IT is inconceivable for anyone to have foreseen that the population of ‘Dilli’ would multiply 60-fold between the partition of India in 1947 and now, from about 300,000 to about 18,000,000 and growing. In the same period the population of other major cities has multiplied about three to five times. This explosive growth disallowed a logical development pattern as may have been possible in other metropolises, leading to deterioration of virtually all the attributes of a good quality of life – clean air and water, uninterrupted power supply, low traffic congestion and affordable, quality public health. Real estate prices skyrocketed, putting simple homes out of the reach of most people while making millionaires out of those lucky enough to own property in favoured locations.

The skies were blue, the air pollution free, many varieties of birds, including the now absent vulture, abounded. The great population explosion was not only because of the forced migration post-partition (the resettlement of partition refugees was well organized by a full fledged Government of India Ministry). The bulk of it happened owing to the centralization of political power in Delhi which was less visible and more subtle and could not be, or was not, planned for.

Now, despite enabling technologies of communication and travel, decentralization is not happening and the vast daily immigration into Delhi has become ‘politically important’ as vote banks are created. Punjabis, Garhwalis, Nepalis, Bangladeshis, Bengalis, Biharis, Marathas, Tibetians, et al with all their respective caste, class, cultural and religion substrata co-mingle and coexist in this bursting metropolis, adding additional warps and woofs to the complex fabric of Delhi.

The young, born two generations after partition, can never imagine the Dilli that was. The present is what it has always been for them. The perpetual honking of horns, mostly for no reason, exceptionally poor air quality, traffic jams, petty theft, rape and murder, blatant blaring of Bollywood music with booming electronically induced thumping of percussion at wedding halls and religious establishments, the constant babble from inanely competing TV anchors and channels where news is always breaking, the evolving of the ear into a permanently attached cell phone, the plethora of customer choice where little existed earlier, road rage and instant gratification and compulsive permissiveness is their real life.

In those days the schools taught a course called ‘civics’. This was essentially the philosophy and methodology of building civic-minded individuals and, therefore, a civic-oriented society. With the booming expansion of the city, the civics programme in schools as well as civic-mindedness in society have both flown out of the window. The politicians of today cannot even invoke Gandhi (M.K.) to induce civic mindedness in our leaders.

 

Rumour has it that Dr Sita Sen, the formidable gynaecologist wife of Dr Santosh Sen who ran Delhi’s largest private hospital (exists now as a government office block) just across the Hardinge Bridge was apparently pleased at my arrival into the world. As she spanked me on my bottom to open up my lungs, she remarked with a throaty laugh, ‘The Lala will be pleased with this one!’ The Lala (Lala Shri Ram), my grandfather, was pleased enough to observe my round, brown and fat constitution and immediately felt that I resembled a cheeku. That name, for better or for worse, has stuck!

My mother avers that I was always a greedy glut and after draining the milk from her ample bosom, was often attached to the bosom of Madame Simki, a French danseuse who, also pregnant, was staying with us. This, she said, accounted for some of my subsequent behaviour.

My siblings, cousins and I, grew up in the charmed environment at 18 and 22 Curzon Road. No. 18 was called ‘Bari Kothi’ because it was bigger (huge) and therefore the other No. 22 was called ‘Chhoti Kothi’ (less huge!). Behind Chhoti Kothi were two tennis courts fully equipped with teaching markers et al, a swimming pool complex complete with water slides, spring and diving boards and change rooms, a large vegetable garden and more than 60 servants quarters to cater to the ‘essential needs’ of running these palatial establishments. The servants quarters had a distinct hierarchy where small suites with courtyards were provided for some (Ustad Allahuddin Khan, the great sarod maestro, refused to stay in the big house and always stayed in one of these), while the others shared a large building in communal living. Some of these quarters were converted from stables, as horse carriages gave way to motor cars. Chunni Lal, the ostler, became a guard.

