Monday, April 24
There were posters for some other films outside the movie hall, including "Free Entry" a pun on a recent popular film called "No Entry," which was about some swinging young couples. There was also "Bad Girl" -- the poster had a girl in a miniskirt dancing, with a large red cross stamped on her. I went back a week or so later and found posters for "Madhubala" and "Free Entry" gone, while a large white poster had been stuck over "Bad Girl." the sign advertising its earlier shows and another that said "Strictly Over 18" were still visible. I wondered if the moral police and I were on some telepathic wave-length, but the boy at the cigarette and telephone stand under the poster said the movie hall had been booked for two weeks by schools so kids could watch the pariotic flick "Rang de Basanti" (Color Me Saffron). For the cinema's regular clients, something called "Retake: One More time " was on offer.
My heart sank. The DDA is the largest land-owning body in the city and is also responsible for the 20-year "master plans" that are supposed to govern how the city develops. They are still working on the master plan for 2000-2021. It is expected later this year though this no doubt has been said for the last six years. More to the point, They are housed in a tall, depressing building (see a photo in August 2005 in the archives) and my modus operandi of looking up a bureaucrat's name on the Internet and then hanging around outside their office trying to ingratiate myself with their peons seemed unlikely to work there. The DDA is, I'm sure, By Appoinment Only. Well, I supposed I could call up and ask for an appointment on some seemingly innocuous topic: the Beautification of World-Class Delhi, say. Or should it be the World-Classification of Beautiful Delhi?
It was six o'clock. The office was closed. I tried to go to the DDA last week but it was Friday and everything was closed for Easter. So I went back to Nangla Machi.
A group of people who ran a cyber house there started a listserve for people who had an association with the neighborhood, I think some are residents, I'm not sure about all. The listserves are both in English and Hindi, though with roman text. In the darkened house of one of Nangla's leaders, surprising cool and with incense to keep away the mosquitoes, four or five men amassed papers showing proof of tenure in the city -- ration cards, election cards. I spoke a while to the man organizing these efforts. In the middle one of his men interrupted, anguished. "People who came from other places, from what is now Pakistan, not even India, they got land," he said. "What about us, we were born in a free India. Where is our land?" saying it don't make it so
Open drains run past one of the poshest neighborhoods in South Delhi -- Panchsheel Park. And they border Siri Fort Auditorium -- a theater that is part of the Asian Games complex, built the last time India was trying to impress its friends and neighbors by hosting an international athletic event (the next ones are the Comomonwealth Games, 2010). Still, I can't help but wonder how these drains -- which I can adjust to but not really warm to -- figure into the cityscape of all those who insist on linking the following three words: world, class, Delhi. I couldn't juxtapose the two together any better than the Times of India has just done with its new advertising campaign. (You can't see it but Siri Fort is right behind.) Monday, April 2
To be accurate, there were three mentions of it. NDTV did a feature (well done Poonam Aggarwal, the reporter who did it) interviewing a woman who lived there. The Indian Express ran a photo (which my illustration is copied from). And Navbharat Times, a Hindi daily, did a story about how protesting slum dwellers had snarled traffic on bridges leading from the city to across the river.
Some of them had been there for 20 years, some for 15. One of them, close to the main road, had added a second floor to his shack and painted the whole thing blue. Passing it the other evening, my mother said, "I thought that one was asking for trouble." But strangely, it's one of the ones still standing. I visited them on my way home from work Friday. They were sort of expecting me, or someone from the news anyway -- they had been keeping tabs of how their turmoil of the last week had been covered and they weren't very pleased. One woman said to me, "It's great fun for you isn't it? To come here and have a look around?" I felt stung but I couldn't argue with her. No one can be expected to like a tourist, especially when your house has just been torn down. I am reading a book about the late 1970s, when under a two-year dictatorship the then prime minister had had parts of the city torn down and shifted their residents elsewhere. The elsewhere to where they were moved to was the wilds of the city then, but I realize from looking up the names from the map that we live squarely among the “resettlements.” But now some of the resettlements are being torn down as well. Since a court judgment in November 2002, the city's slum department has been going after all the people living on the river banks in order to, what else, beautify the city. And now, the city doesn't owe any alternate housing to people who moved here after 1998. Those who moved before 1990 will get a 25 square meter plot, supposedly, those who moved between 1990 and 1998 will get 12.5 square meters. How big is that? I'll have to lay newspapers end to end and measure them to see how many papers make a house of that size. I wanted to visit some of ones near our house as well -- partly because one of them, I think, is mentioned in the book through which I first mentally registered the Emergency city beautification campaign. And because people who work for us live there. But even though some of the neighborhoods – Ambedkhar Camp, Khichripur (which I believe is where our hero gets removed to in "Midnight's Children" but I have to check that. Loosely translated, it means Goulashville, which I think can't be accidental) – are less than a mile away I haven’t managed to get myself there. Somehow everytime I think about going there, I feel this loathness to actually go. Honestly, I think it’s a reluctance to leave the psychological safety of my class confines. People will justifiably look at me strangely or mistake me for a city employee and ask me questions I have no answers to. But Nangli
Machi was on my way home, the demolition had just happenend, no one
was writing about it and if I didn’t go soon, except for the
two words and few lines in my Eicher map, they would be gone. That's
what happened to Rajeev Camp, around the corner, which was broken
down a month after we moved here. I couldn't find it on the map the
other day -- there isn't even that evidence now that it existed. When
things you know were there aren't on maps it's sort of a vertiginous
feeling. The movie-influenced part of my mind can't help wonderng:
was it never on page 102 to begin with, or did it melt away later? |