‘Can you tell me the name of the tree under which we are sitting?’ I asked her because I was still uncertain of its identity.
‘Toon.’
‘And that big one facing us?’ I saw a lot of langurs on it eating its leaves.
She took one glance and replied, ‘Himachalis call it Khirik. My husband will give you its Latin name. I have picked up information about trees because I often go out with him on tours into the hinterland.’
‘Where else have you been?’
‘Just about everywhere,’ she replied and fished out a book from her handbag. ‘I did this in Australia. It was written under the guidance of David Parker, professor of English at the Australian National University, Canberra.’
Rajni Walia has written the book Women and Self: Fiction of Jean Rhys, Barbara Pym & Anita Brookner. I had not read anything by these ladies; nor, I suspect, have many Indians. The one thing that they share (according to Rajni) is their disappointment in love and marriage: something most women in love, married or single, experience in their lives.
Rajni has an MA, an MPhil and a PhD from Punjab University, and is a first class first throughout. She is currently writing about contemporary Indo-American women’s fiction. Appearances are deceptive. This lady, whom I took as a light-weight because of the care she had taken in decking up, is quite a scholar. Long after she left, the fragrance of the perfume she wore lingered in the pine-scented air of my little garden.
For reasons unknown to me, many of the younger generation look upon me as a man-eating ogre, a cannibal sardarji. They come to see me in droves but keep at a safe distance as they do when seeing a tiger in a zoo. It takes me quite a while to convince them that I will not bite them and am as harmless as a teddy bear. Then they relax and say what they want to in rapid machine gun fire speed till they have run out of breath. One such couple who paid me a visit in Kasauli will stay in my mind a long time.
I was sitting in the garden under the shade of the massive toon tree, reading the morning papers. I heard the sound of footsteps at some distance from me. I looked up. It was a couple, a strapping young sardar in his fifties and a buxom, cuddlesome lass in her thirties. ‘Can we disturb you for a moment?’ asked the man. ‘Come,’ I replied, ‘I am only whiling away my time doing a crossword puzzle.’ They approached me gingerly, took their seats and introduced themselves: ‘I am Major Joginder Singh Aulakh, the security officer of Punjabi University, Patiala,’ said he. ‘And I am his wife, Ravinder Pal Kaur Bajwa,’ she said. Then began a rapid fire of questions from him interspersed with him taking my snapshots with a camera. All I was able to gather in the interludes allowed to me was that the Major had fought in two wars against Pakistan and was proud of his record. He had also taken part in Operation Bluestar under the command of Generals Sunderji and Brar, was witness to the destruction of the Akal Takht and had seen the bodies of Bhindranwale and General Shabeg Singh. He did not want to talk or even think about it. The episode had left deep scars on his psyche. He was an unhappy widower till he ran into Ravi Bajwa, equally unhappy because of her broken marriage and her two children in the custody of their father. They had a whirlwind romance: met one day, and got married the next, ignoring the twenty years’ difference in their ages. They looked happy. I asked them to join me for a drink the next evening before they returned to Patiala.
They were much more relaxed the next day. Though the question-and-answer session was resumed, it was not as hectic as the day before. Ravi gave me a shawl to put over my knees and proceeded to scribble something on a greeting card her husband had given me. After they left, I read what she had written in Gurmukhi: a poem entitled ‘China Dupatta’ (white headcover). A rough translation would read as follows:
I am not a widow
Nor living in matrimonial bliss;
Nevertheless I drape myself in spotless white
White is a combination of many colours in display
White also combines other colours
As well as colours that lead one astray,
White is like milk
White the colour of purity
Bright as sunshine
And quiet as silence.
(Many things colourful white can hide)
I wear white because now I am a bride.
A welcome addition to Kasauli’s landscape are refugees from Tibet. There are only about a dozen families who have opened up small kiosks made of gunny sacks, tarpaulin and wooden planks along the most frequented stretch of road extending from Jakki Mull’s building housing the main provision store, run by Guptaji, a tailor and photographer, to Kalyan Hotel with its statue of a black cocker spaniel and a liquor vend.
