interestingly, there was a door in Chandni Chowk that I had been looking for last year, but somehow I never managed to find it. Of course, last year I visited that place on my own, so almost every time I ended up getting mysteriously lost in the narrow winding lanes of the ever crowded market. This time however, by some sheer luck, I found that door. Nothing too elaborate, it was a plain old door… it was the memories attached to that door that I was chasing, and being presented suddenly and quite unprepared-ly by the one thing I was hunting for so long last year, it was a bit of a bittersweet moment for me. Just thought I'd mention that here, no real purpose of saying it as such…
The view down the lane towards Red Fort was as mesmerizing as always. The main road of Chandni Chowk, the hubbub of traffic all around us, the shopkeepers screaming their "dishcount rates", the constant flow of people, a crowd that has a life of its own, the food stalls on the footpath meant for people walking, the wafting smell of the delicious tikkis being fried on one of the largest frying pans, the old paanwaala who made the paans while I took a zillion photos of him… even that old man with the most magnificent white beard, who wouldn't let us photograph him… it all reminded me of a time that I miss a lot right now, a time when I wouldn't care about where my feet were taking me, as long as there was a camera in my hand, and the Life of Delhi to capture in its frame…

Hindsight-seeing

For a long time now, I've written things that are - for the search of a better word - made up. To make it sound better, I termed it all as fiction, but then again fiction is based on reality. The base for my stories however, were never the life that has been mine. Where they come from, that's another story though, belonging to a different time and place.

The purpose for writing this "collection of words" - again looking for a better term there - is something that I'm not really sure of. It's just that I was reading the old entries on the blog. The thirst to read those old entries was something someone said to me today, that jogged the memories back a few years. And, just like Music makes you relive the past vividly, the trip back to my past - in my head of course, there's no such thing as a Time Machine... yet - was the most vivid of all memories I've had in a while. It's true that out here, with college and a million things going on at the hostel, it's almost impossible to have those times. So all in all, I was really happy for that overdose of retrospect.

Yesterday was something of an eye opener for me, something of a weird eye opener actually. While I was lying down on the bed waiting for the IV medicines to kick in (that's intravenous meds... yes, I had to get a shot to stop the vomiting yesterday! Again, another very thrilling story, but won't really fit in here), it suddenly dawned on me how much of an overtime my guardian angel has to do all the time. I mean, of all the parties that I've been to, of all the times that I've been sloshed, I've never once thrown up as violently and continually, as the night before... and it was the one time that I had the good fortune to have 2 qualified doctors present in the party, and neither of them as badly drunk as I was!

But I'm not here to write about my drunken escapades. That would come later sometime... we'll see when. The memories make for a much interesting topic to write about, so I'll be sticking to that for the time being. Weird and unconnected memories, for example, of coming back home from the Maths Tuitions at 1 in the night, a cold December night in Delhi, on my bicycle. Stopping in front of the little hut of the colony guards, warming up in front of that fire they had before rushing back home, and to a warm and strong cup of Black Coffee... one of the most essential ingredients in staying up at night to study.

Fast forwarding to the time when I started writing the things that are there on this blog, brings me to the second year of college. The summer vacation during that time, also brought about the first real "job" that I did. I remember being psyched about going to "office" the first few days. Didn't take me all that long tp figure out that I was doing almost nothing compared to the actual work scene, but still it was one helluva experience.

Coming back home in the evening, going out in the evening with friends. A couple of espresso shots at the nearby Barista, a few hours of "literary" conversations; these are the ones that inspired me into writing those early, and stupid, poems that are present in the blog as well. I wonder what it was that made me write those weird and dark poems, and what the heck it was that made me publish the same poems... that too, oh so proudly!

Life somehow always ends up as one helluva ride, and whenever you look back at the times that were most trying, you always sit back and wonder... did I really go through all of that, or was it just my imagination? I guess that's what makes these overdoses of retrospect so much fun... in a sick, not at all fun way!!

Four Feathers...

Once upon a time, in the hustle bustle of a city, stood an ancient mosque. On a bright sunny morning, the tip of the dome of the mosque became the stage for a drama unfolding. The Dome became a battlefield between a pair of hawks and a pair of crows. Each was fighting the other to gain control for that position, and were ready to slaughter the other for the sake of victory... yet life for the humans below remained the same, the chaos of a busy marketplace, people walking about supremely unconcerned about the four birds fighting for their lives and their pride up in the freshly laundered blue sky...