Allahabad is grey.
This was the first impression I had when I got down at the station. The station, quite prosaically named Allahabad City, was located at the vague end of the town. The River was quite close to the station. There was a faint moisture in the air. On my way, I crossed a long bridge. I tried to peek, through the opaque window of the train, down to the river. It was patchy. Few children were looking for something in the mud. The Sun shone on them like a cruel joke.
Two middle-aged men approached me immediately; one of them was the driver of an auto, the other his assistant, probably. They were friendly in the way that the auto drivers are supposed to be at an almost empty station. They suggested few hotels. I asked for the cheapest one. ‘Don’t worry. This is not the season,’ they said, together. When was the season? ‘The Kumbh is going to happen in a couple of months. The hotels will double their rate.’ For the first time in my life, I felt grateful for arriving early.
We came out of the station into a greyer city. I looked around and found a town which was coming apart. It looked like a city which had recently been attacked by the aliens. Beautiful, colonial-looking buildings were mutilated, smashed like bad memories. I breathed their remainders. I smelt their helplessness which smelt like old books. The roads were being renovated for the Kumbh, I was told. But why demolish the buildings? The divers didn’t reply. They skirted the heaps of debris and my repeated inquiries quite deftly. By the time I reached the hotel, my nose was clogged with despair.
The next morning, I went to the Sangam where the Ganga and the Yamuna were playing hide-and-seek with the mythical river Saraswati. ‘Why should I accept its existence when I can’t see it?’ I asked the auto driver – one of the two from the previous day. ‘Can you see the wind?’ He asked back, eyes on the road.
We took a turn around the Allahabad Fort, once built by the great Akbar, now a military camp. The riverside was populated by hundreds of boats and boatmen. They offered a discount rate to a happier reincarnation. ‘Just take one dip,’ a lanky teenager pulled me towards his boat, ‘all your sins will be cleansed.’ His earnestness was as ancient as the Sangam itself, his need for money too. ‘Look how the colours of the waters are different,’ he shouted when we reached the meeting point of the rivers. The colours were indeed different but my sinful eyes couldn’t see the line parting the finite and the infinite, life and afterlife. I stared hard. The rivers didn’t return the stare. ‘Lots of Muslims from the Arab countries come to see this miracle,’ the driver told me on our way back.
I took an e-rickshaw to see the other side of the town – the Civil Lines. ‘Don’t you want to see the Hanuman Mandir?’ The new driver asked. ‘No, the other places.’ I uttered the word ‘secular’ in my mind. We stopped first at the Museum inside a nicely maintained park. ‘I’ll park close by. Keep my number,’ the driver said. ‘By which name should I save it?’ I asked. ‘What’s the need?’ He said after a little hesitation, ‘Just give me a missed call now. I will see your number and come to pick you up.’
The museum was neat. It had a lot of matchboxes from the colonial time. It also had the pistol with which Chandrashekhar Azad killed himself after refusing to surrender to the British. The pistol looked peaceful now, showcased at a corner of a room smelling of naphthalene. We also stopped at Anand Bhawan, the residence of the Nehrus. All of their beds were single. Gandhi’s bed was, of course, the smallest. I was particularly taken by an electric toaster used by Jawaharlal. He also had an electric shaver. Did Gandhi know about these little indulgences? Did they ever have a debate over the utility of automated personal hygiene, Mohandas and Jawaharlal? History textbooks are often inadequate on these important matters.
On our way to the All Saints’ Church, a magnificent building but terribly kept, we stopped at a school to pick up the kids of the rickshaw driver. ‘Don’t worry saab. They won’t take much space.’ The kids – three girls – didn’t pay any attention to me. When the silence became too awkward, I asked them their names. Nazneen, Nusrat and Falaq. It struck me immediately why the driver didn’t want to share his name with me. He assumed I was Hindu and I might have a problem riding his rickshaw had I known his name.
‘Will you go and see the temples tomorrow?’ He asked after dropping me at the hotel. ‘No, I am leaving tomorrow,’ I said and added hesitantly, ‘have fifty rupees more.’ ‘No saab, I have enough. Shukriya.’ He started his cart and left.
I stood outside on the street for a few minutes more and breathed deeply. The city, its dust, its ancient greyness and its dilapidated history, entered my lungs, my blood, my brain.
I had a fever on my way home.
