Eighteen hours, three continents,
two long hauls and several time zones later (or earlier!), I find myself
trapped on a boisterous Delhi jam. The cacophony, the stench – a powerful
recipe involving waste, cardamom and exhaust fumes – are immediate reminders of
previous stays in India. Yet, the recollections last only briefly. As I
discover over the course of the following days, New Delhi, is quite unlike any
other subcontinental city.
In fact, the long, leafy avenues –
most impressively the horizon-defying Rajpath – of New Delhi are most
reminiscent of … Washington D.C.. Come to think of it, there is much in common
in the political past and present of these two cities: from their colonial days
to their modern position as capitals of federal unions, from the lasting legacy
of two towering figures (I have started reading Ramachandra Guha’s India After Gandhi, in which much is said
about the similarities between Jawaharlal Nehru and Thomas Jefferson), from the
perceptible weight of the state apparatus to the ubiquity of a diplomatic
contingent (Khan Market being the equivalent of Georgetown). In New Delhi,
however, the city center (Lutyen’s Delhi) is not occupied by office buildings
but by the houses of the individuals assumed to work in them – the Indian Civil
Service (ICS).
The Rajpath with the Indian Parliament fading into the horizon
Just as I arrived, news broke out
of the attribution of one of the best ‘bungalows’ (i.e., a mansion) to cricket
star Sachin Tendulkar, who recently became a member of parliament on behalf of
Sonia and Rahul Gandhi’s Congress Party (INC). Eventually, Tendulkar rejected
the ‘gift’ but it is unclear whether this was due to public outrage, or to
internal opposition: it appears the desirable grade VII ‘bungalow’ was
considered too high an honor for such a junior member of parliament. The other
big story on the press reports to the budding rise of Narendra Modi, Gujarat’s Chief
Minister, as the main opposition candidate for the 2014 Lok Shaba (national legislative)
elections. Sadly, this ominous sign of things to come (at least for those concerned
with communal peace), seems auspicious to me, the social scientist,
since my own research interests have come to bear on Modi and Gujarat. Few
experiences underscore this thought and the human costs of the political
phenomena as my later visit to the grounds of Gandhi Smirti – the house where
the Mahatma lived his last days and was fatally shot by a Hindu nationalist on
January 30th, 1948.
The spot where Gandhi was shot
Finally, after three days of dust,
sweat and spice, I embark on the Dehra Dun Express towards the northern state
of Uttarakhand (most specifically in Landour, a small agglomerate on the
foothills of the Himalayas), where I will be studying Hindi for six weeks. The railway
line is currently in high demand by Delhites seeking to escape the ferocious pre-monsoon
heat, leaving me no other option than to take a place on 2nd class
no A/C. After wrestling my luggage through a busy platform, I enter a
sauna-like carriage to find my seat between two fellow travelers. It is 113F/45C
outside and inside the air is torpid. To distract myself from this sticky
discomfort, I take out my notebook and begin practicing the Hindi alphabet. I
should have probably anticipated that those around me would take this as an open
invitation for tutorial aid. Soon, I am in the company of nothing less than
five enthusiastic teachers. And so, in this sizzling and crowded carriage, my
Hindi education begins.
Inside the Dehra Dun Express
Diogo Lemos
PhD student in Political Science
2012 Sigur Center Grant for Asian Language Study in Asia
Hindi in India
No comments:
Post a Comment