Delhi diary

My brother and I had just discovered that bread with condensed milk was an awesome combination. Curfew had been declared in most parts of Delhi and lots of essential items including butter were in short supply and this was a delightful windfall.

We had heard the news of Indira Gandhi’s assassination in school; and were pleased in a macabre sort of way and took ghoulish delight in embellishing whatever little we knew.
Once we knew holidays had been declared our joy knew no bounds.

It was strange that the tragedy that unfolded didn’t seem to stain our joy at playing chor police and gilli danda.

The butcher of Trilokpuri, Kishori lal amongst others had spread terror and Sikhs were cowering in fear. Our neighbour, a colleague of my father’s took shelter along with his family in our home since homes were being profiled and selectively targeted. I remember the adults being very wary of letting their two young kids play outside with us; their long hair piled on top capped by mini turbans gave them away. But nothing impacted my brother’s and my joy at having unexpected holidays.  

My father in those days worked as a plant controller in a company owned by Sikhs. As it happened, a lot of the senior executives happened to be Sikhs. On 31st October just after dinner, dad got a call from the managing director. “Hegde, you need to rescue a Sikh guard who is stuck in the bottling plant.” Though small in stature, my father was not lacking in courage, he drove to the plant in his silver grey ambassador and was waylaid thrice by mobs of men in the notorious area of Govindpuri. He curried favour with them by roundly abusing Sikhs and managed to reach the bottling plant: finding the plant unlocked, he first directed a Nepali Gurkha to lock it. Once the premises had been secured, he asked him to procure a blanket. Thank God for that humongous monstrosity, the ambassador. It was the ideal getaway car. The security guard was covered with a blanket and hidden under the front seat on the passenger side. The high seat allowed him to remain hidden when the car was stopped on the way out as well by the mob, but talking glibly about having visited the temple in Kalkaji, and how it was a good riddance that the Sikhs had run away in terror, my father managed to drive the guard to the factory in Okhla where he gave instructions that none of the Sikh guards was to venture out. Only Hindus were allowed to man the front gates. Food would be provided in the factory itself.

The whole of Delhi was burning and the grief struck, son of Madam Gandhi, India’s new inexperienced Prime Minister’s infamous remark that when a big tree falls, the ground shakes” did nothing to reduce tension and infact galvanized an entire section of rogue elements to show their loyalty by hacking away at Sardars.The weapon of choice was kerosene which was supplied by Congressmen owning petrol stations.

Armed with voters lists, the mobs were able to figure out which houses had Sikh residents, an otherwise impossible task as the Sikhs were well integrated and stayed in unmarked and diverse locations.

Our area in South Delhi had a decent set of residents and Hindus stayed up nights, vigilant against migrant mobs.

We ourselves had a stick or “danda” lying by our front door to counter any violence. Luckily we never got to check the efficacy of the danda.

Some days later when the situation had calmed a bit, the same security guard met my father and spoke with anguish “ Saab mujhe nahin bachana tha, mere parivar ke paanch logon ka katl ho gaya” (Sir, you shouldn’t have saved me, Five members of my family were killed.)

None of this was communicated to us, young as we were, and we merrily played from morning till dusk within calling distance of the balcony, trooping home whenever we felt hungry.

Delhi was many things at many times of the year. Every summer a dust storm called Loo used to sweep across the city blowing gritty sand on anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in it. On one such occasion my brother had gone out. I was sitting in the drawing room wrapped in my novel, mum came and asked worriedly whether Ashwin had returned. Being lost in my imaginary tales I hadn't noticed him and said no. Mum went hunting for him. Later when we found him in the room, I got the firing of a lifetime.

It didn't really have a rainy season, but after the hot, soul sapping heat of the summer, and the humidity post that, the weather turned marvelous in October. Ladies started pulling out all their fine cashmeres in preparation of the winter months. 

The winters were bone numbing cold. I knew a girl who went a week without a bath because it was just too cold.

The house that we stayed in, was terribly designed. The drawing room and master bedroom were completely enclosed but to access the kitchen and the children’s room one passed through a corridor which was open to the elements. Even the access from our bedroom to the bathroom was through the same corridor. In Delhi winters, it was not a fun thing to encounter the early morning chill and one tried delaying peeing as much as possible to avoid getting out of the room.