This was the first impression I had when I got down at the station. The station, quite prosaically named Allahabad City, was located at the vague end of the town. The River was quite close to the station. There was a faint moisture in the air. On my way, I crossed a long bridge. I tried to peek, through the opaque window of the train, down to the river. It was patchy. Few children were looking for something in the mud. The Sun shone on them like a cruel joke.
Two middle-aged men approached me immediately; one of them was the driver of an auto, the other his assistant, probably. They were friendly in the way that the auto drivers are supposed to be at an almost empty station. They suggested few hotels. I asked for the cheapest one. ‘Don’t worry. This is not the season,’ they said, together. When was the season? ‘The Kumbh is going to happen in a couple of months. The hotels will double their rate.’ For the first time in my life, I felt grateful for arriving early.
We came out of the station into a greyer city. I looked around and found a town which was coming apart. It looked like a city which had recently been attacked by the aliens. Beautiful, colonial-looking buildings were mutilated, smashed like bad memories. I breathed their remainders. I smelt their helplessness which smelt like old books. The roads were being renovated for the Kumbh, I was told. But why demolish the buildings? The divers didn’t reply. They skirted the heaps of debris and my repeated inquiries quite deftly. By the time I reached the hotel, my nose was clogged with despair.
The next morning, I went to the Sangam where the Ganga and the Yamuna were playing hide-and-seek with the mythical river Saraswati. ‘Why should I accept its existence when I can’t see it?’ I asked the auto driver – one of the two from the previous day. ‘Can you see the wind?’ He asked back, eyes on the road.
We took a turn around the Allahabad Fort, once built by the great Akbar, now a military camp. The riverside was populated by hundreds of boats and boatmen. They offered a discount rate to a happier reincarnation. ‘Just take one dip,’ a lanky teenager pulled me towards his boat, ‘all your sins will be cleansed.’ His earnestness was as ancient as the Sangam itself, his need for money too. ‘Look how the colours of the waters are different,’ he shouted when we reached the meeting point of the rivers. The colours were indeed different but my sinful eyes couldn’t see the line parting the finite and the infinite, life and afterlife. I stared hard. The rivers didn’t return the stare. ‘Lots of Muslims from the Arab countries come to see this miracle,’ the driver told me on our way back.
I took an e-rickshaw to see the other side of the town – the Civil Lines. ‘Don’t you want to see the Hanuman Mandir?’ The new driver asked. ‘No, the other places.’ I uttered the word ‘secular’ in my mind. We stopped first at the Museum inside a nicely maintained park. ‘I’ll park close by. Keep my number,’ the driver said. ‘By which name should I save it?’ I asked. ‘What’s the need?’ He said after a little hesitation, ‘Just give me a missed call now. I will see your number and come to pick you up.’
The museum was neat. It had a lot of matchboxes from the colonial time. It also had the pistol with which Chandrashekhar Azad killed himself after refusing to surrender to the British. The pistol looked peaceful now, showcased at a corner of a room smelling of naphthalene. We also stopped at Anand Bhawan, the residence of the Nehrus. All of their beds were single. Gandhi’s bed was, of course, the smallest. I was particularly taken by an electric toaster used by Jawaharlal. He also had an electric shaver. Did Gandhi know about these little indulgences? Did they ever have a debate over the utility of automated personal hygiene, Mohandas and Jawaharlal? History textbooks are often inadequate on these important matters.
On our way to the All Saints’ Church, a magnificent building but terribly kept, we stopped at a school to pick up the kids of the rickshaw driver. ‘Don’t worry saab. They won’t take much space.’ The kids – three girls – didn’t pay any attention to me. When the silence became too awkward, I asked them their names. Nazneen, Nusrat and Falaq. It struck me immediately why the driver didn’t want to share his name with me. He assumed I was Hindu and I might have a problem riding his rickshaw had I known his name.
‘Will you go and see the temples tomorrow?’ He asked after dropping me at the hotel. ‘No, I am leaving tomorrow,’ I said and added hesitantly, ‘have fifty rupees more.’ ‘No saab, I have enough. Shukriya.’ He started his cart and left.
I stood outside on the street for a few minutes more and breathed deeply. The city, its dust, its ancient greyness and its dilapidated history, entered my lungs, my blood, my brain.
I had a fever on my way home.
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