Rana Dasgupta's Capital: Shortlisted for the Crossword Book Award

(c) Radhika Iyengar 2015

Capital: A Portrait of Twenty-First Century Delhi is an ambitious departure from Rana Dasgupta’s previous work. He maps, with acute patience, the turbulent history of a city that was built, torn apart, ravaged and rebuilt over centuries—the aftermath of which provide important brushstrokes to the portrait of contemporary Delhi. The book shifts back and forth chronologically, juxtaposing modern-day events with the city’s macabre past in order to supply a wider context to the construction of an informed narrative about modern Delhi. The pages are littered with historical playbacks that sweep across centuries—the magnificent Mughal reign, the British raj, the catastrophic 1984 riots, the economic liberalization, which are juxtaposed with eye-opening personal accounts of those who inhabit this enigmatic city from varying economic strata.

In the light of the book recently making it to the Crossword Book Award shortlist, I revisited an interview I had done with him not too long ago.

With two award-winning novels behind you, what prompted you to write about Delhi, its people and its history?

I would say that two things prompted me. One is that, not much has been written about contemporary Delhi. Through books, we know a lot about early-independence Delhi and we know a lot about Mughal Delhi—these are Delhis that appear again and again in literature. Even contemporary writers, who write about Delhi, find themselves constantly going back to the Mughal period because that’s what is ‘literary’, in a way. But I felt that the city I was living in on a day-today basis, what I was reading about in the papers, what I was seeing on the streets, needed to also be described and recorded, because it is a very intense reality. It is a reality that all of us in our lives try to understand and discuss why things are the way they are. And I thought that this was a book-length project. It required you to go back to the traumas of partition and even pre-partition history to understand that. The other thing was that in Indian history, the rise of Delhi in the last 20 years marks a new kind of period. What happened to us in the post 1991 period is that we saw a new kind of Indian commerce where big businesses were attached to Indian politics. There was a drift of the business people to Delhi from all over the country and outside, to knock on the doors of politics— to network and do deals with politicians. So I thought it was important to describe and document this as well.

What informed your decision to take a journalistic route while writing about Delhi? 

By the time I started writing the book on Delhi, I had been living here for a decade. I felt that it had been a very extraordinary decade, not just in my life, but in the life of the city. And this needed to be written about. I always felt that it needed to be written about in non-fiction terms, because I just thought it was more extraordinary than to make up. I mean, I don’t know what you felt about the stories that you read, but these personalities cannot be persons who could be made up, and that’s the whole point. 

In one of your essays, you describe Delhi as ‘an impenetrable, wary city.’ How did you get an impenetrable city to open up to you? 

Well, I think, it’s like a club. I mean, it’s a club kind of a city, which is to say that it is impenetrable to the outsider, but when you have lived here for a while, then a lot of those doors open because you start to have your own networks and you begin to know people. So like a club, if you have the right introduction to somebody then the people are quite open. So as I have said in the book, people are amazingly open when their friend says, ‘Speak to this guy.’ I spent about 18 months just being passed from one person to another, asking people for their stories. I also think that people really like to talk. One of the things that is common to all the characters that appear in this book—some of them are rich, some of them are poor, some of them are intellectual, some of them are not—is that all of them have a very, very intense inner life. They are conscious that things are changing every day. So when I actually sat them down, they told me about how their family functioned or how they made money. There was a lot for them to say since they had been having this inner monologue a lot. So it became an ambiguous kind of a relationship, almost like a therapist, where it wasn’t clear anymore who was driving the conversation or who was getting the most value out of it. Also, I was a mere outsider to these people. I didn’t go to school with them, so they knew I wouldn’t judge them in the same way the people who knew them personally would. I was kind of an empty figure, which made it easier for them to talk about intimate things.

Delhi has been described as a very cold city. A lot of the voices that you bring in from different pockets of Delhi are extremely bitter. Were you conscious of this? 

