The Lives of Others

So that’s that. This city just moves so fast, and rather than trying to figure out how to slow it down, I just let it fly by. In the past two months, I have wanted so badly to share so many little Dilli anecdotes— from my schizophrenic day in April that started with attending the opening for a ridiculous Five Star hotel in the city and ended at a Home for vulnerable young boys; to the completely random background music at Italian restaurants in the city (I mean, seriously listening to Justin Bieber while digging into ravioli can be a bit disconcerting). I wasn’t able to recount these stories though, because somewhere, I never stopped to process. And over the past few days, I realized how important and sacred this space is. So, I’m back.

What better way to return to dilli-dallying than to talk about the journey that I was taken along for today, metaphorically, of course. My friend has just arrived to spend the summer in Delhi, and I spent the afternoon at his grandmother’s place, where he is staying. It kind of took me back to my summer holidays growing up, in Calicut. The house, situated in a leafy, residential neighbourhood in Delhi is a reminder of those houses built in the 70s— all the random furniture and full of an eclectic mix of artefacts collected over the years. My favourite thing to do in these kinds of houses is to look around for old photos; you’re always bound to find some random picture that has some amazing story behind it.

True to my suspicions, I came across a picture of my friend’s grandmother— sporting a beehive, dressed in a chiffon saree— dancing away with her (now Late) husband. It made me smile, and looking at his grandmother now, surrounded everywhere by her past, it also made me wonder what she remembers about her life as the wife of an influential and senior Army official, in the forties and fifties. ‘It seems like a dream now’, she explained to me, when I quizzed her on her three years in Paris.

We sat down after lunch and my friend pulled out three old books, each weighing about 3 kilos each— apparently, his grandfather did a very good job of chronicling all of his journeys through pictures and most impressively, through his words. Those two hours felt like I had been transported. We dived in. I felt like I began to understand a little bit of his grandfather’s life- and I felt privileged. Over pages and pages of pictures, postcards, maps, invitation cards and written word, a part of his world and his life unraveled. The politicians, the soirees, the parties, the meetings, the ceremonies and did I mention, the parties? Group photos of strong, serious-looking men in uniform staring unemotionally at the camera were interspersed with personalized menu cards written in French, and tickets from Cabaret shows. A world away from anything I had ever seen before. The historical context, though not explicit, was evident. Different countries struggling to liberate themselves from autocratic political systems, war was not an anomaly and colonialism’s footprints were far from fading away. His experience was conditioned (and maybe even driven) by all of this context; so unbelievably different from thousands of his countrymen.

After wrapping my head around the context, what touched me the most through all of this was his eloquent written word. Most pages were filled with his handwriting, narrating incidences and explaining circumstances of his travel, work, family and adventures. And that’s when it hit me that you know what; sometimes a picture isn’t worth a thousand words. Sometimes, you just need the words. You need the words to express your thoughts and your feelings and your point of view. You need the words to help young people from a different generation flipping through your images to understand where you came from. You also need the words, because sometimes, words are just so damn powerful.

There are so many stories that need to be written and remembered and read and understood. Isn’t that what history should be all about? I’m sad that none of the people from my family in my grandfather’s generation had the opportunity or the privilege to put all of their lives and experiences down for me to indulge in like I did today. My friend, you are lucky. Hold on to those images and words- you’ll find yourself coming back to them over and over again in your life, I’m sure.