 

Lala Shri Ram started the business in 1889 when the then Government of India, run by the British, gradually allowed Indian companies to form and run their own enterprises. A similar entrepreneurial spirit evidenced itself throughout the country. In those days there was no modern industrial culture in India. Hence, all capital equipment, management and technology, had to come from overseas, mainly England and Europe. It was no different for DCM, Lala Shri Ram’s main company. Through many vicissitudes and setbacks, he created a much vaunted textile business with DCM Towels and Textiles becoming a national and even an international brand. His businesses prospered. With his much increased net worth and cash flows, like a modern day private equity investor, he invested in a number of ventures in Calcutta, the most important of which were Bengal Potteries (a famous name and brand in those days) and Jay Engineering Works Ltd, the manufacturers of USHA brand sewing machines and fans.

 

In those days to compete against the best imported brands in the world such as Singer, and German, English and Japanese brands, and to succeed handsomely, was no mean achievement. He further used his considerable wealth to create educational institutions such as the Shriram College of Commerce and Lady Shriram College (regarded as amongst the best in India today), a string of Anglo-Sanskrit schools (now no longer under family management), the Shriram Institute for Industrial Research which has achieved national fame and was one of the creators of the Bombay Plan, a precursor to the Planning Commission. He did all this as a ‘Steward of Society’ rather than as an approach to agglomerating fame or personal aggrandizement. However, the fame did inevitably come and a Knighthood was conferred on him.

He lived in a small room with simple accoutrements and was happy to have his family enjoy the fruits of his imagination, inspiration and labour. Sadly, Bengal Potteries no longer exists and DCM as a major textile brand has gone the way of all flesh. USHA as a brand survived and flourishes, growing into the business of several small household domestic appliances and agri-water management products, and is now managed by the fourth generation of Shrirams (Lala Shri Ram’s great grandson and great granddaughter). Lala Shri Ram’s policy of ‘good quality products at reasonable prices’ is sought to be continued.

At the time of partition, the prospect of losing India’s ancient culture, classical singing and dance loomed large. The All India Radio assumed much of this load and many of the great artists were on their permanent rolls, but that was not enough. Therefore, in different parts of the country, many families accommodated artists and the Shriram family was one of them.

 

The Bharatiya Kala Kendra (BKK) had simple beginnings as ‘Jhankar’, which itself had grown out of musical soirees at Lala Shri Ram’s home. After Lala Shri Ram’s demise, the name was changed to Shriram Bharatiya Kala Kendra (SBKK). The purpose was to propagate India’s culture and tradition of classical music and dance through public performances, teaching and dance dramas. The dance drama section of the SBKK had its beginnings in the taikhana (very large basement) of Bari Kothi. Here, under the watchful eye of Sumitra Charat Ram, dancers would train, costumes were designed, Ramdhari Singh ‘Dinkar’, India’s poet laureate, and ‘Rahi’, wrote the script and the lyrics of the now famed ‘Ram Lila’ and the choreography for many dance dramas planned. In all, about 47 dance dramas on Indian mythological, spiritual and historical themes, which strike emotional cords in the Indian psyche were prepared and produced. Many of these dance dramas were taken around India and the world to rave audiences. The revival of kathak also owns much to SBKK as some of the greatest gurus (Shambhu Maharaj and Birju Maharaj) taught here, and in turn produced great dancers and teachers such as Uma Sharma and Kumudini Lakhia.

Gradually the government recognized these efforts and, after first allocating World War II barracks for the SBKK, leased out about two acres of land in Delhi’s most important culture centre near Connaught Place and Bengali Market. Here the Shriram Centre for Arts and Culture, Shriram Bharatiya Kala Kendra, the Rabindra Gallery, Triveni and several other institutions came up.

The great political leaders of the day were interested and knowledgeable about the fine arts. Thus, Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first prime minister, after a performance by M.S. Subbulakshmi, could refer to himself as ‘a mere prime minister’ in her presence. Just as the erstwhile rulers had supported these arts, many presidents, prime ministers and erudite politicians of the country were patrons of Shriram Bharatiya Kala Kendra, notably Nehru, Indira Gandhi, S.K Patil and Karan Singh.