They sell woollen goods like sweaters, scarves and gloves. Tibetan refugees, wherever they are, manage to live amicably with the locals. They are courteous, ever-smiling and law-abiding. In the very short season extending from April till the end of October, they manage to sell enough to make both ends meet. Then they go down to the industrial township of Parvanoo for the winter. The cantonment executive board used to charge them Rs 10 per month per stall. The rental rates were raised to Rs 70 per month. They paid that as well as other taxes.
The board allowed vegetable and fruit sellers to set up stalls as well. The board has now served them notices to shut shop so that it can build permanent shops. There is nothing wrong with that provided those hapless victims of persecution are assured that they will get the first option to resume their trade where they were and the kiosks not auctioned to the highest bidders.
There is a lot of pressure from local shopkeepers who have a lot more money to take over the site. This would be unethical and unfair. The Tibetan refugees are our guests till as long as they can return to their homeland. And Kasauli will not be the same without their winsome smiles.
As often in the past, on most days that I was in Kasauli, it rained intermittently every day and night. But the morning I left, the sky was an azure blue and the hills looked rain-washed and bright green. I had to wear my sweater, dressing gown and a shawl against the cold. Half an hour down the hill, it became warm enough to shed the woollen garments.
An hour later we were caught in traffic jams at Parvanoo, Kalka and Pinjore. For many years I have been hearing of plans to build a bypass which would skirt around these growing towns but so far even blueprints have not been prepared. The chief ministers of the states concerned are taken up with more important matters like staying in power. By the time I got off at the Kalka railway station, I was sweating and trying to cool off under the hot breeze churned downwards by ceiling fans.
I had an uneasy feeling that I was being given a final farewell. In Kasauli, munshi Mohan Lal, our local millionaire who comes to me at least once every few weeks for my kadam bosi (feet kissing), came twice—the second time to invite me to a reception for his son-in-law who had been elevated to the rank of a brigadier in Lucknow.
At Kalka station there was quite a turn out of celebrities to shake hands with me: A.S. Deepak, Poonam (the editor of Preet Lari) and her husband, Gaur, and the pretty Nagina. Cold drinks were served all around.
I was escorted to my seat on the Shatabdi Express where Kaushik, conductor-cum-man of letters, took charge of me. They may have wanted to bid me a final farewell, but I had no intention of allowing them to do so. Come next spring, I will be back in the Shivaliks.
The Romance of New Delhi
Once upon a time there was a boy who dreamed of great buildings. He made friends with a blind man whose ambition in life was to design a church. One evening the blind man told his young friend of his concept of the perfect cathedral. The boy got out his sketch-book and began to draw according to the specifications dictated by the blind man. The blind man’s wife came in while this was going on. She put her finger to her forehead to indicate that her husband had a screw loose and should not be taken seriously. Then she went over to the boy. She was amazed to see the sketch of a magnificent cathedral.
We do not know who the blind man was, but the you
ng boy who drew the picture of the cathedral from dictation rose to be the greatest architect of his time, Edwin Landseer Lutyens, the builder of New Delhi.
Lutyens was forty-two when he was called upon to design the city. His wife, Lady Emily, was the daughter of Lord Lytton. This aristocratic connection had in no small measure helped Lutyens in his professional career. It also helped him in securing the assignment of building New Delhi. But above all it was the man’s innate genius and confidence that he was the master of his destiny that paved the way to success. On a casket that he had designed as an engagement present for his fiancée, he had inscribed his motto: ‘As faith wills, fate fulfils.’
On 12 December 1911, King George and Queen Mary laid the foundation stones of the new capital on a hurriedly chosen site north of the old city of Shahjahanabad.
There was an outcry against the project. European business houses established in Calcutta were vociferous in their protests. Lord Curzon decried it as wasteful expenditure; so later did Mahatma Gandhi when he came to India. Age-old superstition about Delhi being ‘the graveyard of dynasties’ was revived. Didn’t seven cities lie in ruins about Shahjahanabad? The Viceroy, Lord Hardinge, was strong enough to brush aside these objections. A committee under the chairmanship of Captain Swinton of the London County Council was appointed to examine the site and the Royal Institute of British Architects was asked to suggest names of architects: to design the city.