I am aware that I have written a very dark book about Delhi, but it’s probably because it does strike me as a very dark city. What I think is that there is a difference between the intimate and collective. What I find in the city is that the intimate space can be very warm. People are very good at maintaining friendships in the city; they take a lot of care of their family and friends. At home, guests are hosted extravagantly. And this is married to a deep wariness of what is outside the home. And I think that fear and suspicion is related to the very violent history of the city, where every generation has seen the collective rise up in insane ways. I mean, of course 1947 was the most traumatic of those moments, and again so was 1984. So when one talks about the city, it’s important to talk about the collective experiences, which is where I find a lot of darkness, a lot of fear, a lot of bitterness. And therefore, I think one of the reasons why the desire for money is so big in the city is because with money comes some kind of insulation from the city. You can employ people, you can live in guarded neighbourhoods and you can basically not feel the worst effects of this kind of fear and apprehension.

{delhi, books, non-fiction, crossword book award shortlist, rana dasgupta, author, writing, literature}

Memory

Memory is a strange thing. It will find you in the most unwitting times, when you’re not expecting it. The tapping of the rain on the window, the discovery of a wrinkled leaf pressed between the pages of a book, your favourite song playing on the radio as you drive back home after a long day at work, the rustle of a sari…

The rustle of a sari — I remember ma wrapped in a sari — of her quietly walking into my room; the crackle of the starch as she sat down beside me when I was half-asleep. She always looked beautiful: long dark hair falling on her face, which she tucked behind her ears before pulling the chaadar away from me. The fan always stirred with a lazy whrrr and the sunlight from the window filled the room with a lovely light. I remember her eyes gleaming, her face lit up, earrings pinched to her ears, her spectacles sitting at the crown of her head like young girls with shiny hairbands. I’d mumble, whine, curl my toes and cringe my nose, hold my throat and cough so loud that I’d almost scare the pigeons off the window pane. But my drama was pointless—somehow, she always managed to send me to school.

*

My father had big, strong hands — the kinds in which my tiny chubby hands would disappear every time he held them, and I’d always feared that they've been eaten up. So I would wriggle my hands out every time, just to make sure they were still there. I remember going to school, skipping and hopping with my hand wrapped around his sturdy finger, my long hair galloping on my back, the pleats of my skirt ballooning with every thump of my feet, my shoelaces untied, and my socks which my mother made me pull up every morning before sitting in the car, sagging at my ankles. Very few kids like going to school. I probably belonged to that “strange” lot. I loved the drives with my dad before he dropped me to school. We would sing songs throughout the journey. His big, puffy red cheeks which I always thought were filled with cotton candy, his thick black moustache which curtained his smile, his wisp-like curly hair spiralling out and spiralling in by the wind from the pulled down windows, his thumbs drumming on the steering wheel as we sang: “I’m Henry the 8th I am, Henry the 8th I am I am, I got married to the widow next door, she’s been married 7 times before and every one is a Henry. HENRY. Henry the 8th I am I am, Henry the 8th I am!”

These excerpts were a part of a collaborative project titled Memory: A Visual and Musical Performance for DesignxDesign closing party at Alliance Francaise, New Delhi, 2015.

{memory, childhood, stories, Diaries, autobiography, notes from memory, prose}

The Light Bag

One of the major reasons that rural children drop out of schools is because a lot of them are forced to study under the dim light of a candle or they have to make do with kerosene lamps at home. While some homes have electricity, frequent power cuts, especially at night, could result in a complete blackout to a child’s future. This is where the Salaam Baalak Trust steps in. The Light Bag is an interesting contraption: a specially designed polyester school bag for children, its pouch is equipped with an LED light and a solar panel (imported especially from China). Through the attached solar panel, the LED light is charged during a child’s trek to school and back. Since many children attend open classrooms, the bags are charged throughout the day. At night, the bag’s pouch can be out-turned to function as a makeshift lamp.

