I have been born and raised in Delhi. It’s a city of contradictions. Here the magic of Mughlai history is paradoxical to the dirty streets and gol-gappa vendors that you know hold the chance of painful food poisoning within the teekha paani. It’s messy and polluted, and steeped in an array of cultures all while being a hub of history. It’s home…
sunscapes ~ a Zoya Project term used to coin all the visible features of an area of sky, wherein the sun is either setting or rising resulting in colors other than insipid blue. Often considered in terms of their aesthetic appeal. These hues often bring to mind the softer side of the harsh realities we currently live in…
I’ve had a long term obsession with sunsets. Anyone who knows me can attest to this. To me, a beautiful sunset (or sunrise should I be lucky enough to wake up) is like eating your favourite food anytime you want without worrying about weight gain. It’s that pleasurable. The sun is the best artist to me because he paints such beautiful things across the clouds. The soft red of the inner curve of a mango ripened by summer heat. The deep gold like mounds of haldi waiting to be applied to the arms of a bride. The softer brightness of kesari milk, someone spilt among the clouds. The soft orange of candlelight on whitewashed walls. Pale pink reminiscent of a new-borns cheeks and the deep blush tinting the contours of rose petals. Sallow purple, soft like crushed lavender bouquets. Every day sees a sunset or a sunrise but only a few dusks and dawns see sunscapes, and those are the days where, I like to think, something spectacular is happening. A small moment of fleeting beauty…
Being someone who travels, this year has been an anomaly for me. Where ever I travel I look for that perfect sunset, so I can capture it the best I can on my camera. What this year has, however, given me is a variety of ‘sunscapes’ in my beautiful Delhi. With the onset of September and the end of August, the monsoon becomes erratic. Sometimes a simple pitter-patter barely providing any relief to the heat and sometimes that grass ruining, pounding baarish that gives a slight reprieve in the moment only to give way to sticky humidity that hangs heavy in the air. And what usually arrives at the end of each bout of rain are beautiful sunscapes. So I set out to discover the sunsets and sunrises of historic Delhi But the sun is no man’s slave, and while I couldn’t find only perfect sunsets I did discover the splashes of color that Delhi has to offer. Upon finding that perfect spot, seemingly brand new art in an aged city, I realized it was art that has the power to tell stories. So here is my ode to rediscovering the colors of Dilli, amidst beautiful sunsets and Dilli ki baarish and hardcore research. An ode to color. An ode to autumn. An ode to stories and sunscapes. An ode to Dehli. Dilli. Delhi…
Determined to find some character in my beloved Delhi, I set out early in the morning to skip the traffic and reach Lodhi Art District. Nestled quietly in the streets of Lodhi Colony, one isn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary in these streets. Old apartment buildings stained with age and the messy mix of shops in the neighbouring Lodhi Market. Barely anyone is awake and I wonder to myself whether this is ordinary or whether it’s a side effect of Corona that has turned into a new norm. The roads are populated by only the lone cyclists out for morning exercise and the sabzi waala arranging his cart in an array of colors. And among this lonely atmosphere, the air not as heavy, light breeze rustling the grass and trees, are the walls of the district splashed with a myriad of colors creating a variety of artwork and graffiti sprawled across the colony. Art is a magical thing, it’s stories without words. And it is in watching this artwork that I found myself wondering what stories that the artists are trying to tell Dilli. And in turn what stories does Dilli tell us, the viewers. Does it tell us the stories of chaos portrayed by this riot of color surrounding the word in the devnagari script? The metallic feel of the joint characters surrounded by a bedlam of reds and yellows, pinks and turquoise. Or perhaps it reflects on the people we find in the most unexpected places. Those characters who burst with life, or have the most entertaining stories to tell. The earring seller at Dilli Haat hawking his wares at unsuspecting foreigners, the raddi-waala roaming the neighbourhood back bent over the handles of his cycle, the dhaaba-waala with his cigarette in his mouth as he hands thaals of bread-pakora and thandi lassi to people, the peon at Miranda House college greeting different students every day at the gate. Perhaps this is an accurate