The famed Shankar Lal Music Festival (now Shriram Shankar Lal Music Festival) became a platform for young and aspiring Indian classical singers and instrumentalists. The list of performers, most of whom have received awards (with Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Bismillah Khan receiving the Bharat Ratna, India’s highest civilian award) and achieved national and international fame, reads like a who’s who. This music festival survives and is still a big draw.

 

Similarly, Lala Shri Ram’s brother Shankar Lal, and his eldest son Murli Dhar, both great lovers of Urdu shairi (poetry), instituted the ‘Shankar-Shad Mushaira’ which annually invited the finest Urdu poets from the subcontinent for a public rendering of their recent works. Over time, the fame of this mushaira was such that a bright future was assured for any ‘shayar’ (poet) who was invited to it. Javed Akhtar attests to that even to this day. Unfortunately, despite the fact that much of the language of Bollywood films, spoken and ‘ghazals’ is Urdu, presently fewer people truly understand this wonderful language than heretofore and it is mainly taught in Muslim institutions and to Muslims. After an interregnum of a few years, when this mushaira was not held owing to the separation of the Shriram family enterprises among its constituents, this mushaira once again commenced with support from the Bansi Dhar branch of the family.

 

The ‘Dilli’ yellow of the Lutyens buildings in and around Connaught Place was to match the pale yellow dust and sand that flies in from the Rajasthan desert. In the blistering hot dry summers, temperatures can hit 45º Celsius with the loo (hot winds) being blocked by huge khas ki tattis which were designed to fit the large spaces between the pillars of those high ceilinged verandahs. The water jets from overhead pipes dribbled sufficient moisture over the khas surface to rapidly evaporate, as the loo filtered through the dense, layered matrix of pure khas (vetiver grass), thus providing ‘natural’ air-conditioning. Today’s coolers do not use pure khas, using instead a curious mixture of khas and wood shavings; hence the absence of sweetness in the outputted air.

Holi was a particularly joyous function with natural colours of spring (yellow, green, red… no metallic blues and blacks!) and kevda for the pichkari (syringe) pani for welcoming the onset of spring. Buoyed by mild bhang laced thandai and pista barfi, we would fling each other into the pool, fully clothed, after boisterous celebrations, to try to wash off the colour.

All of us children got to know the servants quarters really well because first, there were lots of children there and second, because our parents had scant time to directly look after us as they were occupied with their social and public duties of what was then considered to be one of the largest business families of Delhi. We could never quite understand that while we could go play in the servants quarters, those children always stopped at the Lakshman rekha of the formal home.

On the roof of Chhoti Kothi was a large drum reel for the ‘manjha’ (glazed thread) which was specially created for holding aloft the ‘fighting kites’ of my uncle, Murli Dhar. While others used handheld reels, this reel allowed for much more thread and the kites would disappear into the premonsoonal cumulonimbus clouds. He had no fear of other kites slicing through his thread as his manjha was a specially created silken glaze, famous in the neighbourhood, and required leather gloves to handle lest one’s hands got lacerated to shreds. In the evenings, the gaming pigeons would fly in large flocks from private coops, carefully avoiding the manjha.

 

My elder cousins were very fond of shikar (hunting), mainly partridge, cheetal, deer and black buck (yes, black buck which was plentiful and not illegal to shoot in those days). It was only a short ride out to Hindon. These species were abundant and shooting was freely permitted. One remembers the vast herds of cheetal galloping off into the horizon as a cousin (a subsequent deputy governor of the Reserve Bank of India) sprawled across the bonnet of a speeding Willys jeep giving chase, with a .375 nestled against his shoulder taking pot shots at the leaders.

