I am a voracious reader. I even read road
signs. Almost a decade ago, I read a little legend on a stop sign glowing red in
an autumn night and so, years before everyone else, I knew the end was nigh for
Delhi. What I had just read was an epitaph for a way of life.
That night, I was returning home after far too many months overseas. The very
smog of the airport road smelled pleasantly of home as my taxi coasted demurely
to a stop at a red traffic light.
"What’s the problem?" I asked the driver. By ancient custom, lights that
turn red in the wee hours of a Delhi night are to be jumped at over the ton.
Prithviraj Chauhan set the trend while escaping from the famous swayamvar and
his fugitive hoofbeats still ring in our ears.
"No problem, RELAX," the driver said, settling back comfortably and breaking
out the pan masala.
"Relax?" I barked in alarm.
"RELAX," he repeated calmly, pointing to the lights. The red light backlit a
legend stencilled in capitals. ‘RELAX,’ it said. Alarm gave way to outrage.
While I was away, behind my back, a perverted turncoat policeman had been going
around the city with a stepladder and stencilling this tranquillising message on
all the red lights, which are there to be jumped. Relax at a red light? Is
nothing sacred?
Of course, much as we would like to believe it, our Delhi is not the creation of
swashbuckling Tomars and Chauhans. That’s a fairy tale fit for tourist
brochures. Rajput, Turk, Afghan and Mughal are redundant history, shouldered
aside by the new conquerors of this city, who made space for themselves with the
good-natured pushiness of the frontier spirit. Which frontier? The North West
Frontier, of course, where the Frontier Mail used to come from. Pakistan, you
know.
Partition refugees created the present city of Delhi. They arrived with only the
shirts on their backs and a fortune to rebuild. They were people in a hurry and
their momentum still drives us to do the things that people from other cities
find peculiar and even frightening about Dilliwalas. We never queue up like
other people because it’s a waste of time. We impatiently fight our way into
buses and trains. We eat standing up from handcarts in the streets, to save
time. We never drive in our lanes because we want to get ahead of everyone else
in every lane. And at night, we jump lights at the speed of sound.
Sorry, we used to jump lights. Now, the city wants citizens to RELAX. The police
run roadkill figures on an LED screen at the ITO intersection, like the ambient
temperature is displayed elsewhere. They lurk behind tree-trunks with radar
speed guns. They hunt down speeders—like mad dogs—in interceptor cars. The
frontier pioneers have been sidestepped and overtaken by fresh
immigrants—poignant Bengalis, tormented Malayalees, long-headed Biharis and
Tamils who rise before dawn. With them, they have brought the vices of
gentility, patience and common sense.
The city has changed beyond salvage, and nothing is sacred any more.
This article originally appeared in Delhi City Limits, March 31, 2006
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