Exploring cities

It was our first day on a field trip to Sultanpur Lodhi, India. We only knew that it was that it was town with significant religious associations and we went with the intention to do a historic research that helps guide the master plan proposal for the area. The logical step would have been to equip ourselves with a map and explore the areas of historic relevance magnified on various cartoon like tourist maps. But that was the only thing we weren’t going to do.

We left our room, which was in the local free temple and set on a journey to experience the town. Without a map for direction or a specific destination, we went on a leisurely stroll. While walking down the road a distant view of a very narrow street enticed us. We gave into every such temptation of inviting narrow winding streets, broken mosque dome, ruins of house, hens fighting in a courtyard or music playing in shops. We clearly looked like we were not from this part of the town and the curiosity reflected in our eyes was reciprocated by the local folks enthusiasm. This is an essential nature of humankind, as curiosity always takes the better of them. And this was true for the people of Sultanpur and as well as us. We were hesitatingly asked the purpose of our visit and soon enough we were invited to a cup of tea. Over such instances of tea, milk, buttermilk or cane juice we were told the stories of their life, their struggles, their house, their beliefs, their children and their plans for future. By the time we took leave, we were sometimes inquired about our marital status in case we wanted them to look for a suitable match. In a day or two we got to know the town, the people , the buildings, the temples and mosques that stood the test of time and those that did not.

We walked into any house that took our fancy, for its interesting lintel detail or an intriguing sign board and we came out with the most interesting revelation. They always had an important place in history, an interesting story and were an integral part of the town. The pictures we took and sketches’ we made all had a beautiful story behind them. One of our colleagues fell in love with a girl in the red house, who peeked out and waved to him in a way that took his heart. I unfortunately got bit by a dog on the bendy street that leads to the temple. And soon everyone had their own interesting stories or memories, in the narrow streets, school courtyard, street square or the juice shop. We knew our way around, had our favorite shops and new friends. We were now a part of the town’s history and its story.

Then we found a map, walked down the streets and marked on the map the town we had got to know. We took photographs with the people who lived there, the hens that fought and bought the folk music we had come to enjoy. Every house, every street had a story, of our engagements with it and that told to us by the elders of the house. The entire town was mapped into our minds, and as we walked it we marked our associations with it on the map no matter how trivial they seemed. Such instances weaved together our story of the city and its history.

This is how I have come to prefer to experience a new place or city. And I am guilty of the doing the same in London. Since it was my first experience of foreign city, I kept my distance from all the well known places. Not because it breaks my silent code or rule but because it is always disappointing to go to a place that features on the list of things to do and never understand the point of it. The Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar square or china town are not meant to be destinations, rather their value is in their unexpected discovery while on another journey. I cannot share the joy of finding the most eccentric café with a vintage bazaar, live band performance, bar and café all in one space in the most unassuming part of Hackney. London is full of such treasures that can never be on a list of things to do but is discovered when one journeys into the town aimlessly. Walking without a destination, getting to know the people who offer their reassuring smiles (even though they are few in numbers) and occasionally stumbling upon an important artifact of human history is a very personal and meaningful way of engaging with the city.

The Curious case of Craig Price

It’s not that I came from India with any preconceived notions or prejudice against the English. But once here I was constantly flooded with various peoples experience on how pretentious and snobbish the polite English were. Coming from a land of gregarious, affable and loud people it took time for me to adjust into a quiet and unassuming existence. I was given detailed instructions on how to deal with English, being polite, saying thank you and sorry at every possible opportunity, then saying it again, trying to have a strange unapproachable look on the face and controlling the length of your smile when you greet someone. As simple as they sound they were mighty hard to follow, I diligently took to saying thank you till it hurt, every time the driver stopped the bus, someone gave way on the footpath or nudged a few steps. I apologized profusely for walking slowly in narrow footpath, for making the bus driver wait a second longer and for everything else that would have seemed trivial back home. The controlled smile was the toughest to achieve, as I’m accustomed to giving wide smiles to everyone, even if they just happens to share eye contact on the street. A grin I was told was complete no-no, as it definitely gives English the wrong idea, even if the person is your friend it’s a good idea to refrain from showing teeth. I have to admit I still haven’t been able to follow this advice through, I look clearly thrilled to see my friends and acquaintances and I can just hope they don’t think that I suffer from dementia.

So basically I was living a life constrained by the genuine and well meaning advice of friends. In a house share where I live with a friend from India and others, we tried to be cordial without seeming too friendly. The regular how are you were shared, with expected good and see you later. Conversations were limited and rightly so, as we didn’t want to be improper or inappropriate in any way. One of our flat mates decided to move out; we moaned and cribbed as he was a friendly Japanese guy who completely enjoyed conversations on Indian culture. Our social contact in the flat of six people was limited to the Japanese guy, who also was the only one who cooked apart from us. Not cooking is also an important part of British culture, which was revealed to me later.

