CITY LIMITS

CITY LIMITS


The picture of the Tram in the first issue of 'City Limits' brought rushing back, the memory of my first trip to Delhi, some times in the summer of 1936 or 1937. I was then the excited child of six or seven accompanying my parents, who were on a shopping trip to Delhi for my sisters ensuing marriage.

Where else one could one go for shopping in Delhi then but Chandni Chowk? Of all the purchases made that day, I clearly remember the portable HMV gramophone bought from Maharaja Lal and Sons, for Rs Forty, so I was told. Hand cranked, with a needle screwed in the sound box and the 78-RPM record, with a two and a half minute play time. Place the needle in the grove of the spinning record and the music would come floating out, no less than a miracle, in the pre FM Radio and TV days. Yet another memory was of a bolt of cloth purchased, from the cloth shop opposite the Town Hall and the Clock Tower, once a famous landmark, alas no more. The old shop recognised now, more by the old massive tree, the trunk jutting out of a hole in the top of the veranda, old even then, than by the sign board of the shop. Memorable because it evoked an embarrassingly hilarious mental image of the wardrobe tailored for the wedding for the 3 brothers of whom I was the youngest. Though the eldest, then in college was the proud recipient of a suit with trousers and the middle brother and I had to be satisfied with suits with half pants, they were all cut from the same bolt of cotton fabric.

Coming to 'Trams', the tracks ran on one side of the road, the trams click clacking up and down the length of Chandni Chowk and possibly beyond, at regular intervals. The Tan, Tan of the bell, rung so often by the driver standing in the front portion of the tram , with one hand on the
'Dead-man's- handle', to warn the offending pedestrians or possibly the cows and dogs, straying across, was an essential part of the Chandni Chwok cacophony.

The Paranthas of the Paranthewali Galli, savoured for the first time, did leave a taste, still lingering, never replicated or equalled, despite many subsequent visits, accompanying my late wife, Jeet,on her frequent shopping trips..

The Majestic Picture Hall , now closed and part of the Gurudwara Rakab Ganj complex at the fountain, the fountain a landmark of an era passed, demolished, a casualty to progress and increasing traffic congestion. Interestingly, while screening, block-busters of the vintage of 'Achut Kanya' a Davika Rani and Ashok Kumar starrer, those days, had the lyrics of the songs, being mouthed on the screen, projected alongside on a smaller side-screen. The songbooks being sold for two paisa during interval had many ready buyers, since songs were simple, catchy and easily hummable, and in good demand.

From a subsequent visit one evening, to the Coronation Hotel, also remembered was the 'Ice-cream' in a cup with a pink wafer stuck on the top, that my father ordered for us after dinner, seated on the terrace of the hotel.

Strangely, I have no memory of the Red Fort, the most famous landmark of Delhi, from that time, still in existence and very much a tourist attraction. The drive to Mehrauli from Chandni Chowk, faintly remembered was that of a long, long one on nearly empty roads, through thick shrubs and trees on both sides. The visit to Qutub is remembered for the never ending steps, going up and up and the vile smelling bats hanging upside down in the, dark circular tunnel that was the staircase.

What comes to mind of New Delhi of that time, is the wide open spaces, nearly empty roads, an occasional sighting of a solitary commuter bus dropping and picking up an odd passenger or two. However, what is unforgettable is the sight of the Traffic Constable standing Six foot plus tall, dressed in blue and white with a stylish turban on the head, so imposing a sight did strike terror, in any traffic offender and strangely even in a child that was me.

Crossing the massive steel structure, the bridge over River Jumna, now sadly, soon to be decommissioned by the railways, one was forced to follow at the speed of the vehicle in front which at times was a Tonga. The horse at a fast trot prodded along by whip lashings and choicest verbal invective of the Tonga-walla. The rumbling of the trains, passing over the upper deck, made an unusually loud racket. This unfamiliar sound generated a disturbing feeling accentuated by and reminiscent of horror tales, real or imaginary of kings and queens, fairies and witches recounted by elders mostly my aunts and servants in graphic detail late at night. Among those were frightening stories of the ghosts of those who had died or were sacrificed during the construction of the bridge by the British, to appease imaginary Gods. The recollection of these made me cow with fright and hide my face in my mother's lap.

Returning back from Delhi, exiting from the bridge, one took a sharp 'S' turn and soon stopped at a petrol station. It was a picturesque sight. The small wooden hut painted green that passed of for office with quaint looking Petrol pumps, which had two one gallon capacity, glass bottles arranged side by side. As the attendant manually cranked the pump handle the petrol level rose in one of the bottles while getting decanted from the, already full, other bottle in the car's tank.
The process repeated alternately, until' and as indicated by the needle on the large clock dial of the meter, the required gallons had been dispensed.

Once on way towards Shahdra, the car took the lower of the two roads, then reserved for fast moving traffic, the upper being for Camel pulled, load carriers, known as Shikrams, bullock carts and other contraptions, with hanging Hurricane Lanterns, swinging to and fro while making valiant efforts to illuminate the path, slowly trudging along.

These and other memories of Delhi of old, do come tumbling out of the mind, triggered at times, by chance events, like looking at the picture of the Tram in City Limits.