representation of my Dilli. That colors can bloom in the darkest corners of this city in the bleakest times…Indian’s have a unique way of stifling romance, with the rules of culture and sex that we are bound by. Kisses are stolen, hand holding frowned upon and sex is out of the question. At least as far as society goes… Yet I see a romance here, painted on this wall. Perhaps this is a story of love lost? The look of longing on the boys face, the forlorn expression stretched across the girls face. The movement in separate directions. The pale plum of regret draped over the skies where they stand. Or perhaps the romance of a meet cute? A bump of shoulders and an annoyed glance back that turns into a look of wonder. The feeling of sparks exploding on that tiny spot where their shoulders and arms brushed. The bright lavender of a new beginning tinting the air. Or perhaps the romance of unrequited love? The desperate craving for reciprocity. The pain of the constant pining. The insipid purple surrounding them in a cloak of despair. Which was the artist trying to depict? All our hidden love stories with only one meant to be painted on this wall in Delhi? Or perhaps to each lover it will represent their own secret flirtations. A sprinkling of romance in a city of practicality.While walking after a particularly heavy outpour of rain, I found myself strolling through a sticky humidity. But a sunscape is misleading. The sky promises cherry blossomed winds and the coolness of fall. The shades of pink that feel tinted with saffron at the end. So many subtle pinks it’s hard to tell where one hue begins and the other ends. There’s the taffy, that looks like wisps of thin candy floss ready to waft down into the hands of little girls at carnivals. The insipid crepe drifting into the azure sky ready to turn into the silver clouds that veil the moon. Carnation and rose blooming from the clouds. The feathers of a flamingo unfurling towards the setting sun. And whilst everything seems unendingly pink, there’s the gold glow of the sun so soft, that even the birds fly toward the heat in a drunken fervour. Trying to catch all the pinks and golds before the blues and soft lilacs of the sky turn murkier. Chasing the next sunscape before the night catches it’s wings and everything is dyed deep, dark black.I wonder whether this was a strategic decision. Did the artist paint a woman around the TATA Sky Dish, or did the owner plant it in the wall after the painting had been made? Perhaps the person who did couldn’t help but think that a woman’s mind is the greatest entertainment one can have… If a man painted this perhaps it could be considered insulting, if a woman painted it perhaps it could be considered interesting. Or would we consider it the same way? Or vice versa. Or perhaps it was done with no thought. Painted because that was the available space, planted because that’s the only place that will get good signal… A thought provoking insight on perception.As fall descends upon Delhi, there seems to be a lack of color around the city. There are no red, orange and gold leaves that make the city look as if it is on fire. Colorful sweaters aren’t pulled out until winter has set in, and as Diwali seasons sidles her way into the year, a grey haze sets upon the city. Smoke and fog. A mix of the two, the former being far more present in the air. So with the sparse tree cover and dense pollution, there’s barely anything to see except lacklustre beige and browns alongside dark ashy grey smoke and silvery fog. But I can’t help but feel, that the colors used in this mural are a way to represent all the fall colors we miss out on in this city. There’s that rosy pink of the sunscapes that are disappearing with the smog. The fiery orange of autumn leaves that barely fall. There’s the deep blue of the skies once the dusk has passed and the stars have just begun to twinkle. The green of the trees that disappears as everything turns muddy brown and grey. There are even yellows and rusts and reds to represent the spirit of autumn. And perhaps the best way to end the reverie this bird brings about with her multitude of colors, is the brown and grey window sitting atop her bosom. Dark and unforgiving. City of dreams, city of darkness…I wonder if this was a catharsis of sorts. In my mind I call it, The Apartment. I can see the artist gathering his supplies in the sanctity of his Delhi flat. The windows open to serve as a reprieve from the heat, because every morning from 9 am to 2 pm there is a power outage. The neighboring Aunty on the same floor is singing the latest Bollywood hit. The notes belted out in a nasal harmony alongside the sizzling tawa, her voice quivering as it hits the high note. From his balcony he