Ten things that define Delhi (2)

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But of course, Delhi is all about its women - the gorgeous dilliwallis.

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The girls of Bombay may have that oh-so-cool attitude, but it is the women of Delhi who have made formal dressing into a fine art.

I was sitting at the bar at the Maurya Sheraton with two English colleagues a couple of years ago, when we saw a high profile society wedding in the hotel. For nearly an hour, as the who's who of Delhi came for the wedding, the three of us just sat there fascinated. We saw what must be some of the most beautiful women in the world, wearing some of the most outstanding wedding costumes ever designed.

That evening has become one of my enduring images of Delhi. All those gorgeous women, swishing past in exquisite wedding lehengas, expensive jewellery, fancy purses, and stilettos...it was Delhi at its swankiest best.

Previous post in this series: Ten things that define Delhi - (1)

Next post in this series: Ten things that define Delhi - (3)

Ten things that define Delhi - (1)

Here's the first one:

All those glorious government buildings

(And outside them, the white Ambassador cars of the babu-log!)

Raisina Hill and it's surrounds are the most visible symbol of sovereign India. When someone says "The Indian Government", I'm guessing many of us see visions of Rajpath, Janpath, North Block, South Block, Parliament House, and so on.

I don't know about you, but this is an image that evokes mixed reactions in me.

On the one hand, there is pleasure at the image of broad roads and beautiful buildings. On a sunny day, you walk up Raisina Hill and see Rashtrapati Bhavan or the Secretariat silhouetted against a blue sky...the breeze blows through your hair and you feel like you're on top of the world.

On the other hand, there is despair at not being able to change the slow-moving and corrupt system. Through its sheer size, the bureaucracy towers terrifyingly over me; I feel dwarfed and impotent. It is like a mysterious machine that wields enormous power. The machine is inexorable, it holds the lives of a billion people in its palm...it grinds on, driven entirely by political intrigue and favour-trading.

Next post in this series: Ten things that define Delhi - (2)

Valentine, Schmalentine

At breakfast yesterday, my daughter put down the newspaper in irritation.
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"What's all this fuss about saving 'Indian culture', anyway?", she said. "Shouldn't we be more worried about poverty and hunger?"
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She was referring to the ongoing brouhaha over Valentine's Day. The press is full of it - there are those who say festivals like these are foreign transplants, which destroy Indian culture. There are those who stoutly defend the right of people to adopt whatever culture they like, whether it is Western or otherwise.
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It's not just Valentine's Day, but also other Western influences that irk many Indians. Many of us are bewildered by Bollywood videos of near-naked women gyrating to 'disco' songs. Where did these come from, we wonder, these images that are almost soft porn? Take a look at this one - Isqh Khudai, Rab ne Banai. While the lyrics are in Hindi, the setting is undoubtedly Western. The actors toss down tequila shots, the music has strong Western influences, and there's not a salwar kameez in sight.
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Parents and teachers are also coping with the spread of McDonalds, the increasing absorption with skinny bodies, the new mall culture, the alienation of children from their traditions, the growing incidence of divorce, the popularity of chat sites...somehow, all of these are perceived to be the results of the increasing influence of the West (read America) on the world.
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My husband looked up from the sports section that he was reading.
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"I can see why they want to stop this Westernisation", he smiled. "I half want to stop it myself!" (this from a very liberal man who loves jazz and the blues and thinks no party is complete without scotch whisky!)
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"Oh?" I said, vastly amused. "And why is that?"
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"Cultural exchange is great", he said. "But this is all so one-way! How come so little of Indian culture gets exported in the other direction?"
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I thought it was a very interesting perspective. If the West celebrated Indian festivals the way we celebrate theirs, perhaps people wouldn't feel so threatened? Perhaps if Holi became a popular world festival, we'd learn to take Valentine's Day in our stride!
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Anyway, this whole conversation went on and on, the three of us argued the merits of preserving and documenting culture, the rate at which cultural change happens today, historical trends, and all sorts of other interesting things. Finally, we all agreed, like the sensible family we are, that change is inevitable, and we must change with the times; adopting some changes and ignoring some.

Last night, my husband boarded a flight for Chennai, where he is spending this weekend with his parents. Today is Valentine's Day. I haven't wished him, and he hasn't wished me. Looks like I'm not changing my ways on this and neither is he!

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No Valentine-Schmalentine for THIS couple!

Someone tell me what this is?

I found it in the Crafts Museum. It's about five feet tall, I think.

A Mughal love story (no, it's not Mumtaz of Taj Mahal fame!)

I was born in 1968. At the beginning of that decade, an epic film of sweeping proportions aired in Indian cinemas: Mughal-e-azam. The Urdu word azam means "great", so I guess this would translate as The Great Mughal, or The Great Mughals.

