Lutyens was also present at the first official banquet given by the Viceroy. He believed this was to be his last visit to the place. He later confessed to a friend,’I had not the nerve to say good-bye to Irwin. I just walked out, and I kissed the wall of the House.’
This was however not Lutyens’s last visit. He was consulted many times for inscriptions that should go on some of the monuments. Could Lutyens suggest what should be inscribed on the Jaipur Column? asked Lord Irwin. This was too good an opportunity for Lutyens to miss. ‘No dogs must be allowed on the ramp,’ he wrote back. While the Viceroy was still digesting the quip, Lutyens forwarded a more serious suggestion:
Endow your thought with faith
Your deed with courage
Your life with sacrifice
So all men may know
The greatness of India.
Lord Irwin distilled from this the conciser version used:
In thought faith; in word wisdom
In deed courage; in life service
So may India he great.
The inscription on the thrones was suggested by the talented painter-wife of the engineer, Shoosmith. It was taken from Proverbs: ‘Wisdom resteth in the heart of him that hath understanding.’
Lutyens’s last visit to the city he had designed was in the autumn of October 1938. Lord Linlithgow invited him to repair the damage done by the wilful Lady Willingdon: she had the furniture and fittings of the palace changed to her favourite colour, mauve, and she had many of Mustoe’s trees in the Mughal gardens uprooted and replaced by rows of cypress. Lutyens was very upset and did the best he could to restore the old design. But he could do nothing to the stadium built in Willingdon’s regime. The stadium blocked Purana Qila from the view.
Much has been said and written on the architecture of New Delhi. Most of the criticism has been levelled against Baker’s buildings. Lutyens’s work has been universally acclaimed. And of Lutyens’s buildings, the Rashtrapati Bhavan of today is a veritable masterpiece. Captain Swinton, who had first seen the barren escarpment and then the completed building exulted, ‘There has now risen before us in all its majesty, the Viceroy’s House—one looks, one accepts, one marvels.’
As one mounts up the central vista between the two secretariats the first thing that catches the visitor’s eye are slabs of yellow sandstone fixed in alcoves bearing the names of the architects, engineers and builders of the acropolis. On the builders’ tablet five names are listed in the following order: Sobha Singh,2 Dharam Singh Sethi, Basakha Singh, Seth Haroon, Nawab Ali. Some of the other major buildings of New Delhi also have names of the men who conceived them and contracted to build them placed on tablets. There is, however, no record of the 30,000 workers who came from all parts of northern India to hew rock, mix mortar and carry brick and cement to its ultimate destination.
The largest group of unskilled workers came from Rajasthan. It was the Bagris as they were known who more than any others built New Delhi. They were paid at the rate of eight annas for the man and six for the woman per day. (Wheat sold at four rupees for a maund.) They lived in coolie camps where drinking water was supplied, latrines provided and medical attention given free of charge. Throughout the decade-and-a-half of building operations, there was never a labour strike. The other group of unskilled workers were the Bandhanis from the Punjab. They hauled loads too heavy for the frailer Rajasthani. There were also a variety of skilled craftsmen in marble and stone. The sangtarash (stonecutters) came from Agra, Mirzapur and Bharatpur and were largely descendants of people who had built the monuments for the Mughals. Slabs of stone, gravel and sand were transported by the Imperial Delhi Railway from Bada Badarpur near Tughlakabad right into what is today Vijay Chowk. Where the All India Radio (AIR) is today were a series of enormous corrugated iron sheds where electrically propelled saws cut stone into proper dimensions. For many years the citizens of New Delhi were awakened by the deafening roar of the ara-masheen. The artistic designs on stone were executed under the direction of a Scottish master mason, Cairns.
The fortunes of the families who took on the contracts for building would provide a writer rich material for a novel. With rare exceptions these pioneer builders were men of little or no education, no experience of building and of modest means. By the time New Delhi was half-built, they had taught themselves a brand of pidgin English, learnt the tricks of the building trade and due to the sudden boost in value of land become millionaires. One expression of this windfall were palatial mansions of stone and marble; another was indulgence towards their progeny. Many scions of these nouveau riche families remained as unlettered as their sires. But they were infinitely better dressed and owned the latest models of cars. And while their fathers sweated out their guts on Raisina Hill, they patronized the muses of song and dance in the red-light area of Chawri Bazar.