One highlight of those days was the great Republic Day parade. As children we would sit in the front rows and be amazed at what was otherwise only a pedestrian military equipment display, but it built a pride in us as to what India could be. These parades also presented ‘jhankis’ from different states of India which sought to present typical sights from each state. Folk dances were held at the now virtually defunct National Sports Club of India grounds, and the Beating Retreat tattoo of military bands which was started then, continues to be a huge public attraction even today.

 

Connaught Place, now rudely renamed Rajiv Chowk, was the centre of most commercial activity then. The two principal English newspapers, the Hindustan Times and The Statesman had their offices right there. The Times of India tended to be Bombay based and the Economic Times and other pink papers did not exist. From its circular nerve centre, tentacles stretched out towards and past the Parliament House, towards ‘Princes Delhi’ (the plots of land which had been allocated to the bigger maharajas around India Gate, now all gone to museums, courts and government guest houses) in one direction, and the old city of Daryaganj/Chandni Chowk/Rajpur Road and Delhi University, down Panchkuian Road on the other.

Could a spacious Modern School as at Barakhamba Road come up today in any part of Delhi? It had shifted here from more modest beginnings (where our fathers and many of their friends went) in Kashmiri Gate at the edge of the old city. Pratap Singh, one of the sons of the founder (Lala Sultan Singh), had married my aunt Savitri, the daughter of Lala Shankar Lal, my grandfather’s brother. Thus we had much to do with this school and several music festivals were held on its extensive playing fields. Here is where many of the Dilliwalas ‘grew up’, competed with St. Columbus, Jesus and Mary and some other good schools while many other youngsters were shipped out to boarding schools.

There were always people in the houses; relations, executives, visitors, house guests, other permanent residents, the odd crook and dozens of servants. The ladies of the house (our respected mothers) spent the bulk of their time managing this people flow and it was possibly one of the reasons why the younger boys (mainly Vivek and myself) were shunted off to the Welham Preparatory School, a boarding school in Dehra Dun, so that we would not be underfoot. Arun and Deepak came along for the ride to jeeringly drop us off. While teasing us about being abandoned by our parents, they suddenly found themselves registered and admitted into the Doon School. In those days, there were no endless waiting lines for entry into even the most prestigious schools in India.

 

Of the dozens of people who used to be regular house guests at 22 and 18 Curzon Road, one was Boshi Sen and his warm-hearted wife Gertrude Emerson Sen, an American who remarkably took to Indian ways because of the terrific magnetism of Boshi uncle. Charat Ram and Bharat Ram and their respective spouses called her ‘Mashi Maa’, which means mother’s sister. Boshi uncle was an agricultural scientist of note and Jawaharlal Nehru, our then prime minister, who was trying to develop a scientific temper in Indian institutions, was attracted to him. Somehow Boshi Sen and I got along exceptionally well and I received the beginnings of my spiritual understanding, such as it is, from him. He talked extensively about Ramakrishna Paramhans and Vivekananda and the joy of finding a oneness with the infinite. Tears of joy would flow as he talked about these eminences. He would often talk to Nehru about such matters as well.

Pearl S. Buck, the Nobel Prize winning author of The Good Earth, assorted politicians of all hues (Sarojini Naidu, M.K. Gandhi, Nehru, Manubhai Shah), businessmen from all over (Sarabhais, Birlas, Goenkas, Kastur Bhai Lal Bhai, Kotharis and many others), educationists, scientists, people with ideas were regular visitors and always welcomed into these homes. There were people from many countries and from many parts of India. Occasionally, the boundary between guest and host evaporated as when one of the guests asked my grandfather, Lala Shri Ram, where he came from!

Ours was a ‘perfect’ and privileged life, although we did not know it then. We thought all this was quite normal. Easy, painless access to all institutions, entertainment and public facilities, even walking in unchallenged into Nehru’s home (unthinkable in today’s security situation) as his grandson Rajiv was a play and schoolmate, and later, private walks in the quiet, secluded vastness of the President’s Estate were normal.

