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| CULTURE & SOCIETY |
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NOSTALGIA |
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Encountering Delhi - Anecdotes of a rainy Delhi day
A new weekly column steeped in Nostalgia for the past, perspectives on the present and hopes for the future
Seeme Qasim
New Delhi
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Illustration: Sanjoy Naorem |
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EVERYTHING IS burning right now. The moment you step out the heat engulfs you with a personality of its own — sinks into your pores as you come down staircases, walk outside or sit in a car before the scalding steering wheel. Even going to the nearby market becomes a feat — dug up pavements with thick pipes glinting near sand mounds where street dogs loll. You look up at a relentless shimmering sky and the dust flies into your eyes. A friend says, “It’s become very oppressive with the feeling of the city closing in.” I listen, sipping nimbu-pani spiked with sugar, salt and ice, thinking of flyovers where vast spaces stretch below, with panoramic views of trees-tops and buildings merging into the horizon. For a few seconds the green refreshes and then the scene shifts to what was before.
I can imagine the damp feeling, when the first drops of rain hit the pavement and the heat rises, leaving behind the heady fragrance of wet earth. After a sudden cloudburst, the city for a few hours will meander through flooded streets and stalled cars — people wiping streaming faces, wet clothes and umbrellas. In a matter of minutes, an atmosphere thick with traffic jams and confusion as the metropolis tries to maneuver its way past inundated roads strewn with branches and twigs.
A local newspaper has a picture of one of the pontoon bridges over the Yamuna closing for the monsoon and a report about desilting 1,200 km of drains in Delhi to avoid clogging when the rain comes at the end of the month. However, in spite of various yearly plans, there is a brutal side too — when the rising water levels of the Yamuna become so dangerous that it renders homeless those who eke out a living on its banks. Authorities evacuate large numbers from jhuggis, providing some with temporary shelter till the situation improves. Others somehow survive despite their displacement, eventually going back to their old lives by the river.
I fear the onset of debilitating mosquito-borne diseases like dengue and chikungunya that take a toll every monsoon, in spite of efforts to spray and eliminate stagnant pools and other unhygienic places where they breed. More sustained work is required on a regular footing before the situation turns serious.
In Delhi, things often come to a standstill during the rains. But I remember a wet evening when I browsed for bangles near Hanuman Mandir as things continued robustly. I see the devout at the complex near sadhus with matted locks, beckoning mehendiwalis and beggars lining up for alms while a board proclaims, ‘Forehead reader’.
A mehendiwali shows me a design from her thick book, urging me as the drizzle starts again, to get it copied onto my palms. Ahmed, who displays his bangles to me, says, “Muslims have been running several bangle establishments near the temple for generations. In fact, sales are very brisk during the Karva Chauth period.” As he speaks, the sound of the evening aarti bells mingles with the azaan from the nearby masjid.
There’s plenty of romance associated with this season, especially in art and culture. Raag Malhar with its yearning for rain often merges the spiritual and the adored. Indian films are replete with rain songs and dances that invoke the gods to send showers often to barren landscapes. Folk songs too across every state have a similar imagery to usher in lushness and good crops.
It makes me remember a stormy evening at Bhuli Bhatiyari ka Mahal, an old shikargarh, constructed by Firoz Shah Tughlaq in 1354. Driving up a small hill near Panchkuin Road, the place was lonely with tall unkempt grass all around. It was eerie too in its silence, its desolate air heightened by the approaching grey clouds streaked with flashes of lightning and the crash of thunder. The downpour drenched me as I watched it slice across the ancient stones and straggly undergrowth, giving the impression that unsettling things could abruptly happen here.
During a similar raging storm some years ago, as I waited in an office to keep an appointment, a strong gale accompanied by heavy rain was raging. Outside the bay windows things were a mass of shaking green which gradually subsided. When I reached home, taking short-cuts to avoid flooded streets, I discovered that the old withered mango tree over which the lush magenta bougainvillea had crept up over the years, making a unique magical decoration, had fallen down, narrowly missing the parked cars.
It sprawled on the lawn on scattered magenta petals while insects and ants crept up its gnarled bark, near a deep empty space. But life went on despite the sadness. Arrangements were made to cut the tree and remove the remnants from the garden. Some boys from across the road arrived with saws and cut it into neat piles. Subsequently, in its place a small tree was planted, which grew rapidly, sprouting white flowers. And cuttings from it led to other trees.
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