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Location: Delhi, North India
The last stages of a train journey. My shoes slipped oafishly
on; a half-read book, folded at the corner and bagged away.
For any who enter Delhi by rail, what greater delight can
be witnessed in the cool morning air than mile after mile
of squatting silhouettes crapping by the rail-side. I chuckled
to myself and readied my luggage.
Like an aged tree, Delhi continues to fertilise its mighty
roots while its branches bear momentary blooms of art, design
and creativity. It seems the exclusive world of high culture
is in some way beginning to permeate not only the upper ends
of the spectrum but the whole of Delhi's social conscience.
But where exactly was the fashionable heart of the city I'd
heard so much about?
In a private gallery in Defence Colony I stroke my
chin pretentiously before a puzzling looking canvas. Behind
me a smart young couple inquire about purchasing work. They
are shown painting after painting by young artists from across
the country, before finally settling on a curious looking
abstract.
"That's interesting." I remarked.
"Yes it is," replied the man, fumbling for his Mastercard.
"Why do you like it?"
He paused before answering, as though pondering the very depths
of his soul for a means of expressing the beauty of his acquisition.
"It fits the wall space and it's…err…cheaper
than the others."
I liked the man's honesty: his elevation of the functional
over the aesthetic. He had bought the painting not only as
an investment, but because he had the money to invest in the
first place.
That evening I'm taken to a wedding reception at a large
hotel. A wealthy girl was marrying a wealthy industrialist,
both I've never met and will never know. I spend the bulk
of the evening avoiding the cameraman. Not only is it an indignity
being the only guy in the room dressed like he should be on
the beach, but it's even more embarrassing being projected
live on a big screen for the family to wonder who I was and
how the hell I got in.
I met a few interesting people that night, some came close
to suggesting where Delhi's fashionable heart could be found.
Hotel clubs were apparently no longer the hub of Delhi's nightlife;
the 'scene,' if there was one, had dispersed across the city's,
bars, lounges and restaurants. Still, the craze for the camp
and 'over the top' could be found if you looked in the right
place. In the early hours I attend an Absolute Vodka night
at a club called Noyda. An ecstatic crowd chant 'Mullet'
whilst being handed false hair-pieces. Mullets, it seemed,
had gone global.
In the markets of the old city the choice is overwhelming.
Produce from over stocked shops spill out onto the pavements:
tea, spices and rice. A narcoleptic pup beds down on a flour
sack; a fat black rat waddles along the gutter. Near Lahore
Gate, I resign myself to a cycle-rickshall. Sanjay the
aged peddler grins a betel-reddened grin before cranking the
contraption into life. We rattle from the Red Fort
down Chandni Chowk, past flower sellers, cows and many
colours.
Though many ordinary citizens rarely have the means to purchase
avant-garde works of art or to sample the fineries of vodka
and stick on hair-pieces, the continuing sensitivity to high-culture,
choice and variety suggests that Delhi is a city coming to
grips with a multitude of tastes and flavours - both old and
new. |
Travel Writers: A Postcard from Delhi by
Neave Barker