The brainchild behind the design is Anusheela Saha who approached the Salaam Baalak Trust, an NGO which works towards improving the living conditions for underprivileged children. The idea of developing the Light Bag sparked when her maid complained about the frequent power-cuts in Delhi and how people in the slums were affected by it. "I started thinking about a way that could make lives simpler for the slum dwellers. The fact that India is a country that has plenty of sun and fails to provide sufficient electricity, were the two dots that I connected," she says.

Anusheela worked with the Salaam Baalak team to come up with a design that was simple, cheap and sustainable. "We did some research before we started. The solar panels and LED had to be weightless to ensure that the bag wasn't too heavy to be carried by the children. We also had to ensure that the bag had the right kind of space to hold school books," she says. The Salaam Baalak Trust is now looking for crowd funding opportunities for the bag to be manufactured in larger numbers and reach more children in other regions.

{design, design for a cause, innovation, cheap and sustainable, product, arts+activism}

Fire + Paper

i still remember
the way your tongue
mapped my mouth

and searched the contours
of my body
filling crevices
of my broken self

trying
to make me whole again.

i remember
how we so easily
fell into each other
entangling ourselves
weaving our present

to make a past

like a photograph.

and i remember
how you told me:
we were too alike
too volatile
too much--
in ourselves

so when we were together
i was fire
and you, paper

and we burned--
both of us,
consuming each other
hungrily.
uninhibitedly.

and now i lie
in the ashes of your memory
in the catastrophe we created
in the masterpiece we created
like two artists full of soul

on a rampage

the funny thing about memory is
it’s not ephemeral

like the ashes that crumble in my fingers
darkening the tips of my fingers
that try to trace the contours of my body

like you once did. 

{love, heartache, poem, writing, remembering, memory}

For Women Who Are Difficult To Love

By Warsan Shire:

you are a horse running aloneand he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial 
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who 
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel 
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

{poetry, writing, beauty, women, inspiration, love, longing}

Unhooking the Bra

When I turned twelve, I was expected to wear a bra. It was an unceremonious introduction into the grim world of what I thought was adulthood. The rite of passage was defined by the act of being held by the hand and led discreetly into a lingerie shop. It did bother me that while my brother casually sat half-naked on the bed watching television at home, I had been removed from the playground where I played ball with the boys, to accompany my mother to the shop.

The first ten minutes were spent observing her deliberate upon which cup-size would best suit me. She then gestured the woman behind the counter to come forth and take measurements. The lady scribbled some numbers on paper, nodded a confident “hmm” and turned around to dislodge a few boxes that towered behind her. She pulled out an assortment of bras and swiftly arranged them with the deftness of a Blackjack dealer.

I paused, my cheeks beginning to take colour. My knees buckled. I didn’t know what make of this momentary paralysis. So I stood and stared, wide-eyed, biting my lip, my fingers reaching out to crunch the hem of my skirt. I glanced vacantly at my mother who was now looking at me. It felt as though she had become a head taller and I had just bit into the pill prescribed to Alice.

“What maa?” I whined with a pitch of bored irritation that masked confusion.

“What, what?” she twittered. “Pick up the ones you like and try them on.”  

 “Buutt…” I whined again, this time more nasal. 

“You want me to come with you? Chalo, I will come with you. Where is the trial room? There? Accha. Let’s go.”

And off we went, carrying five bras in tow. By now my cheeks had turned crimson. I walked to the trial room looking down, avoiding the eyes of the male staff that followed me.

That evening, I was gifted my first bra. Well, bras. “We’ll buy two,” my mother had informed the woman, before slanting her head sideways to say, “that way, you can wear one every alternative day. For starters.”

It wasn’t the idea of wearing the bra that bothered me, it was the idea of getting used to it. I didn’t like the faint pink marks the straps left on my shoulders, at times mimicking a zigzag pattern or a simple thin line, depending on the cut of the strap. I didn’t see the point in strapping on an extra piece of clothing, especially in the unforgiving heat of summer.