The first to arrive on the scene were the Sindhis, Rai Bahadur Fateh Chand of Sukkar built the Old Secretariat near Metcalfe House. He was not able to participate in the building of New Delhi, but another Sindhi, Khan Bahadur Seth Haroon, shared in the building of Rashtrapati Bhavan. A third Sindhi, Lachman Das, took a lion’s share in the building of Parliament House. He became legendary for his honesty. He did not use cheap material, he was punctilious in the payment of his labour. He did not even cheat on income tax. It was the tax which finally broke him. Lachman Das retired to Hardwar where he died in the saffron robes of a sadhu.
The Punjabis wrested the initiative from the Sindhis. The first in the field was Narain Singh, a peasant from Sangrur (Jind). He was responsible for the arrangements for the Royal Durbar. Most of the roads and officers’ bungalows were built by him. He also prepared the foundations of Rashtrapati Bhavan. He was made a Rai Bahadur. Of his many sons, the most successful is Ranjit Singh who not only multiplied the family fortunes by adding sugar to his building interests but also acquired real estate (including the Imperial Hotel) and became a member of Parliament. Dharam Singh Sethi, at one time a canal overseer and then a minor partner in the building firm of Ram Singh Kabuli and Co., rose to be one of the wealthiest builders of his time. He had virtual monopoly of the supply of stone and marble. Dharam Singh lived in a palatial house on Jantar Mantar Road which is now the office of the All India Congress Committee (AICC). He left most of his millions to the Guru Nanak Vidya Bhandar Trust which to this day maintains innumerable schools and gurdwaras. Dharam Singh died of cancer in distant Vienna. Basakha Singh of village Mucchal (district Amritsar) also started as an overseer. He built the entire North Block of the secretariat and many officers’ bungalows. Besides these men there were two Punjabi Muslims, Khan Bahadur Akbar Ali of Jhelum who built the National Archives, and Nawab Ali of Rohtak who had a big share in the laying out of the Mughal Gardens.
Without question the first place in the list of New Delhi’s many building contractors belongs to Sujan Singh (of Sujan Singh Park) and his illustrious son, Sobha Singh (whose younger brother Ujjal Singh later became Governor of the Punjab and then Madras). The family was by comparison with other contractors rich and experienced. Besides owning land in Shahpur district, they had extensive camel transportation business in western Punjab. They had built some of Punjab’s railways and laid most of the Kalka-Simla line. The family came to Delhi before the First World War. After a few insignificant ventures in cotton and textile they went in for building in a big way. The lion’s share of the building of New Delhi was taken by Sobha Singh. Amongst the many buildings that are his handiwork are the South Block, the Court of Rashtrapati Bhavan, Vijay Chowk, India Gate, Baroda House, All India Radio, the National Museum and innumerable bungalows, chummeries and clerks’ quarters. Sobha Singh shared with Lutyens and Baker a vision of the shape of things to come. When Raisina was a jungle of barren rock and kikar trees he bought large tracts of land at open auction. Some plots in what is now Karol Bagh were acquired at two annas a square yard. The highest he paid was two rupees per square yard for land in today’s Connaught Circus. Like his other colleagues, Sobha Singh
taught himself English, became president of the New Delhi Municipal Committee and member of the Council of States. He was later knighted by the British Government.
The building contractors of New Delhi were a close-knit fraternity. Despite the differences of religion, language and background there was much coming and going between them. Very seldom did they quarrel—profits made quarrels unnecessary. When they first came to Raisina they lived in a row of shacks along what is now Old Mill Road (it was Herbert Baker’s modesty which saved it from being named Baker Street). En bloc they moved to more expansive houses on Jantar Mantar Road where they spent the next two decades. As the city grew, they dispersed to different parts of the town. And one after the other, they were gathered to their forefathers.
On Happiness
I’ve lived a reasonably contented life. I’ve often thought about what it is that makes people happy—what one has to do in order to achieve happiness.