The Royal Institute recommended Edwin Lutyens. The government not only accepted the nomination but also Lutyens’s own recommendation of a colleague—Herbert Baker, a man he had befriended in his student days and who had also designed buildings in South Africa.
In the summer of 1912 Lutyens arrived in India with the Swinton Committee. The committee was unanimous in condemning the site selected earlier and in recommending another south of Delhi with its centre on a low-lying rocky escarpment known as Raisina Hill. There was plenty of barren land available at low cost. There was also the ridge to give the main buildings necessary elevation and provide building material. Lord Hardinge agreed with the suggestion. One night under the cover of darkness, the two foundation stones so solemnly laid by Their Majesties amid the pomp and splendour of princely India were uprooted and conveyed by bullock cart ten miles south to be planted in the wilderness of cactus, acacia and camelthorn.
Lord Hardinge was strongly of the opinion that the chief buildings—the viceregal lodge, the secretariats and the Parliament—should be in the traditional Indian style. He was reinforced in his opinion by the King who had been deeply impressed by Mughal architecture. Both Lutyens and Baker were taken round to see India’s famous buildings—the Buddhist stupas of Sarnath and Sanchi, the temples in South India, the Taj Mahal at Agra, the palaces of Bikaner and Mandu. Lutyens was fascinated by some of the buildings he saw but totally rejected Indian style. ‘Personally I do not believe there is any real Indian architecture or any great tradition,’ he wrote. ‘These are just spurts by various mushroom dynasties.’ His colleague agreed that despite its charm Indian architecture did not have ‘the constructive and geometric qualities necessary to embody the idea of law and order which has been produced out of chaos by British administration’. However, in the rough sketches they made concessions to their patron’s views by adapting some features of old Indian buildings, e.g., the sun-breaker (chajja), the latticed window (jali), the umbrella dome (chattri). In Baker’s words, the blueprints had ‘the eternal beauty of classical architecture with appropriate features of Indian architecture grafted on it’. It was left to Lutyens to get the Viceroy and the King to agree. Lutyens was gifted with a honeyed tongue and had no difficulty in winning over Lady Hardinge to his point of view. The Vicereine persuaded the Viceroy who readily approved of the first sketches. Lutyens and Baker worked them out in greater detail on their voyage back to England. Lutyens presented them to the King at a dinner at Buckingham Palace and had no difficulty in getting royal approval.
Lutyens and Baker divided their work evenly. Lutyens took over the plan of the general outlay of the city with two big buildings, the viceregal palace and the war memorial arch. Baker designed the two secretariats and the Parliament. There were other public buildings and bungalows for officers, clerks’ quarters etc., which were also equally shared. Assisting them was a string of talented juniors—Greaves, Shoosmith, Walter George and Medd. The execution of the plans was entrusted to the Public Works Department (PWD) then under Sir Hugh Keeling, the chief engineer. Keeling was also assisted by men who rose to become chief engineers—Sir Alexander Rouse and later Sir Teja Singh Malik1 who became the first Indian incumbent of the post.
The going was not easy. Lord Hardinge’s initial enthusiasm waned as Lutyens’ estimates for the projected city mounted. Then Hardinge soured of India altogether. Terrorists tried to murder him—and almost succeeded. He became peevish and began to find fault with everything, particularly the magnitude of Lutyens’s plans. Lutyens hit back. ‘The Viceroy thinks only of what the place will be like in three years’ time—300 is what I think of.’ Lutyens turned his courtly charm on the Vicereine. For some time Lady Hardinge became the chief patroness of the nebulous city. Once when she pulled up Lutyens for wilfully disobeying her instructions, he promised to make amends by washing her feet with his tears and drying them with his hair . . . ‘It is true I have very little hair,’ he added, ‘but then you have such very little feet.’ He was readily forgiven.
