ON the last day of the Delhi Durbar, a hundred years ago, the then monarch of the British empire, George V, announced that the capital city of his Indian colony would be shifted from Calcutta to Delhi. It would not be any of the earlier cities of Delhi but a brand new one to be built South of the Mughal capital. A small patch of land measuring no more than 42.7 square kilometres was chosen for this purpose. Designed by Edwin Lutyens and Herbert Baker, the city was built by Indian contractors and builders, notably Sobha Singh, father of the renowned writer, humorist and gossip, Khushwant Singh. This marvellous architectural hybrid was conceptualized to proclaim to the world the grandeur of the British empire. Sadly for the British, their tenancy in this brand new city turned out to be rather short. They could only rule the country from this new capital for twelve years.

The custodians of the Indian state have occupied it since. The President of India; the Prime Minister and his entire cabinet of ministers, secretaries, joint secretaries, directors, deputy secretaries, a vast assortment of under secretaries and clerks of various ranks and peons (now designated class four officers) and karamcharis. Like the executive, the top rung of the judiciary; the judges of the Supreme Court and the High Court are accommodated here along with the top brass of the three defence services with their staff and other minions. Members of both Houses of Parliament are also given homes here for the lengths of their tenure. It is not uncommon for some to hold on to these, as though by right, well after their terms are over – spacious bungalows with driveways, well-tended lawns and gardens with quarters for servitors tucked away at the back.

Others live in siamese-twin houses, row houses, and those parliamentarians who are either first timers or have not lobbied enough, are accommodated in apartments in high-rise towers specially built for them. The upper floors of these have by far the best panoramic views of Lutyens/Baker/Sobha Singh’s New Delhi. The stately Rashtrapati Bhavan, the majestic North and South Blocks, the many pillared rotunda of the Parliament building and the wide avenue, Rajpath that goes all the way to India Gate. From above the dense tree cover, these monumental tributes to the British Empire appear to blend easily with the older versions of Delhi. This first impression of this not-so-New-Delhi is perhaps the best one that I will carry of this city.

 

Other impressions follow soon enough. Here, status is defined by the category of home you have. The ruling deities have expansive and the best laid out homes, followed by mandarins of varying importance to distinguish them from the ones below them. The really important ones, uniquely designated VVIPs, have lal battis on the roofs of their cars. They are led by vehicles with sirens, and escorted by fully armed and smartly attired black cats wearing black bandannas as their headgear, forever eager and ready to use their weapons or their manual skills to karate chop anyone making a threatening move. If I were five years old, I am sure that is what I would have wanted to be when I grew up. The VVIPs travel speedily with their entourages on roads cleared of traffic for them. Shades of the last Nizam of Hyderabad when he travelled from his somewhat modest palace in the new city of Hyderabad to the old city across the river Musi to the historic Jami Masjid behind the Charminar, a mosque predating his dynasty. He followed this ritual twice a day every day in his stately Rolls Royce followed by several cars of lesser make with curtained windows carrying some of his queens.

I have a childhood memory of standing on the pavement clutching a servant’s shirt sleeve as the advance guard went by shooing the populace off the road onto the pavements, ordering everyone to lower their eyes and keep them planted firmly on the ground lest vulgar eye contact sully his burqa-clad begums who, in any case, were shielded by the curtained windows. I suspect that their keenness to look out at the world beyond was far greater than our curiosity to see them. The bazaar gossip was that none of them was particularly worth looking at. The Nizam’s ravishingly beautiful Ottoman daughters-in-law offered prayers at their private mosques.

The heart of the capital city of India has adapted itself well to the colonially modified feudal heritage of our country. Power and privilege is held in the highest esteem here unlike a few kilometres beyond where wealth and its display rules over all else. This little patch of land has been my temporary home for a few months annually, for the past five and half years – a green oasis in the middle of the generally parched and dusty plains of northern India. It is a rare place right in the middle of so much history of our land; the latest of the seven capitals of India which lie underneath and around it. All this accumulated history makes little impression on most permanent residents. Neither the compound walls enclosing the bungalows of the presently powerful nor the ancient walls of Purana Qila escape use as men’s ‘conveniences’. I have always wondered why town planners are so oblivious to this common need. Like everywhere else in India, public urinals are hard to find.

 

Most people I meet everyday are temporary occupants like me. They are in transit and do not belong here. And like me, go away to their home towns every weekend. Occasionally, I meet those who have the good fortune to have permanent homes in Lutyen’s Delhi. These appear to be inherited from the time the city was built. Among those are good friends Mala and Tejbir. You can never tell which person of eminence you are likely to meet at their home, a veritable salon. Most other friends and acquaintances live outside the perimeters of this hallowed space – God’s little acre.

Unlike every other city in India, including the earlier incarnations and the recent additions, the seat of the Government of India does not hide its architecture behind large hoardings and posters with mugshots of unappetizing political entities who perpetually wish each other happy birthday or greet all and sundry on every conceivable festival, of which we have at least one every week. The result – a cancerous growth of billboards large and small, pasted, hung or otherwise positioned to hide the facades of buildings with large, rogues gallery type of portraits of well-known and wannabe politicians perpetually staring at you. Lutyen’s Delhi has escaped this blight for the time being. National headquarters of political parties, however, show that such an invasion may yet be on the cards.

 

Familiarity makes for a certain kind of fondness. I love the leafy avenues of New Delhi and enjoy travelling on some roads more than others, most named after great kings and other more recent personages from the history of Hindustan. A few roads simply describe their location. One such is Sunehri Bagh Lane which has now been properly restored after the metro line had uprooted it for a while. And the charming South End Road, now inexplicably named Rajesh Pilot Marg.

Then come the places one regularly gravitates to as creatures of habit usually do. These are the addas. My favourite one is the bar at India International Centre, where I can be sure of meeting someone or the other whose company makes for congeniality and conversation. From desultory chitchat to serious discussions, the IIC bar is for me the equivalent of the Coffee House near Presidency College in Kolkata or what Samovar was in South Mumbai a while ago, or the college canteen of one’s adolescence. The daily morning walks at Lodhi Gardens where you see familiar faces, known and unknown, morning after early morning is a rare pleasure with no equivalent in Mumbai. Although there are large bookshop chains in Mumbai with vast numbers of books, none can match Shanbag’s Strand Book Stall. Like Shanbag’s, there are two such not far from either Lodi Gardens or the IIC – Bahri and Sons at Khan Market and The Bookshop at Jor Bagh. What would I do without them.

Ultimately the pleasures of any place have to do with the company of friends you make and have. Since I am never more than a visitor to Delhi, there can be no comparison between the city of Mumbai which is my home and Lutyen’s Delhi. The differences are obvious. It has to do with the kind of gossip that buzzes around your ears. Delhi is full of politics and political personalities yet has space for intellectual debates and pursuits, social causes, societal concerns and a whole heap of pretensions. It also has more music festivals, art exhibitions, film screenings and weighty seminars through the year. Mumbai on the other hand has a far more frenetic lifestyle. Its political parties are forever trying to dismantle its cosmopolitan character. Although it appears to be a constant threat, I cannot see it succeeding. The aspirational models for young people in Mumbai more than anywhere else are the superstars of the Indian film industry or the present idols of cricket.

As you can see, impressions of Lutyen’s Delhi are clearly shallow and my views quite banal. Its greatest virtue is that by presiding over a diversity so vast and immense, it effectively rids the narrow chauvinisms that plague the rest of our country.