First and foremost is good health. If you do not enjoy good health, you can never be happy. Any ailment, however trivial, will deduct something from your happiness.
Second, a healthy bank balance. It need not run into crores, but it should be enough to provide for comforts, and there should be something to spare for recreation—eating out, going to the movies, travel and holidays in the hills or by the sea. Shortage of money can be demoralizing. Living on credit or borrowing is demeaning and lowers one in one’s own eyes.
Third, your own home. Rented places can never give you the comfort or security of a home that is yours for keeps. If it has garden space, all the better. Plant your own trees and flowers, see them grow and blossom, and cultivate a sense of kinship with them.
Fourth, an understanding companion, be it your spouse or a friend. If you have too many misunderstandings it robs you of your peace of mind. It is better to be divorced than to be quarrelling all the time.
Fifth, stop envying those who have done better than you in life—risen higher, made more money, or earned more fame. Envy can be very corroding; avoid comparing yourself with others.
Sixth, do not allow people to descend on you for gup-shup.
By the time you get rid of them, you will feel exhausted and poisoned by their gossip-mongering.
Seventh, cultivate a hobby or two that will fulfil you—gardening, reading, writing, painting, playing or listening to music. Going to clubs or parties to get free drinks, or to meet celebrities, is a criminal waste of time. It’s important to concentrate on something that keeps you occupied. I have family members and friends who spend their entire day caring for stray dogs, giving them food and medicines. There are others who run mobile clinics, treating sick people and animals free of charge.
Eighth, every morning and evening devote fifteen minutes to introspection. In the mornings ten minutes should be spent in keeping the mind absolutely still, and five minutes listing the things you have to do that day. In the evenings, five minutes should be set aside to keep the mind still and ten to go over the tasks you had intended to do.
Ninth, don’t lose your temper. Try not to be short-tempered, or vengeful. Even when a friend has been rude, just move on. To carry on and live reasonably well you don’t have to be rich or be socially up there—good health and some financial stability are important, but there has to be that focus.
On Great Talkers
Great talkers are drawn to me like iron filings to a magnet. I am a patient listener but after an exposure or two, I do my best to dislodge them without hurting their feelings; most crashing bores are also well-meaning, good people. The other day, having nothing better to do, I made a list of those who came into my life and what made them go on talking by the hour.
The first man, on the top of my list, was Danial Latin. A great gentleman and a great bore—that is how I thought of Danial. Good people tend to be somewhat tiresome and Danial was goodness personified. He never lied, or ever said a hurtful thing about anyone. We became friends in Lahore. He was the son of Sir Alma Latifi, ICS, one of a distinguished clan comprising the Tyabjis, Futtehallys and Salim Ali. He was a graduate from Oxford University and a barrister-at-law. Everyone expected him to start practice at the high court and end up as a judge. Instead, he joined the Communist Party of India and was in the bad books of the police and the Criminal Investigation Department.
One night he was caught pasting subversive posters on the city walls. He spent a while in jail. After his release he shifted to the party headquarters. He lived on daal and roti. He was always lean and fragile; he became leaner and frailer; his long nose appeared longer—he had a vulpine profile. I persuaded him to move in with me. I had reason to regret my offer of hospitality.
Every evening, as I sat down to enjoy my whisky, Danial, who was a teetotaller, would start an endless monologue on Marxism, class struggle, imperialism, et al. It ruined the taste of my good Scotch. One day when my cook and I were away, my mother turned up unexpectedly. She took Danial to be my servant, reprimanded him for sitting on the sofa and ordered him to get her luggage from the tonga and bring it up. He did so without a word. When my mother discovered who he was, she was most embarrassed. He often teased her about it.
One point in favour of endless talkers is they do not interrupt their monologue by asking questions: the listener need not listen provided he or she keeps his or her eyes fixed on the monologist. Once some friends dropped in after dinner. Both of them were a little drunk. I introduced them to Danial and decided to take a stroll. When I returned Danial was propounding the theory of class struggle: both my friends were fast asleep.
