FROM CAPITAL TO CAPITAL

From Capital to Capital

by J. L. Gupta

It was the summer of the year 1970. Rahul had just finished his Post graduation course of studies in architecture. He had heard of Delhi. Once his ancestors had lived here. The river Yamuna used to flow through it. Also that it has a number of historical monuments. The biggest Presidential Palace with the largest retinue of aides in the world. As he stepped out of the airport, he was complaining of the diesel fumes in the air; filth and traffic on the roads and the manner in which the rules of the road were being violated while the cops in uniform were indifferently looking the other way. He seemed disgusted.

Being a student of Architecture, he had also known of Le Corbusier's  Chandigarh. He had read that this new city is located at the foot of the Shivalik hills. It lies between the Patiali and Sukhna streams. He was familiar with the  sectorial plan of the town. He had even seen various drawings of different buildings. He was keen on seeing the city of the sun-breakers in flesh and blood.

         He came to India. I was in Delhi to pick him up. We drove down in the good old Ambassador car. When we reached home, the family greeted him. My wife very casually remarked - "Delhi to Chandigarh by car is quite convenient".

         "Yes, it would be. But, I had a camel ride.  Every joint is aching. Every muscle is paining. My back and body are sore"

         Having got over the jet-lag, Rahul went around the town. He would get up early in the morning and go to the artificially created Sukhna Lake for a jog. During the day he would cycle around the place. He saw the whole town. He visited the Panjab University campus. He saw the Secretariat, the High Court, the legislative chambers and various other buildings. In spite of the strong and sandy breeze, he found the town different from the other places. "It is open. Clean. There is no pollution. You breathe fresh air. There are no flies. No mosquitoes. No cattle. No stray dogs. People are not in a rush. Hundreds of men quietly cycle to and from their offices every day. There is no honking, no noise" - he said. And added: "It is truly the City Beautiful. It is a place fit for human habitation. But.."

         "But what?"

"Is Chandigarh truly representative of India - the poor India?"

         "Yes! It symbolises the future India. The India of our dreams."

Rahul was happy that he had come to see Chandigarh. He felt that there was a kind of music in the air. He confessed: "I would be happy to come to this place even on a camel's back. God willing, I should be back soon". He left. He wrote occasionally. Every time, he enquired about the 'City Beautiful' -the city with the open hand.

After more than two decades, he came again. I was in Delhi to receive him. We travelled by Shatabdi - a symbol of India's progress. As the train was leaving Delhi, the slums on both sides brought a frown on his face. But he seemed to be reasonably happy with the train. There was no over-crowding. No pushing. A good cup of tea with the morning newspaper.  A breakfast. A little chat. A little snooze. Before long, we were in Chandigarh. As we came out. Rahul saw the waiting car - the Indian Ambassador.

         "Oh God! You still have this monstrous gas guzzler?"

         "The government has given it to me".

         "But I heard that now India has some of the good cars. These are fuel-efficient. The maintenance costs are minimal. Why does the government persist with this expensive antique? Another scam?"

I chose not to answer. But as we drove out of the station, there was a barrier put up by the Traffic Police. It was only impeding the smooth movement of the traffic. The road was bouncy and had potholes. There were the stray cattle, the pony carts, the cycles, rickshaws, the two wheelers, the three-wheelers, the cars, the jeeps and trucks. There was dust. There was smoke. People were in a rush. They were honking. As if unable to recognise, he asked – "How far is Chandigarh?" "We are in Chandigarh."

"Oh really? My God! What have you done to this place? It was not this".

Rahul spent a few days in the State. He saw plenty of flies and mosquitoes. These would not let him sit in the open or in the room. There were the sick stray dogs that would not let him have his morning jog at the lake. The muddy water and the frequent power failures were a routine.  The air was not the same. The water was not the same. The lake was not the same. "Where is the City Beautiful?" asked Rahul. Unable to find it, he left for his old abode. From India’s capital to the States’ capital, it is the same story. Shall we never change and opt for cleanliness? Rahul! Now Chandigarh too has a Municipal Corporation. The members come by election! You see the result?