Anyways I met Craig on the day he moved into the flat share. The first impression of the gaping hole in his ear and pierced tongue were disturbing enough, and on top of that he mistook me for my friend. Well I would forgive an English to be of the view that all Indians look the same but I repeatedly told him that it wasn’t me that he had met before, but he still seemed convinced. Even though I am of the opinion that the physical appearance of my friend and me is strikingly different I didn’t take the discussion any further. He just seemed too friendly, which I had now learned to be a strange and odd attribute for the English. His dad was also in the house as he was helping him move. From the few minutes of my acquaintance with his dad, he came across as an absolutely delightful person who even willingly subjected himself to my very pungent Indian tea! And then I saw a sight that I don’t think my eyes ever will again in this country, his dad gave his son a long and loving hug before he left. I have to admit even though I felt very nostalgic and it reminded me of home, I couldn’t really place the whole idea of such a close knit family in this context.

Soon Craig Price came to change the way we thought of British Culture, as revealed through the acquaintance of this young lad it could now even be called cheerful, friendly and open. Soon he befriended the entire house. To the surprise of my friend and me, this hippie looking guy actually cooked and even regularly. Finally there was someone else using the kitchen, and it wasn’t that he heated pre cooked dishes in the name of cooking, No Sir; he did full-fledged gastronomical and wonderful looking dishes. I hate to generalize but for a young guy of twenty two years with a rough exterior, this talent did come as a surprise. Later he went on to crush all our presumption of the English. He is English to the core- well technically, brought up in the picturesque countryside of Shrewsbury. But he talked and did stuff that we never imagined an English to do. He willingly discussed his family, his Nanna, his Dad and soon enough we got to know his family as he got to know ours. Most people here can find the idea of discussing family pointless and nauseating, and they make it sound as if the reference is to something that happened in their past lifetime of which they hardly have a recollection.

What is shocking still is the idea that he fancied the idea of starting a family soon. Now I come from a family where there is an umpteen pressure to get married early and its fairly commonplace for people to marry relatively young, yet his inclination baffled me. He so enjoyed having company and being with family that he wanted his own kids to be able to do all the fun activities with them. And a “treasure” box of fun things he did indeed! He unicycles, juggles, and juggles more and likes to jump about in stilts.

When not doing this random skilled stuff he tried to work on his animation assignments. Tries, like all creative professionals as it takes a lot of procrastination to create. A jovial person, he soon came to befriend the entire neighborhood we had come to think of as snobs. We got accustomed to see him randomly talking to neighbor’s kids, postman or trying to make a conversation with someone on the street through his window.

Well I have learnt a few lessons from this curious case. That human nature and the idea of family is common amongst cultures, it’s not the region that you are born into that determine your personality but it’s the environment created by your family that shapes the young clay minds into being something that cannot be shaken by any pressure of the society. Instead of trying to be like others, he created a change in the whole environment while being very straightforward and humble about who he was. Clearly the credit goes to his family for him being the way he is, as this is the clarity that you gain if nourished and made to believe in yourself at the most crucial age of your life. The cultural difference that seemed so gapingly apparent between Indian and English no longer seemed so. In fact across cultures we all have the common human tendency to belong, love and share.

Soon enough I stopped “pretending” to deal with the “pretentious” English. I am what I am, and I’m back to gleefully smiling at people on the street and scaring the hell out of them!

Delhi !

While walking in the narrow bustling streets of Shahjanabad in the old city of Delhi, one is awed by the number of people concentrated in those streets with narrow pavements, small shop fronts and houses above. Frequently one brushes with or bumps into the local people. Unlike the over-polite English, here an apology is not expected. And in case an unassuming foreigner offers his, it usually baffles natives and leaves them confused about how to react. The truth is that Indians don’t mind proximity and here the sense of personal space is almost nonexistent.

Indian culture is strongly built around communities, neighborhoods and a close family network. All festivities involve getting together large circles of acquaintances, friends, neighbors and families, a large scale of gathering that usually comes together in a comparatively small space. The explanation can be found in our traditional daily rituals. Our architecture too has evolved in response to these habitual needs.

The contrast to western culture is so great that understanding the loud, unmannerly, hospitable and food obsessed Indian culture cannot come easily. Nor is the significance of the traditional dark narrow streets, courtyard houses and absence of open spaces immediately clear. But on a closer look, the traditional architecture of the old city can be seen to meet the socializing needs of people. At every level the built fabric responds to the culture of congregation, celebration and food, where notions of privacy or segregation are almost non-existent.

The narrow bendy streets of Shahjanabad are also the heart of commercial activity. These streets are formed by three to four storey houses on both sides with small shop fronts on the ground floor. The shop and house front is traditionally placed on a meter high plinth. A pedestal of sorts, this is used for various activities throughout the day, in the morning it’s used by the shop owners to sit and observe the activities on the street while sharing tea and debating politics. In the afternoon it’s used by prospective customers waiting to get inside the very small and tight shops and in the evening it is transformed into a place where children play or women of the house sit to interact with the neighbors. It is common to see this space used for activities that don’t ordinarily need to leave the house. Women can be seen cutting vegetables, embroidering cloth or enjoying their evening tea on the street.