 

New colonies were sprouting up all over and providing work for a lot of new architects and builders. The western town design of Lutyens and Baker ceded ground to some truly outlandish edifices and residences. The Central Public Works Department (CPWD) was responsible for all government buildings and building approvals could only come from the MCD/NDMC. These esteemed people had the notion that the new India would never be able to afford automobiles (leave aside three automobiles per family as of now). Thus the horrendous parking problem that exists today can be directly attributed to the lack of ‘clear sighted’ vision as to how the future development of our society might be.

Some inventive evil genius (smarter than even Steve Jobs) invented the house numbering system in these new colonies which still continue to befuddle any newcomer. And, of course, we Indians who have such a glorious history, could never learn that despite the knowledge that the Hardinge and Minto Bridge underpasses always flooded even with the first monsoonal rainfall, topography or natural waterways needed to be provided for. Worse, we even permitted the concretizing of pavements, thus causing regular flooding and bodies of idle, stagnant water, which posed public health problems.

Somehow, the all new Diplomatic Enclave was properly conceived and developed, but only for the number of diplomatic missions at that time. Who knew that South Africa would become a friend or that the former Soviet Union and some African countries would, amoeba like, split into a whole new bunch of countries? Our family elders also felt that we should go live in this new area and accordingly plots were purchased and houses built on Kitchner Road (now Sardar Patel Road). What made these elders think that by shifting from the large houses with many facilities to smaller ones in the Diplomatic Enclave, they were going up in the world? This downward spiral has been only partially addressed by some of us shifting to farmhouses.

 

Many of the roads in the modern New Delhi had homes set well back from the motorable road. Between the house walls and the road were drains for capturing and carrying away rain and storm water, bicycle and pedestrian paths and equidistantly placed neem or jamun trees, space for road expansion, and a kerb for pedestrian and vehicle safety. One remembers biking, with a light golf set strapped to one’s back, from Curzon Road to the Delhi Golf Club in complete security along those bicycle paths. Now, unable and unwilling to discipline unruly traffic and illegal parking, the bicycle and pedestrian paths have virtually disappeared.

Small shops and kiosks have opened up on some pathways and an entire side of Janpath has been taken over by resettled refugees who were encouraged to open shops to earn a livelihood. A small break between these stores provided access to the Cottage Industries Emporium which offered artifacts, tribal art and paintings by artisans from all over India. The work of the legendary Mrs Prem Bery helped immeasurably to propagate such products and now several social and business entrepreneurs have taken this work much further. Thankfully, this Janpath arrangement is still an attractive affair.

 

Just up the road from these stores are the magnificent buildings of the Eastern and Western Courts where ‘justice’ was dispensed in the old days. Now, with new High Court/Supreme Court buildings, these were converted to hostelries for visiting government officers and for a post office and sundry, probably unnecessary, government offices. Near these courts is the famed Imperial Hotel which housed the then famed power restaurant, ‘Rendezvous’, with its wonderful French murals. Oberoi was the principal hotelier in Delhi in those days (Maidens, Swiss, Imperial and, for many years, the unfinished Oberoi Intercontinental!) before the government tried to give it scant competition with the Ashok (the best property by far in Delhi) and others. The first discos opened in the Oberoi Intercontinental (Tabela – a horse stable setting) and the Auberge at the Maidens.

With the mushrooming of new colonies, new roads had to be built. The Ring Road was a great idea but inevitably was swallowed up between colonies; even an outer Ring Road has met the same fate although it does allow for a freer traffic flow.

After brief sojourns at Pilani and McGill University, I landed up at St. Stephens in Delhi University. There were only a handful of colleges that mattered – St. Stephen’s, Hindu for natural competition and LSR, Miranda House and Lady Irwin for the opposite sex. St. Stephens had thankfully graduated from having male students act the part of females in their Shakespeare plays and, aside from trying to hone one’s limited histrionic skills, this was an added attraction. The college café with its endless supply of scrambled eggs and mince cutlets served by the redoubtable Shelly (not the poet!) even now bring back the fondest memories.

