Between Old Gods and New Dreams: A Lohri Day in Delhi

January 13, 2008

It is Lohri today, the festival of North India, especially the Punjabi community. The festival is celebrated by lighting the torch of warmth, goodwill, joy and fervour against the freezing gusts of winter.

Wished Happy Lohri to Babu, Seth of Ludhiana.

Maybe the destinies of my poor group and his are linked. We plan to leave—me, Babu, his brother-in-law Inder and Shekhar—for Djibouti to explore the possibilities there, if everything goes okay.

My final round of interview with Netlink Digital Energy, Gurgaon, did not go well. From what I had done in the earlier rounds, I had gained immense confidence, which made me bold enough to demand a salary of fifty thousand.

In having so much courage, I surprised even myself. After all, only the IT people demand such figures.

Maybe at the last stage they were only planning to break my confidence so that I could be convinced to settle for a lesser figure. But the way I carried myself during the interview quelled any such action before they could even think of putting up any such effort.

I defended my salary on comprehensive grounds, covering right from professional acumen to philosophical overtones, singing lullabies for my quoted figure.

Now these days so many educated fellows wander around, and since business-to-business writing for web portals involves a prosaic, general, straightforward world of boring write-ups, it can be easily done by any averagely intelligent postgraduate or even graduate.

They can have a couple of eager, cringing, cooperative fellows for my salary, or even three or four for the sum that I quoted.

So most probably they would not have me. In any case that doesn't make any difference. 

After having gone through this drill with a successfully run portal, I went to New Delhi with Shekhar to get a yellow card for him. The yellow card is issued against yellow fever and certain other diseases after giving vaccination for the travellers bound for travel to African countries.

So we went to Ram Manohar Lohia Hospital, but it wasn't RML's turn to issue vaccinations that day. They said we could get the injection at NDMC on Mandir Marg.

Since we had enough time till 2 p.m., we decided to spend some time at the famous Birla Mandir and Saint Thomas Church on the road.

Now Birla Mandir is a big shrine complex, its yellow and reddish-violet domes shining brightly under the bright rays of the January sun.

Under the open glare of the sky, by its outer wall, you see the locker racks for mobiles and shoes, just as you take the broad, marble-paved flight of steps to the shrine facing the main gate, you see foreigners coming out of or going into the foreigners' visitor room.

On the deliciously cool marble floor, you walk with a superimposed sense of faith and sightseeing as a tourist.

In the front hall, a well-bejewelled and decorated couple, Radha-Krishna, welcomes you with beneficent blessings and cosmic love.

On the inside, you see balconies; pillars are numerous in number. On the walls you have bas-reliefs involving mythical scenes, comprising famous personalities from the world of myth, legend and religion.

Below are written commentaries, the sutras and their English translations, to allow the light of religion and faith to spread far and wide.

In the adjoining dharamshala and Gita Bhavan, you see devotees-cum-visitors thronging the pavilions.

The temple complex is worth watching, but somewhere deep in your heart you find that something is lacking.

Absent is that anciently intricate, ornate, multidimensionality-revealing sense of art and aesthetics, which was so famously carved out by numerous unsung artists during those pensively long-drawn-out hours, during those slow-paced, easy times in which our temple architecture came to acquire the rich folds and forms it is famous for.

So in modern temple architecture, you don't feel that soulful beauty, the intrinsic, basic, inherent beauty.

Modern man can only polish and varnish the outer core of stone. He can't go inside, can't penetrate deep to make the particular piece alive with the devotion of his blood and sweat.

So modern temple art is just a copy, Xeroxing, a gross imitation of the past.

You do not feel that unblemished harmony, balance and unity among different parts of a temple or temple complex.

Just a few blocks away, Saint Thomas Church stands grandly, unpretentiously, even sadly, as if brooding over those busy colonial days.

This red-bricked, long structure stands peacefully. Made in 1931, it saw sixteen years of British rule. The turret at the far end tilted, so a few metres of it had to be dismantled.

There was a quaint silence as we entered the gate and walked down the cobbled length of the wide yard along the length of the church.

The old caretaker, his other attendant and an old female servant eyed us approaching them with a bagful of mixed feelings—anxiety, suspicion, even curiosity—as I sought permission to go inside.

The caretaker waved to his attendant to open the back door by the back wall of the sanctum.

We entered the small room, parted the curtains and saw the long rows of pews.

The closed door at the other end dimly looked down the aisle.

There was pin-drop silence inside.

The fine wooden benches were as intact and compact as seventy-odd years ago. The sanctum, bearing the altar, cross and other offerings, was ordered, clean and peace-giving.

By the entrance door at the other end, there were prayer-book racks containing small-sized hardbound books.

But now it is a silent place.

God's image reposes in silence.

"Only on Sundays we have a dozen or so visitors for the prayers," the Christian caretaker mumbled with slight sadness.

But then, among Christians, the faith quotient is falling dangerously. The church now stands like a relic of the past, except on Christmas Day perhaps.

By the side of the church, St. Thomas School was buzzing with activity.

Bright-faced, energetic preteen girls in their school jerseys and skirts, scurried around the main gate with the agility of a unique type, like little squirrels—happy, curious, full of energy, full of life.

The most interesting and visible parts of their bodies were their full feminine legs. It was surprising to see them with such sturdy legs, even though most of them were just girls around the years of puberty.

We also got an opportunity to travel in the Metro.

Now this really is the pride of India, looking ultra-modern, clean, high-class.

Earlier I had doubts that the ever-jostling crowds of Indians would play spoilsport, but the Metro, its stations and escalators have been set up in the image of the Goddess of Cleanliness, and surprisingly the Indian crowd, which never goes by rules, follows the rules of smoking and cleanliness once inside the fabled precincts of the Metro station.

Metro rail is so user-friendly. You have screens showing the arrival of the next stations. There are verbal messages informing you.

Inside, people stand with decency.

All this is due to the high standards of order, facilitation and cleanliness put in place by the Metro staff.

It is just perfect, so perfect that people feel ashamed of putting a blemish on it.

So it runs ahead, chugs ahead, taking Delhiites on the paths of prosperity, career, ceremonies, get-togethers, dates and much more.