The houses on the floor above are also in dynamic interaction with the street. The height of these residential floors helps shade the street from scorching sun and the façade of the houses respond to the street with small, colorful and ornate openings called Jharokhas. Somewhere between a small window and a balcony, these recessed windows with shutters are the means by which the residents interact with people on the street or in other houses. These Jharokas are used sit and observe daily activity on the street. And it’s also fairly common to see people screaming out loud from their windows to someone on the street or in the house in front/opposite?. The street is always alive with noisy and apparently chaotic commercial and social activity. However under the seeming chaos, everything works in perfect order and unison.

The traditional house is called a Haveli, which is a courtyard building formed by small rooms opening into it. It has[evolved as a response to the cultural and climatic needs of the region. Traditionally the Haveli is for a joint family that houses up to ten nuclear families. The courtyard is shaded by two three storied room on all sides and becomes an ideal place for children to play and men to idle around. All the daily activities of cooking, washing, eating are usually carried out in the open courtyard. So the courtyard functions as a kitchen, living room and family room at different times of the day. Since Indian women spend most of the day cooking, socializing for them involves doing this activity with relatives, neighbors and friends in their courtyard. And on a usual morning and evening, the haveli courtyard is as crowded and as loud as the street, with whistling pressure cookers, chatting women, playing kids and arguing men. The rooms are not used much, except for sleeping. The act of keeping to yourself in your room or wanting privacy is considered rude and is looked at with suspicion. The most private areas of the house like bathrooms are conspicuous by their absence. And it’s only recently that owners have started converting their store rooms into toilets, as traditionally these activities were not to be housed within the residential areas.

The intensity of activity, noise and crowd can be appalling to someone who’s foreign to Indian Culture. And the lack of civility might seem shocking, but the next time you bump into a local at Shahjanabad, instead of apologizing and walking past, try and make a conversation and it won’t be surprising if you end up spending the rest of your holiday with their extended family in the ancestral Haveli!

Beyond vision

While I took my friend to an ISKON temple at Soho, Oxford Street, I was taken on a blindfold journey to a place of her choice. And this is how it goes…

On a lovely bright sunny Saturday afternoon, I was blindfolded by Helen outside a stone archway. On entering it, I still felt like I was still in the open, and there was a sudden shrill by an assumingly young crowd that brisked past me. The feeling of being self-conscious never occurred to me, since I was going second, I was absolutely aware that the embarrassment was all Helens. I entrusted her to be my eyes as she guided me through. The ambience of the place suddenly turned a little cold and I could hear the echo of my footsteps, we crossed something of a dungeon / tunnel which ended into a place with a familiar smell of coffee. The ‘café’ didn’t seem too busy; the sounds were faint and distant. We kept moving, and I was guided by Helen holding my elbow. I held on to the wall as she left to take some pictures, the wall was smooth to touch and uneven in texture and slowly moved my hands and felt curved flutings of the columns. We moved on and reached the steps, I kicked and dragged my foot up to feel the steps and made my way up slowly. I think we reached a big Hall as the hall echoed with the sounds of the visitors. One of them exclaimed how beautiful it was, and for the first time I felt the frustration of not being able to see. We traced back our steps and my blindfold was removed, and the bright sun, hurt and blinded!

p.s. The identity of the place is still shrouded in mystery …

A journey within

Walking towards the ornate splendor in stone, one wonders at the meaning of these intricate sculptures. But on a closer and careful look, one vaguely recalls the references to the stories of Mahabharta and Ramayana. And gradually the narratives of the mythological stories told at bed time, come to life.

The bells begin to ring, and one is reminded that the evening prayers or Aarti has begun. It is an auspicious time and I move towards the congregation Hall and remove my shoes to attend the prayer ceremony. The stone below my feet has been worn smooth by innumerous disciples and it is still very warm with their constant touch. After washing my hands and feet in the water from the fresh water spring nearby, I climb the steps to the hall. On reaching the hall, I see others around me in the large colonnade, moving towards the garbhagriha or the centre of the temple.

As one moves towards the garbha griha, the sounds of bells becomes clearer and louder, the other sounds begin to drown and the natural light dims to an almost dark. One almost forgets the presence of so many others, as one concentrates on the sacred flame or “Aarti” being offered by the priest. Feeling the warmth of the flame and the strong, familiar and comforting smell of incense, one starts the journey around the GarbhaGriha or the womb of the temple. The space is now narrow, tight and dark but without guidance one starts moving in the direction, the darkness makes one feel the wall as one slowly takes the circumambulatory path. The stone is smooth to touch, but cold. The path is crowded, but one feels surprisingly distant and alone. And this passage ends with the sight of the sacred flame again. Like a journey within and back, one suddenly finds oneself back amongst the other disciples. The sight has adjusted itself and now one begins to see others around. The Sanskrit chants recited by the Priest have no meaning to me but their rhythmic sounds and vibrations have a meditative effect. I close my eyes and contemplate. The sublime experience of this religious ritual undoubtedly reinforces one’s existence in the world. Bowing my head in respect, I move out with a new light inside.