"AS DESIRED - I RESPOND"

‘As Desired- I Respond’

J.L. Gupta

A recent post on the blog – ‘A Good Change’ has got two primarily critical comments. The basic theme is – Can a poor country like India afford such lavish luxury and ostentation?

I see the point. But what is our tradition? ‘Atithi Devo Bhav!’ A poor man spends his last penny at the marriage of his child. Why? To prove to the village that he is no less than anyone else. A lavish hospitality is a part of our tradition and when the President of India hosts a foreign Head of State, it is much more than a mere meal. It is a package of Commerce, Diplomacy and Trade. In the process, some of our people get employment too. The trade & commerce flourish.

Still more, the Rashtrapati Bhavan is a symbol of the world’s largest democracy. It shines and dazzles. May I share a small incident? 

In the year 2006, we were in Bern, Switzerland. It is the country’s capital. And we were in front of the Federal Palace – the Parliament House. There was no guard. No one in any kind of uniform. Can we get in? Can we see the Swiss legislature in session? Can we get some literature about the country’s system of governance? Different thoughts were crossing the mind.And suddenly, we saw two gentlemen coming out. They looked friendly. One smiled. “Tourists?” Yes! I responded. “From where?” India. “What part of India?” New Delhi. “Oh! I have been to India. Stayed in the Viceregal Lodge.” You mean the Rashtrapati Bhavan – the President’s house? “Oh yes! Have you seen it?”

             My son answered for me. Papa is a former Chief Justice. He has attended a few functions at the Presidential palace.

            “Oh! We have lot of regard for Justices. What can we do for you? Like to look around? Would you be interested in knowing about our system?” He caught me by the arm. Lead us to a room. Explained a few things. Answered a few questions. Picked up a few pamphlets and gave them to me. And then he told the gentleman with him to take care of us. A warm handshake and a friendly smile. He walked out of the room and  continued on his way.

            Finally, it was time to part. We thanked him profusely. He took care to give us two visiting cards. And then I discovered that the man with the friendly smile was Mr. Pascal Couchepin, Federal Councillor and Head of the Federal Department of Home Affairs – the Swiss counterpart of our Union Home Minister.

            No gunmen. No pilot or escort cars. No hooters. No disturbance to anyone. He had just walked to his car and driven away. And then the Coach driver asked me – how do you know the former President of Switzerland? Oh yes! Mr. Pascal Couchepin was the Swiss President in the year 2003. And this was a pleasant encounter. And what he remembered of India was the RASHTRAPATI BHAVAN. It makes an impact.

Alternative? Convert it into a hotel? The US President flies in Air Force I. Carries his own cars. The British have their Castles and Palaces. Despite economic constraints. Why can’t we Indians forget slavery?

           

A GOOD CHANGE

“A good change"

By J.L. Gupta

A recent invite brought to mind, the memory of another.  The President of India was to administer the oath of office to a friend. At his instance, my wife and I had been invited for the "swearing-in ceremony" at the Rashtrapati Bhavan. A nicely printed card. Calligraphically written address. A sticker for the car. All this ensured a totally smooth access to an exclusive area. Each guest properly received and escorted. An impressive stairway. The red carpet. Men in uniform lining the passage. Erect. Looking straight. No movement. As if they were not even breathing. Not batting an eyelid. All looked alike. How could the young and vibrant human beings look like Nek Chand's creation at the Chandigarh's Rock Garden? All alike? And alive? I had almost felt tempted to touch one. To see if they were living men or mere statues.

Once in place, we had surveyed the hall. Magnificent. Elegantly furnished. Soon after the arrival of the Prime Minister, the buglers had signaled the entry of His Excellency the President of India. On the dot. The ceremonial forms were punctiliously observed. There was a solemnity. A quiet dignity in the air. Every ritual was performed with a clockwork precision.

Throughout, the  photographers were shooting. The flashguns were firing. Yet, there was a brief session for the photographers. Temporarily, the celebrities appeared to have shed their solemn looks. To put on broad smiles.

Then, the usual cup of tea. Good crockery & silver. Sumptuous tea. Liveried bearers. The quickness of their movement indicated the years of experience. The atmosphere was formal. But, friendly.