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It is the story of the Mughal Emperor Akbar's rebellious son Salim, and his love for a dancing girl named Anarkali. Not a story with a happy ending, though - the story goes that Akbar disapproved of the relationship and had Anarkali buried alive. No one is quite sure if this is historically true, since there are no authentic records. But in Lahore, where Anarkali is from, there is a tomb said to be built by Salim.

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The movie was a phenomenal success. I think I first saw it when I was perhaps 10 years old. I didn't quite get it. Why all this fuss about a dancing girl, I thought. But what a dancing girl! The effervescent Madhubala, of the kissable lips and magical eyes.

This is Dilip Kumar, who played the besotted prince Salim. In this scene, he's watching her dance performance. Looks besotted, doesn't he? (I used to be quite besotted with *him*, by the way - but that's another story!)

Mughal-e-azam is the stuff of Bollywood legend. Directed by K Asif (a madman if ever there was one!), this was the most expensive film ever made in Indian history. Tailors were brought from Delhi to stitch the costumes, specialists from Surat-Khambayat were employed for the embroidery, Hyderabad goldsmiths made the jewellery, Kohalpur craftsmen designed the crowns, Rajasthan ironsmiths crafted the weapons, and elaborate footwear was ordered from Agra.

For a battle sequence between Akbar and Salim, 2000 camels, 4000 horses and 8000 troops were used, many of them soldiers on loan from the Jaipur Regiment of the Indian Army. In the movie, Salim's father throws Anarkali into jail - and Asif ordered that real irons be used, not fake light ones. It was Madhubala's greatest ordeal in the film and she was bedridden for days nursing the bruises caused by wearing those chains.

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Shooting began in 1944, but was completed only in 1960. In 1957, colour technology came to India, and Asif was immediately galvanised to shoot the movie in colour. By then, of course, the cost of the movie had already reached astronomical proportions, so only 3 reels were shot in colour, and 85% of the movie remained in black and white. When you went to the cinema, it started as a black and white film; then changed to colour, went back to black and white, and then colour again! The movie was recoloured recently, and relaunched in 2004. I guess Asif would be happy.

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Strangely enough, I've only seen the movie in bits and pieces. I watched one dance clip recently on TV (from where I got the photos above). It prompted me to write this piece, and now I'm itching to buy the DVD. But I think I'll need to brush up on Urdu before I attempt this film!

The Story Teller and His Audience

If you are visiting North India, you will probably come across a performance of kathak somewhere.

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The word kathak comes from the word katha or story. Kathak dancers are traditional story tellers, showcasing legends through music and dance. A kathak performance teaches as well as entertains, using a rich and sophisticated poetic literature in Sanskrit and Brajbhasha.

I spotted this kathak dancer at the Gateway Hotel in Agra. He was on a little stage, dancing to a piece of recorded music. His audience was a bunch of foreign travellers, several of whom had just made the 5-hour drive from Delhi, and were now relaxing at the bar watching him over their beers.

The dancer told the story of the blue-skinned God Krishna and his lover Radha. It was a beautiful story, embellished with subtle glances and elegant footwork. In the story, Krishna and Radha meet in the forests of Vrindavan, he plays the flute for her, and even the birds and the deer stop to listen to the magic of his song. She quarrels with him, over the attention he pays to other women. As he cajoles and teases her into forgiveness, she becomes lost in his leela. In the eternal all-consuming fire of her love, she forgets herself and merges into the divine.

The story was well told, but the audience understood absolutely nothing.

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I was not surprised - the song was meaningless to them, and the vocabulary of the dance was entirely foreign. How does someone from a strange culture understand the symbolic mechanisms that dancers use while switching roles? How do they understand what the arched coquettish eyebrow, or the sideways glance, or the delicate flick of the wrist means, when they don't even get the context of the story? Not surprisingly, at some of the most sublime moments of the performance, the audience merely stared into their beer mugs or looked around for the bartender.

The real tragedy of it was that the performer was quite competent, with at least 10-15 years of rigorous training behind him. In spite of people moving around, or ignoring him completely, he danced with grace and dedication, as if he had all eyes upon him. I felt so bad for him, I wanted to run away and hide somewhere.

That night in my hotel room, I asked myself - Why does this happen in India, this trashing of our art forms until they become a pathetic mockery of themselves?

I realized that there are multiple issues, some of them quite complex. But I believe our lack of respect and value for our art forms is definitely one of the problems. The hotel staged this performance in their lobby, in a noisy area near the bar, perhaps because they had no other venue. But because it was presented like that, as an optional "cultural" show with drinks at the bar, the dance became a trivial tidbit, a take-it-or-leave-it affair. There was no formal introduction to the performer and his background, no explanation of kathak traditions or gharanas, no story outline – as a matter of fact, there was even no seating around the stage for anyone who wanted to watch the whole performance. It is as if the hotel had decided already that this was a boring performance, and not worth the effort. Naturally, the performance just tanked. When you yourself treat something like trash, it is very difficult for others to treat it with respect.