The entire Delhi University area, adjoining the old city and separated from New Delhi by a then well-forested ridge, was remarkably well laid out. Partly because there was no television, virtually all of us played active sports. Cigarettes were popular as they were still considered fashionable and nobody thought of injury to health, but psychotropic substances were almost unknown. Charas (marijuana/Mary Jane/bhang, whatever) sanctioned by the great sage Siva was all that was ever used.

 

Most of the eating houses for the young and idle were around the inner circle of Connaught Place – Wengers for confectioneries, pastries and patties, United Coffee House for jam sessions, Volga for romance, Gaylords for better fare among others. Bansi Bhai would routinely take us out to Madras Café in the Marina Hotel building (outer circle of Connaught Place) on Sunday mornings for idlis and dosas which was a great treat. Together with ‘chaat’ (frequently eaten standing at the roadside at Bhim Sain’s Bengali Market shop), this fare continues to be India’s favourite domestic fast food. The McDonalds and Pizza Huts have no answer to this competition. Tandoori chicken was invented in Daryaganj in the Moti Mahal restaurant by a refugee from Pakistan. Always dressed in a black suit and a tie with a big bristling moustache, the owner, looking very much like a well groomed, broad chested cock himself, was at every table assisting waiters to give satisfaction (which was there in ample measure) to all patrons. From here, tandoori and butter chicken fame has spread worldwide but the mood, atmosphere and the original taste of the original Moti Mahal is lost forever.

 

The great movie houses of yesteryears were virtually all in Connaught Place. Rivoli always had bustling crowds desperately trying to buy tickets from the impossibly small counter windows (while they were freely available outside with scalpers). The situation was the same at Plaza, Odeon and others. Regal was the grand theatre of them all with its impressive boxes for the ‘high faluting’. International film festivals were a rage as those films, unlike Indian films, were basically uncensored. Indeed, movies were a great escape from reality.

Theatres were few and far between with All India Fine Arts and Crafts Society (AIFACS) which had an attached art gallery being the principal one. Sapru House, in deep disrepair now, was also a regular centre for the performing arts. Soon, Kamani at the Bharatiya Kala Kendra, Siri Fort, Shriram Centre for Art and Culture and others came on the scene, while the great epics such as Ram Lila were always shown in the maidans of Firoz Shah Kotla, Modern School etc. to accommodate thousands.

Nehru died. In a spirit of traditional emotionalism and sycophancy, the residence meant for the prime minister was converted into a museum commemorating him. Why? Earlier it was the British Commander-in-Chief’s home and several others had lived in it before Nehru. Similarly, the Viceroy’s Palace, now the Rashtrapati Bhawan, has housed several viceroys and presidents without it becoming a museum to them. This was the beginning of a rot that still eats away at India’s body politic. Subsequent PM’s homes have similarly become memorials to them. Obviously prime minister’s take the best houses and, therefore, it is likely that Lutyen’s Delhi in a 100 years will simply become an area of memorials. Far better to have an attractive plaque, as they do in the U.K. (and having learned much from them, why not learn this too) stating that ‘Here lived Jawaharlal Nehru, Prime Minister of India from 1947 to 1963’.

 

On midnight of 15 August 1947, Nehru, our first prime minister talked about ‘our tryst with destiny’. That tryst, that promise, is not quite realized in the manner it was meant to. Whatever it was, it has shaped in Delhi. So, what will the Delhi or Dilli of the future be like? What is certain is that the demographic challenges will keep Dilli growing and inflating like a balloon. Always short of power (electric), increasingly short of water, deteriorating air quality, and privatized but still unsatisfactory delivery of public services will persist. The powerful and privileged, who live within a few square miles of Raisina Hill may prosper, but the soul of Delhi will continue to move further away from its rich traditional and cultural moorings, and that puts the real Dilli just a little... door!