Vestiges of the old world

The railway line, which neatly bisects Aligarh town, much like the Bosporus, into two contrasting worlds, leaves us with sets of binaries—‘old–new’, ‘antediluvian–modern’, ‘order–chaos’, ‘filth–neatness’.

Though I have lived in Delhi for most of my adult life, somehow it is to Aligarh that I always return. Like the salmon, which after having roamed the oceans returns to the tiny stream of its origin, for rebirth and rejuvenation, for me Aligarh is a sanctuary, and the cradle of my childhood memories. The place itself is just like any other ramshackle, dusty town in western Uttar Pradesh. However, the word ‘Aligarh’ has a broad connotation, meaning different things to different people—one is Aligarh city, the shehyr; while the other ‘Aligarh’ is the campus and residential areas surrounding the Aligarh Muslim University (AMU), the university which arose from the Mohammadan Anglo Oriental (MAO) College created by the great 19th century educationist and social reformer, Sir Syed Ahmed Khan. Like the Gaul’s village in Asterix comics, this Aligarh is a unique world, with its own distinctive characters and stories. It is a place of dreams, myths, and fables; stories that have been etched upon the minds and hearts of people spread across several different countries and continents.

The two Aligarh’s are not only separate in the popular imagination but also exist as discrete entities, only estranged from one another by the Delhi–Kolkata railway line. With the spaghetti of iron and steel between them, it is only at some points, by overhead bridges and level crossings, that these two parts join, one such connection being the kath-pula which as the name suggests ought to be a wooden bridge (It is now a brick and concrete bridge with a motor-able road). The areas lying across the kath-pula, were developed by the British and even today, with their straight wide roads and planned development, present a picture of order. The clock tower or the Ghanta Ghar, decorated in the finest Indo-Victorian Gothic style, looks very grand. Around it are old style British bungalows, the railway station and the railway colony, churches, public gardens, the government press and other paraphernalia of the Raj administrative machinery. All this is the Civil Lines—the ubiquitous remnants of the erstwhile British rule to be found not just in Aligarh but in all district headquarters across the country. All the building activities during the capricious periods of late 19th and early 20th century, including the establishment of the Scientific Society by Sir Syed and development of the MAO College, took place around the British quarters, away from the chaotic mouffasil areas. Perhaps it was like discarding the old and going for the modern. The railway line, which neatly bisects Aligarh town, much like the Bosporus, into two contrasting worlds, leaves us with sets of binaries—‘old–new’, ‘antediluvian–modern’, ‘order–chaos’, ‘filth–neatness’, etc.

Beyond the Civil lines lies the extensive and beautiful campus of the Aligarh Muslim University. The powerful and well-endowed zamindars, self-styled nawabs, many being British loyalists who held sway across much of the United Provinces and had played a big role in the creation of the MAO College, were unabashedly imitative of the British. This often found expression in their large and spacious kothis, which the great Urdu writer Qurratulain Hyder, in her novel Fireflies in the Mist, observes

‘…. was slightly different from a bungalow. Originally, it meant an indigenous commercial house, and European trader’s kothis later developed into elegant Georgian homes….popularized by the Anglicized Nawabs of Oudh. Many upper-class Indians and members of provincial civil services come out of their Indo-Saracenic havelis and took up residence in the Civil Lines, but the Whites had no social contact with their Indian neighbors.’

Be that as it may, one begins to notice the kothis in Aligarh and they seem to remind you that the quam had once seen better days. But those times must have been good only for some members of the quam—the elites, so to speak, who lived in style from revenue received as landlords in the country all across the Gangetic plains. Many of them in Sir Syed’s time had supported the Aligarh project with enthusiasm, besides participating in the volatile politics of the United Provinces. Being idle zamindars, they had all the time in the world for such pursuits. In the midst of all this emerged a powerful lobby or vested interest, which was speaking on behalf of all Indian Muslims.

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Of the dozens of kothis dotting the Aligarh landscape, and indeed many other towns across India, some are indeed beautiful and grand. One particular road in Aligarh, Marris Road, showcases some of the most extravagant kothis but some other such lovely buildings, are to be seen all across the university campus. However, some are decidedly not as staid or sober and indeed, some are very distinctively shaped, reflecting the eccentricities and idiosyncrasies of their builders. Just by looking at the façade, one can say that bold experiments have been made on the basic kothi format. For instance, one particular house has its windows shaped like large, round, droopy eyes. As you approach it, you feel that you are approaching a face, a giant who may devour you. As happens, some kothis have acquired names which may have been totally unintended by their makers. Such names can arise, sometimes by how rickshawallahs, hawkers, or other trade people may choose to call them, often by mis-pronunciation, changing the original beyond imagination. So there is one house known as ‘Paan Wali Kothi’, so called because its portico has the shape of a spade carved out from a portion of the wall. Another unusual kothi is box-shaped and bears some resemblance to an old-fashioned compact radio set sitting pretty on a table. Very aptly, it is called ‘Radio Wali Kothi’.