One day, I returned home fuming. I forced the door shut loudly behind me and marched in to see my mother. Ma was working in the kitchen. She was whipping an egg with a strange determination not to stop.

“Ma,” I mumbled, half surprised and disappointed by the tone I had chosen. Words seemed to collect like rough pebbles in my throat. I could hear my heart pick up pace. Ma looked up, the whites of her eyes flecked with red. She had complained of not sleeping well the last two nights. “What?” she asked, still whisking, the fork scraping and keening against the steel bowl. “See this…” I turned around to show her my back and then turned again to face her. She looked at me and blinked. The whisking hadn’t stopped. A few moments later, she bunched up her brows and said, “I’m sorry, what is it that you want me to see?”

I was flipping now. “This!” I cried, turning around again. Sweat had plastered my shirt to my back. “Can’t you see? All the boys are laughing!”

Ma narrowed her eyes and leaned over to inspect what the fuss was all about. Then she trotted off to the other corner of the kitchen and returned with a shapely onion.

“I’m listening,” she said, rolling her fingers over the vegetable, the filmy purple skin crackling under.

“They noticed it today. It was just so hot. I couldn’t help it. And they noticed it.”

Ma was now slicing the onion, thin ovals of white collapsing haplessly onto the chopping board. “And,” I continued, desperately, “Arjun pulled his t-shirt to his chest and put it behind his stupid large head and said, ‘Boys and girls are not the same! So you cannot play with us!’ And I said, ‘Of course I am same!’ So he said, ‘then do what I have done!’”

Ma pursed her lips and turned towards me. Her eyes were looking directly at me now, not distracted or shifting like they were a few minutes ago to estimate how much kitchen work remained. Her voice was calm when she spoke, “Did you do it?”

“No,” I said coldly.

She responded with a succinct “hmm!” and then picked up the knife, pinched the flimsy slices together and progressed to dice them with deliberate focus.

Something inside me sagged. “Maa,” I whined, making one last attempt to draw out some sort of attention from her. She finally placed the knife on the granite and turned towards me. Her fingers traced the contours of my chin and then affectionately nudged it upwards. “I know how you feel. I had a tougher time getting used to it when I was your age, but this is a part of growing up. You will just have to accept it.”

“Buutt...” I began to reason while sliding a finger underneath my bra to attend to an itch. “It’s not fair. Why don’t boys wear this stupid thing?”—I called it “this stupid thing” till my 16^th birthday; I was too embarrassed to call it anything else—“Why can’t I pull my t-shirt over my head and jump around like that monkey Arjun?”

In my head, these questions seemed logical, and they were. Ma agreed, lending a nod or two to the conversation, before eventually sighing and reiterating, “It’s just a matter of getting used to.” Hers was an upbringing dictated by social conditioning and now, she was transmitting it to me. “After a certain age girls are expected to wear bras. People talk otherwise,” she said. Who were these people and why did they care? And why was it okay for boys to parade about shirtless, while while girls had to be relatively dressed conservatively?

Years later, Lisa Esco asked the same questions through her film, Free The Nipple. The popularity of the film, possibly for its controversial content, was undeniable, but it led to the emergence of a greater, more powerful movement called #FreeTheNipple that is now making headlines, breaking ground and well, unhooking bras. Have a look and follow it if you’re not a part of the movement already.

{gender, growing up, non-fiction, jabber, notes from a forgotten diary, #freethenipple}

The Dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin

It’s a cold winter night when my friend and I decide to visit to Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya’s dargah. It’s Thursday and the entrance to the dargah is swarming with pilgrims. Wires twist like tendrils around a forlorn lamppost at a distance. Translucent-winged creatures whirl around like Sufi saints lost in prayer. There is a spell of the theatrics. In a corner, a shoe-shiner with weary eyes argues with a man for an extra buck; a hawker wearing a taqiyah slips off a slipper from his cart and offers it promptly to a passerby. Men stroll at an unhurried pace; women, burqa-clad or otherwise, bolt past, arms shielding their bodies. Perhaps they are wary, perhaps it is the winter cold. The air is laced with the smell of burnt popcorn and salted peanuts. As we needle our way through the crowd, we pass a busy bookstore, we pass a barbershop with pale yellow walls and circus mirrors, we pass the solemn and gated Ghalib’s tomb.