People had started moving. Even before the President. A while later, we had also walked back to leave. The way we had come in. The sentinels were still there. As they were when we had come in. The car number was announced. A while later, we were driving out, I had a second look at the imposing structure. The stately spire and the dome. One cannot help but be impressed with the building and its grandeur. It symbolises power. It gives pleasure.

Sir Edwin Lutyens had planned it. The British had built it. As the residence of the English Viceroy. For his comfort. But with our money. At our cost. Our people had laboured. Our artisans had worked. Our people had sweated and shed their blood. And still, we were not even allowed to enter its portals. This was the curse of slavery. Now, everything has changed. We are a free country. We elect our own representatives to the national Parliament and the state legislatures. They make the laws to govern us. They elect the President too. Our Rashtrapati lives here. Not the English Viceroy. Our President!

We have probably, the most magnificent Presidential Palace in the world. The largest. With an equally big retinue of aides. And why not? We are the second largest nation of the world. Our President must have a residence befitting the august office. Sometimes, the visiting Heads of States stay with him. Important ceremonies are performed here. The rituals, though expensive, are essential. These add a gloss and grandeur to the occasion. Divested of the form, the office may lose some of its aura and authority.

More than everything else, even the commoners can witness the gloss and grandeur. Some change? Certainly! A good change!If we work hard, we can change the face of India!

THE REAL MANTRA

The real mantra

J L Gupta

It was 1965, I was just mar­ried and had gone to Jaipur to pick up my wife. That day while I waited for my Wife in her house, suddenly my mother-in-law entered the room and an­nounced, "Today in the evening, we shall go to Mrs. Mittal's place." Curiously, I asked, "Who is she?"

"A friend" came the reply. That was enough. She expect­ed no more questions. So, reluctantly though, I tagged along.

The hostess turned out to be a fine lady. It was her dignified and elegant conduct, which impressed us the most. Her steps were confident and quick. She was in the kitchen to turn off the oven, in the sitting room to have a little chat, in the bed­room to pamper the little daughter and at the door to receive the guests. She seemed to be all over the place, looking after everyone. A perfect picture of a proficient person.

The house was compact but functional and very well kept. Everything was in place. There was not even a speck of dust. The floors had a shine. The fur­niture had a touch of the ori­ental. The upholstery, the curtains and the carpets combined well. The crystal added to the decor.

The hostess must have noticed the appreciative look on every face. Yet out of modesty,' she said, "Actually Raj and I had done this upholstery about six years back, it really needs to be redone." She could not have missed the raised eyebrows. Tea was served and by any standard it was a lavish affair. The china, the silver, the snacks and the brew, all were exquisite. It was a feast for the eyes and the palate.

Everything had been pre­pared well and appropriately laid out by the hostess herself. As we started talking, I got to know that she was a fashion designer. She had developed this interest during her visit to Germany. Raj, her husband, was a civil servant. He had gone there for training where she accompanied him.

While her husband was out to work, she used to take lessons in designing, cutting and stitching. Ultimately. Raj resigned from the civil service to join a private company.

In a few years, they had made their pile. They came back to India. He became a senior executive and she set up a mini-school in the house itself. Every morning, she would teach a class of 15 how to stitch clothes. By the end of the week, she would have nearly a hundred dresses ready. These were modern but mod­erately priced.

After a month of marketing, all the best stores in town would be eagerly waiting to pick them up. She made a handsome sum every week. Work was her daily routine. It was an infinite source of pleasure to her. She enjoyed it heartily. In fact, hard work had by then become a habit and it kept her fit.

But where did the inspiration come from? She told us the story, "During our stay in Germany we went to Berlin and checked into a five-star hotel. The owner of that hotel had lost everything during the war. He used to get only one loaf of bread a week. Still, he worked hard and made a fortune. He now owned a chain of hotels.

"One day, Raj and I saw that a shoe-shine boy was using the receptionist's phone. On enquiry, we learnt that he was the owner's son! He had made a little money and wanted his mother's permission to go to the theatre. No wonder, Germany had rebuilt itself from a scratch so fast. We found that labour and honest hard work was the real mantra which made the difference. And our experience has proved it."

How right! The lady was a fine example of a human dynamo. She needed no help at home or at work. Her mantra can help every one of us. Hopefully, we will learn it before it is too late.