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In a bizarre sort of way, such old buildings always remind me of molluscan shells. The animal which once lived in the shell is not there anymore. It died long ago but its house, the shell, beautifully carved with intricate designs on the surface, still remains more or less intact and is there for all to see. Inside the walls of these old structures, once voices used to resonate and families lived. Important guests used to arrive in motor cars, tum tums, and horse-drawn buggies. But now they appear deserted, reverberating with the sounds of silence;  like haunted houses which are so terrifying for children. As is the case for many of them, their original owners left Aligarh and some even migrated to Pakistan in the exodus of the 1950s. Those who stayed back decayed, unable to keep pace with new ways of life. There has been a sea change in their condition as several of them have been razed to the ground to make way for modern apartment buildings and shopping complexes.

Some owners have sold off parts of the large front gardens that once formed an important part of the kothi, where shopping and housing complexes have come up. But behind rows and rows of flats and billboards, advertising different types of gutka, mobile phone services, and potato chips, one can still sometimes see the original structure intact. The disused portico peeping from a narrow space between newly erected walls. A peepal shoot waving at you from the roof. A floral design carved in sandstone. A pietra dura surface or a glimpse of an ornate jali—all beckoning you, reminding you that it is yet a part of the molluscan shell.

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One of the most interesting features of the old, dying world of the Muslim elite, rajas, zamindars and the talukdars of yesteryears—inhabitants of the kothis, was to be seen in the zenana of the house. This was the world dominated by the begamaat, ladies of big households. While in some cases the begums had inherited property and lived fairly independently in other instances they were the wives of senior university professors or widows. Like their male counterparts, they also did nothing—all the household works being done by an army of servants—except rule over a small world that was truly their own. The noted Urdu writer Ismat Chugtai has provided a vivid description, indeed in one short story (Lihaf) a very scandalous account, about the world of Begamaat.

However, I have my own set of experiences of this inner world. Amma, my maternal grandmother, being the daughter of a district collector in British India and the wife of a famous university professor, was herself a Begmaat. Some of her close friends were among the ladies of her rank, and when she went calling on them, she took us all along in tow. One of the houses which we visited quite often (or rather were taken to) as children was a large kothi named ‘Chamanistan’. It was (still is, though greatly modified) a large house, set in a mango orchard, with a generous front lawn and garden. Here lived an elderly lady known as Baji Begum, a widow, with her extended family which included many grandchildren and dozens of other relatives.

I remember going in winters when everyone in Chamanistan was either wrapped in shawls or basking in the sun. In the summers, the meetings were indoors and neebu ka sherbet (lemonade) was made by small girls under the watchful eye of the Begum Sahiba herself. Being the only boy in this gathering, I used to feel totally out of place and the only thing for me to do was to sit awkwardly and watch or hear the ladies talking. Surprisingly, I have very little recollection of the things they talked about except that much of the conversation was in the manner of an un-interrupted stream and in this respect quite different from conversations which happen between males in which there are likely to be pauses or some thoughtful moments. I suspect the conversations in the zenana were mostly about domestic issues—who married whom, searches for a suitable boy or girl, price of vegetables, house repairs, etc. I doubt if their conversations ever touched upon politics or world events.

But I do sometimes wonder how the ladies would have reacted if drawn into a discussion on happenings around the world by diverting the stream of conversation in a different direction? Taking just one example from the several significant happenings around the world in those days, what would have happened if someone had asked, ‘Begam Sahiba, what are your views about the Cuban Missile Crisis?’ (In the mid 1960’s—the period I am writing about, this issue along with many others dominated world politics). I suspect that a question such as this would have annoyed them greatly and they might have found it fit to ignore it totally and continue with their discussion. As far as the neebu ka sherbet was concerned, it seemed that the crucial part in its preparation was stirring the sugar and lemon juice so thoroughly that it dissolved completely, and so those little girls spent a long time doing just that while enjoying the endless stream of conversation happening all around them. Sometimes, when they stopped stirring, usually to listen, a stern word from Baji Begum or a firm glance from one of her deputies goaded them again into action. A hand drawn fan hung from the ceiling. It was the job of another little girl to keep it in motion, which she often forgot to do, being too engrossed in the animated discussions happening all around her.

Jamil Urfi has an abiding interest in history, architecture, period publications and popular cinema of the 1960s and 70s—themes which figure prominently in his recently published book ‘Biswin Sadi Memoirs – Growing up in Delhi during the 1960s and ’70s’. He lives and works in Delhi