We delve deeper into this carnival. There are teasing whiffs of charcoaled meat and parathas. Brightly lit shops push and squeeze into one another. There are chadars—emerald green, tangerine, wine red, deep blue with golden borders on display. Rose petals, pink and plump, fill baskets. Shop owners sit cross-legged at the edge, handing out business cards. A few of them call out, asking if we would like to leave our shoes behind. “Ignore them,” my friend says. “There is a stall up ahead, closest to the dargah. We will leave our shoes there.” He then tugs my dupatta that I've draped across my shoulders. We are nearing our destination, I pull it over my head.

We reach the stairs: a descent we must make, and I am caught off guard. There is a sudden flurry of people. I hold on to a wall while my feet try to find grounding. When the crowd trickles away, it lays out a perfect image before me: worshippers, believers, curious tourists, pirs and pirzades, buoyant across the white marble like coloured boats. There is a startling energy here. As we descend, we see the shrine of Amir Khusrau, a gifted poet and Hazrat Nizamuddin’s favourite disciple. My friend directs me to a washing ground where men and women wash their hands and feet. A few feet away, I hear something: a tuning of a harmonium, a staccato of claps searching for a rhythm, someone clearing his throat, a shuffle in the crowd. I quicken my pace, steering myself in the direction of the mehfil.

In an open courtyard, facing the mausoleum of Hazart Nizamuddin, the qawwals have settled down for the evening serenade. About 80-100 odd people sit cross-legged in anticipation, framing the qawwals from three directions. We negotiate our way through the crowd, eyeing for a perch. Hazrat Nizamuddin’s tomb is a fascinating structure, characterized by marble pillars and trellis for walls. Orange threads weave in and out of the trellis. The threads symbolize mannats, wishes of thousands who visit the dargah. I notice a yellow board with a green border that hangs at the grilled entrance of the tomb. It cautions: "Ladies are not allowed inside." Outside the tomb, a few women mumble something repeatedly and kiss the walls; another cluster of women sits with children in tow, reading diligently from books in hand.

My attention is diverted. The qawwali has begun and I settle at the edge of the gathering. A man stands guard: his job is to ensure that a human wall isn't built between Hazart Nizamuddin and the qawwals. He ushers people to either sit or walk on. Tourists and onlookers slip out their phones to capture the experience. Others sit patiently, attentive to the words, absorbing everything. “They are singing Tajdar-e-haram,” my friend informs. I nod and take out my phone to quickly jot down the lyrics:

Kismat mein meri chain se jeena likh de

Doobe na kabhi mera safeena likh de 

Jannat bhi gawaara hai magar mere liye

Eh kaatib-e-taqdeer madina likh de

Tajdar-e-haram

Nigah-e-karam

Although, I am capable of grasping the basic gist of it, I request my friend, who is more informed about Hindustani poetry than I, to translate and he obliges:

Write, in my fate, the ability to live peacefully

Write, in my fate, that my paper boat must never sink

I would accept jannat (paradise), but for me,

Oh writer of destiny, at least write down the city of Madina

Oh, wearer of crown

Look at me with peaceful eyes and love.

The evening eventually comes to an end and the crowd disperses. My friend and I decide to take a long walk around the tomb, observing the people and the ritual of prayer. “I did not know that ‘safeena’ meant paper boat,” I tell him. “The word is beautiful.” He smiles knowingly. It has become colder now and we must leave. We make our way to the exit, merging into the crowd, passing Ghalib’s tomb, the library, the chaiwallas—returning to reality.

{walk, qawwals, dargah, Sufism}