It was in my flat that he met Sarah Itiyarah, a Syrian Christian teacher in Kinnaird College for Women and as ardent a communist as he. They fell in love and got married. Danial would often smile but rarely laugh. Sarah did neither. They were admirably suited to each other. The only thing they had in common was a passion for Marxism. They had no children.
Danial and Sarah did not live together very much. So when she died, he was not shattered. He was not designed for domesticity. So I was surprised when I heard a few years ago that he had married again—this time to a princess of royal blood, a descendant of the great Moguls.
After Partition, the Latifis moved to Delhi. My father gave them a flat in the block next to mine. Dodging Danial became a game of wits: another thing endless talkers share in common is that they disdain making appointments. Once I told him that I was pestered by uninvited visitors. He got me a spy glass to put in my door so that I could see the visitor and if I did not want to be seen I need not open the door. Danial was the first victim of his own gift.
Danial did not change except that he began to drink in modest quantities. The last time I ran into him was at a French Embassy reception. It was a buffet dinner and guests had to line up for their drinks and food. The French make their guests as uncomfortable as they can so that they do not overstay their welcome. No chairs or tables were provided so you had to keep standing while you ate and drank. I ran into Danial holding a plateful of food in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. The crowd of guests jostled us for attention. I greeted Danial and remarked how nice it was to see him drinking wine. That was enough for him to launch on a long explanation of there being nothing in the Koran or the Hadith declaring alcohol to be haraam for a Muslim. We were interrupted many times but Danial kept going till it was time to depart.
Another great talker I got to know was General Nathu Singh. He was a tall strapping soldier, proud of his aristocratic Rajput lineage and his martial exploits. He used to often stay with my parents, and after they died, with my elder brother. When they were out, the old General would drop in on me (unannounced) and keep me in thrall like the ancient mariner with the wedding guest. I protested to my sister-in-law. ‘We’ve inherited him from your parents, so you must be patient and polite with him,’ she admonished me. But she also warned me of his arrival in Delhi, ‘General Sahib will be staying with us all next week. Don’t complain I didn’t tell you well ahead of time.’ I had to tell my se
rvants to tell anyone who came that I was not at home. Now that General Nathu Singh is no longer with us, I feel ashamed of myself because despite him being long-winded, I liked him.
I could not say that for Ranbir Singh, once in our foreign service. After retiring he settled abroad with his foreign wife. But every winter he came to Delhi and made it a point to call on his old acquaintances (unannounced). I was not an old acquaintance but was acceptable to him as I was a Sikh. This was strange as Ranbir was a Christian descended from the branch of the Kapurthala family which had converted to Christianity. (Rajkumari Amrit Kaur was his aunt.) Ranbir was proud of his Sikh ancestry, notably Jassa Singh Ahluwalia, the founder of the house of Kapurthala. Winter after winter, he would regale me with exploits of the Ahluwalia Misl and the feats of valour his ancestor, Jassa Singh, had performed. He would flex his biceps to convince me that he had inherited his bulging muscles from his forefathers. Like others of his ilk, he never bothered to find out whether I was free to receive him. After having my morning schedule upset many times, I put my foot down and told my servant to tell him that he should ring up before coming. He was outraged. I heard him shout at my servant to tell his master that he would never see me again. Thank god!
It was different with Nazar Hayat Tiwana. He is the eldest son of Sir Khizr Hayat Tiwana, the chief minister of Punjab before its partition and one of the biggest landowners of his time. The Tiwanas’ estate included Hadali, the village in which I was born. I had great respect and affection for them. Nazar fell out with his father, married a Hindu girl and migrated to the United States. He got a job as an assistant librarian at Chicago University. Every winter he came to India and Pakistan. Since his father was long dead, he revived his affection for his Tiwana ancestors. He had his father’s biography written; he set up an organization to promote Indo-Pakistan amity. He was, and is, a very lovable character. Also, an endless talker. Once he got started you never knew when he would run out of breath. He sensed I had begun to avoid him. The last time he came to see me, he was his old self, going on and on till my head was dizzy with his words. He paused for a second or two before he delivered the punch line. ‘You know what my wife says? She says I lose friends because I talk too much.’ I did not contradict him.
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 27