Contrast this with my experience at The Oberoi Bali. The hotel arranged a Balinese dance show with dinner, a rendering of some scenes from the Ramayana. They had amphitheatre style sunken seating for those who wished to view the show. For others, there were tables set discreetly so that every single person had a view of the dance. The waiters were quiet and hushed, you could order food and drinks, but it was clear that there was a performance, and you had to give it due respect. On every table, there was a one page description of the show, describing the acts that it was broken into, and giving a brief summary of the storyline. I’m sure we didn’t understand all the nuances of the performance – but we enjoyed it because of the way it was organised.

Some would argue that it is not the hotel, but the artiste who is responsible for audience delight. If the audience doesn’t like something, then either the dancer is to blame, or the dance form itself is to blame. Why was the kathak dancer not able to have any impact on his foreign audience? In spite of the poor seating and noise, could he not have drawn the audience towards him? Could he not have told them the story before dancing?

Unfortunately, our classical performers are not geared to explain their art to people from other cultures. The Indian art tradition assumes that audiences come from the same broad cultural milieu. It presupposes a shared cultural background where the stories and legends are commonly understood. In addition, the classical dance forms also assume that audiences understand the format in which dance is delivered, for example, the way in which sections of story/emoting are interspersed with sections of pure rhythm/dance. The other problem is purely practical - I very much doubt the dancer had the necessary English-speaking skills to explain the origins of kathak, or its morphing over the ages, to a foreign audience.

My personal view of the matter is that in our country, it is not practical to leave the matter to the artiste. Most Indian performers, including those from both folk and classical traditions, have poor/basic English education levels, with little or no exposure to overseas audiences. Their skill lies in their art, and not in the packaging or marketing of their art to overseas visitors. In my mind, it is very much the responsibility of the intermediary – for example, the hotel, or the tourism development board or the tour company arranging the performance – to ensure both the dignity of our arts as well as an enjoyable experience for the tourist.

As someone who is part of the tourism industry, I will do my bit to make things better. But I suspect it will take a while to get to the point where "cultural" performances don't make me squirm.

The Paratha Chronicles

During a recent routine check, the doctor was quite blunt. 'You need to lose five kilos', she said. 'Are you exercising?'

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I stammered an embarassed answer, and promised to cut down on the carbs. But it's really hard, when you're a vegetarian, to put together a soul-satisfying meal that doesn't have wheat or rice in it.

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After four days of salads and fruits and juices, I found myself face to face with a gajar-gobi paratha today. Of all the things in the world that I can't resist, this is one of them. It's actually quite a healthy thing to eat, so for those of you who are NOT afraid of carbs, here's how we made it.

Grate carrots and cabbage - as much as you like, in whatever proportion you like.

Two spoons of oil, add grated stuff and saute over medium flame. Add finely chopped green chillies.

The thing reduces to half its original volume very quickly. Leave to cool.
Meanwhile, add salt, cumin powder and coriander to wheat flour.

Mix it all into chappati dough (doesn't need water), let it stand for 20 minutes.

Roll it out and cook on flat griddle. Don't use oil, just roast it on the griddle until it's crisp on the outside. Because of the veggies, it's still soft on the inside. I ate it with dal and sprouts and mango pickle and buttermilk. Sigh. It was brilliant.

A new desi delight

It is now official, folks. I have no backbone.

There I was, watching the History Channel, when they suddenly sprang a programme on the history of Chocolate. Fifteen minutes into the show, my backbone gave way, and I raided the fridge, desperate for anything, just anything chocolatey.

Here's what I found in the fridge - handmade chocolates from Ooty.

The purple ones were minty, and the square ones had all sorts of exotic spices and dry-fruits in them (I didn't stop at one, of course).

The cocoa in these chocolates is grown in spice plantations, interspersed with palm, arecanut and other trees.

Chocolate is quite a new fangled thing in India. Before 1965, the cocoa crop was not commercially produced anywhere in India. Then thanks to Cadbury India, cultivation began in Kerala, and from there, spread to other states in the South (as a matter of fact, in many places, the cocoa tree is actually called the ‘Cadbury’ tree!)

Although chocolate has been around only a few years, we're already inventing a whole new cuisine around it. Homemade chocolates (which all the honeymooning couples at Ooty go ga-ga over) are just the tip of the choco-craze. Every time I visit my local mithai shop, I see proof that we have happily combined traditional Indian milk-sweets and spices with this new upstart ingredient from South America. Have you tasted chocolate burfi yet? Or hunted down a chocolate laddoo recipe from the internet? How about chocolate peda then? Or “Jain” chocolate mousse!
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Even at the poorest end of the spectrum, chocolate has made a conquest - when my maid had a grandchild last month, she rushed out of the house, and came back with a gift pack of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut for us to celebrate.

I'm telling you, there's a chocolate revolution happening in India. It's sneaking up on us, bite by heavenly bite, we just don't know it yet!

I'm off to raid the fridge again, people. (Told ya, no backbone). Almond drops, anyone?