Lady Hardinge’s patronage did not last long. Her son was wounded at Flanders. The over-anxious mother lost her health and died before her son succumbed to his injuries. Preoccupation with the war and the absence of viceregal enthusiasm put the plans for the building of New Delhi in cold storage. Only Lutyens and Baker continued to dream of the city they would raise on Raisina Hill. Herbert Baker records how one evening he and two of his friends stood on the ridge looking down ‘the deserted cities of dreary and disconsolate tombs’ and wondering how the new city would rise. The sky was overcast and it rained intermittently. Suddenly, the clouds lifted and the sun broke through. ‘A brilliant rainbow formed a perfect arch on what was destined to be a great vista, where Lutyens’s memorial arch now stands. We acclaimed it as a good omen.’
As soon as blueprints for New Delhi were ready, trouble began—and they came in the proverbial battalions. Lutyens, and Baker fell out. The main dispute was on the question of the level of the viceregal palace vis-a-vis the secretariats. Lutyens wanted the ruler of the country to be housed at a higher level than his civil servants. Baker wanted the acropolis—as the secretariats and the palace buildings had come to be known—to be on the same level to conform to the prevailing notions of democracy. Baker won, Lutyens next desired the road between the secretariats to be at a sharp gradient so that the viceregal palace was distinctly visible from a distance. Baker disagreed. And Baker won again. Lutyens became peevish and fought the ‘battle of the gradient’ to the bitter end. The two architects were not on speaking terms for many years.
The supply of raw material presented another problem. The architects had planned to quarry the ridge to make an amphitheatre and use the stone so dug up for other buildings. The quartzite on the ridge was found unsuitable; the plan to build open air amphitheatre was abandoned. It was decided to quarry Vindhyan stone used by the Mughals: white and buff stone from Dholpur; red from Bharatpur; marble from Makrana, Alwar, Jaisalmer, Baroda and Ajmer. To get Badarpur sand and rubble, a fifteen-mile light railway (Imperial Delhi Railway) with five miles of siding was made. Transportation costs upset all estimates. Lutyens’s rough guess of ten million came closest to the mark. But even Lutyens did not expect that instead of four to five years, New Delhi would take almost sixteen to look like a city.
Lutyens’s puckish sense of humour sustained his enthusiasm in those trying times. Once the Duke of Connaught asked him why he had hung bells from tops of columns, Lutyens replied, ‘Did you never hear, Sir, of the Mogul superstition that the ringing of bells proclaimed the end of a dynasty
? That is why my bells are made of stone.’ Another time at a press conference a journalist asked him, ‘What is the place of women in architecture?’ Lutyens replied, ‘As the wives of architects.’
Slowly a new city began to rise on the escarpment. By 1922 most of the stone had been delivered on the site. The stone yard at New Delhi was the biggest in the world; 3,500 stone masons worked in its sheds. Brick-kilns went up in the suburbs. The quantity of brick consumed was astronomical—700 million. Lutyens took interest in every detail. The most important was the planting of trees. W.R. Mustoe of the horticultural department established a nursery with 500 varieties of trees at Safdarjung. Most of them were indigenous; some imported from Australia or East Africa. As soon as the roads had been marked, trees were planted. They began to rise with the public buildings and bungalows. Lutyens chose wood for viceregal furnishings and instructed cabinet makers. Likewise carpets, pictures and murals were made under his instructions. And all this was done with the cooperation of a succession of viceroys and civil servants.
The last day of the year 1929 was set as the target date for the completion of the three major buildings on the acropolis and the India Gate (bearing names of 13,516 of the 70,000 Indians killed in the great war). For many months, work went on round the clock.
The formal inauguration of New Delhi took place in January 1931. The kind of tragedy that had soured Hardinge against India was repeated. An attempt was made by terrorists to blow up the train in which Lord Irwin was coming to New Delhi. Fortunately, the Viceroy was unhurt and unshaken. He went through the inaugural ceremonies with British sangfroid. Lutyens records his entry into the viceregal palace: ‘The ceremony proceeded. Then H.E. went up the stairway to the great portico, where I and others were presented to him. At a given signal the doors were opened (there was no key, as there was no lock). They went into the House, and for the first time in 17 years the house was closed on me.’
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 26
