It was a delightful, gracious city—Shahjahanabad, Lutyens Delhi that ended at South End Road, and some Lal Dora areas scattered along the route to Mehrauli. Then began the refugee influx, first the hearty Punjabis, hedonist and full of pep, looked upon by the rooted, tranquil Delhiites as some offbeat vaudeville actors, perpetually performing, loud and rambunctious, often referred to as crude outsiders. Then the rest followed, since all roads do lead to the capital, and Delhi became a collective of many ghetto-like colonies that housed various professional and ethnic communities. Ghettos, alas, have the soul of a ghetto, not a city and this city took on a strange new avatar. As it grew, Purani Dilli became the heritage zone—the asli dilli, and South Delhi, the fast growing hub of the upwardly mobile representing all the ethnic intruders. Everyone was part of this experimental stew. The aspiration was the same for them all, competitive, worshipping anything money could buy. Shining India.
Delhi began to represent India’s rootlessness. The Punjabis suddenly seemed culturally rooted, refined and smart when juxtaposed to this rather blundering, boorish lot, all on the make, all trying to look like the extras in the Bombay movies, all alien to themselves, uncomfortable in their fake clothes, shedding their inherent strengths only to ape superficial albeit economically advanced cultures, all trying desperately to disassociate from all that is Indian. As Bharat opened up and this rapidly growing brand of indelicate and often witless disconnected bodies bought up all the trappings of what Middle America had established as good living.
The symbols were the same—a large sleek sedan for a vehicle; the plain exterior of the home exchanged for a fake plaster of Paris façade; granite everywhere from the loo to the kitchen; unbearable heat emission from the velvet or silk upholstery on fake Louis the XIVth furniture; the unfailing bake on every buffet table. They serve French table wine, warm plonk, because the drink is alien to them but seen to be an essential ingredient at the table; Black Label whisky is the favourite, now produced only for Indians; dinner is always at midnight, and the front door exit happens within seconds of swallowing the last morsel. No soul. No care. No nothing. Vacuous and empty. Just over the top.
This city is now drowning with the weight of this burgeoning bunch of aliens who bounce about flashing credit cards at lounge bars and suchlike, smoking fat cigars often spluttering as they inhale, mispronouncing their hand bags, their luggage, their shades, their clothes and even what they order off the menu, testing their freedom by pressing down on the accelerator and zipping recklessly, in more ways than one, through the fine fabric and spirit of Dilli. They look uncomfortable and so does the city.
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This piece originally appeared in the second sample issue of Delhi City Limits