In spite of all this, our house was inundated with a flood of visitors. The first off the block was my great uncle who had come with his wife to witness the Asian games. Tickets were in short supply but my parents were able to source two tickets for the opening ceremony. My mother took my great uncle to the Jawaharlal Nehru stadium to witness that.

A couple of days later we got six tickets, but in groups of two, for a football match. We split ourselves up in the following way:

Dad with my brother

Mum with my great aunt

Myself with my great uncle.

The logic being that each pair had one adult who was familiar with the stadium.Deciding to meet at the parking lot after the match, we went in to enjoy the fixture.

Unfortunately, after the match, my great uncle and I, lost our bearings and couldn't find our way back to the parking lot. I was the translator for directions since he didn't know any Hindi and most Delhiites don't know too much English. I almost got my ears boxed for not knowing the way despite being eight years old and a resident of Delhi to boot. He was mad at me and I was made to feel guilty even though I had never been to the stadium before. After about an hour of wandering around, we decided to head to the bus stop and catch a bus home.

My parents having figured that we were lost, luckily realized that he would do just that and waited for us near the exit my mum and he had taken, to catch a bus some days before.

I whooped with delight when I saw them.
The rest of their stay was spent glued to the television and in wrestling lessons for my brother and myself. My great uncle trained us and we learnt how to win wrestling matches by pinning both shoulders on to the carpeted floor. 

Delhi in spring was truly the best time of the year. Flowers in vivid hues caught one's attention. The Mughal gardens in Rashtrapathi bhavan was supposed to have a phenomenal display. Of course all this is hearsay since I have never seen it. On 26th January every year we celebrated the republic day by playing cricket matches in the park across our home. If only one didn't have to deal with exams at the end of it, this would have been the perfect time of the year. 

After my first year in Delhi, I gave a couple of entrance exams to try and gain admission into one of the better schools. Obviously they were not inundated with students for I managed to get into the school in spite of the most massive blunders. On being asked which river flowed through the city, Ganga or Yamuna? I answered Ganga (it somehow sounded more familiar), my parents explained that I was new to the city and didn't know it well, so the next question (since we had moved from Bombay) was to name a beach in Bombay. Trying to be over smart I answered Arabian beach. My parents wanted to sink their heads and never show it again. My excuse for this is that I was only seven years old. Later, when my parents asked me why I couldn't say chowpaty or juhu beach? I couldn't make them understand that I thought the interviewing panel would be impressed that I knew of the Arabian Sea.

We spent five years in Delhi, and I grew into a gawky preteen, with buck teeth and wild hair. I was a tom boy and played every sport under the sun (literally), from hockey to khokho, to TT and even elastic. But I also had my nose forever buried in books.

Just when I was starting to turn into a  'Dillliwali', as they say. My father took up an offer in the city of lights, Bombay as it was then called.

We shifted back to Delhi after a four year stint in Bombay. The culture of Bombay is completely different from the culture of Delhi. Both are cities of migrants. In Bombay that makes them aggressive and time conscious but also creates a culture of inclusiveness where you celebrated festivals with fervor and kept the neighbour’s kid at home in the event of the child chancing upon a locked house.

Delhi in contrast seemed very welcoming initially, people praised you so lavishly you never realized it was just a manner of speaking and no one really meant it. The culture of being subservient to a boss and kow towing to his every whim had the danger of turning normal people on their heads. All bosses tend to become megalomaniacs if they start believing everything their subordinates say. My mum would frequently point out to my dad (who by now had become the Vice president of a company) ‘I'm not one of your subordinates to agree to everything you say”

We had just started settling in and figuring out how to make the system work for us when Rajeev Gandhi got assassinated on 21 st May at Sriperumbudur by an LTTE activist (read Tamil, Madrasi). We stayed on the ground floor of a house in South Delhi and our landlords were, hold your breath, Sardars.

Uncle was panicking big time that mobs would attack the house. What with South Indians staying downstairs. (Every self respecting Delhiite knows South Indian equals to Madrasi), so with Sardars living upstairs and Madrasis living downstairs we were ready targets for any hoodlum who decided we had lived enough years on the planet. The terror was real.

Luckily our fears were misplaced and I lived to write these chronicles.