can see the Uncle Ji from two floors above doing morning vyayayam on the footpath. He rotates his shoulders in enthusiasm, his tight fit cotton shirt straining against his torso, a sliver of his rounded stomach poking out from the space where the shirt hikes up. Every few minutes a bellowing laughter is heard as Uncle practices laughing yoga, clutching his belly and throwing his head back to stare at the clouds. He claims it is because of this that he’ll outlive everyone else.In the building across, the 14 year old daughter of the tenants stares at the Artist with a shy smile. She twirls the end of her ponytail (her friends tell her that’s far more ‘hip’ than braids these days) as she watches. Averting her eyes every time the Artist catches her looking. Inevitably her mother will whack her on the head, using her hand or chappal depending on her mood, telling her to stop daydreaming and get back to her studies. And after encountering all this, there remains the old lady who sits on the ground floor. As the Artist locks up and makes his way down he sees her, in her rumpled sari, pure silk of course, with her wrinkled sun-brown skin. And she sees him. They exchange no words, but she watches him as he walks away, her eyes stare at his form as she cuts a mango. And he feels her gaze on his back, till he turns the corner. Walking away from this small Delhi building, filled with such colorful characters, he has no choice but to paint them somewhere…Symmetrical sunscape. There’s the bright gold of sandy deserts, The Sahara or the Arabian perhaps, in the center that seeps into an amber. Amber that reminds of honey dripping from fat bee hives hanging on the branches of green tree. It fades into the coral colored reefs of Sharmal Sheikh and the pale watermelon of fish that swim in the waters surrounding the Galapagos. It’s a different way of travelling, but a sunscape possesses that ability to transport the viewer anywhere in the world. Paint me a sunscape, paint me a window to the world from my little home in Delhi.One of the biggest perks of living in Delhi is the food. Street food here is considered as good as any gourmet delicacy. It’s a culmination of Indian culture that comes together across the roads in dhaabas, corner stores and roadside restaurants. Kathi rolls, momos, gol gappas, chole bhatture, samosas, aaloo chaat, an endless variety. But perhaps greater than all of these are the handmade Indian sweets. Mithai. Soft, fragrant and found in large variety – mithai. Laddoos squeezed and sculpted in hands that smell of jaggery, nuts and ghee. Gulab Jamuns translated literally to ‘rose plums’, fried in sugary syrup with the faintest fragrance of rose, it’s almost not noticeable. When you bite into them, delicious golden syrup will drip down your chin leaving trails of sticky sweet goodness all over your hands and clothes. Kulfi, cold as ice pulled fresh from the thin metal mould. And of course the most favoured – jalebi. Sugar and besan piped into piping hot oil into curvy shapes. Golden-orange jalebi, fresh off the streets of Delhi, is a bite of heaven itself. What did the artist want us to see? Perhaps, a young man selling his wares, balloons and small flutes, that little children will point towards and beg their parents to buy them. A cow roaming the streets, this is his home, he sits and watches the people shopping with curious eyes, as they step around him and haggle with vendors. Baskets of golden marigolds, deep red roses and fragrant mogra sitting atop vibrant dhurries, embroidered fancifully. But among these, the mithai-waali will have the largest crowd. She sits amongst the smell of stale sweat and cow dung in the humid air, with the lovely fragrance of mithai. People will buy dabbas of barfi and laddoos for loved ones sitting at home. They’ll buy crisp jalebi wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper. A bite of mithai, a bite of happiness, a tiny bite of Delhi culture wrapped in besan, ghee and sugar.I can’t help but wonder who these characters are. They seem to be lovers of sorts. Or perhaps given the traditional garb they are simply courting. That shyer, far more modest stage of infatuation, that Indians seem to have a trademark on. Or perhaps it is a representation of the old Courts of Delhi. The seat of the Indian Sultanate and then a large player in the Mughal Courts. Perhaps they are simply figures from that era. An advisor, the larger his moustache the greater the respect he could garner, and his wife, dressed in fine silks, her ghungat worn demurely, to keep her izzat secure under her pallu. Or perhaps they don’t know each other at all. A man of the English way, with his hair coiffed back like the Brits, watching a courtesan roam the streets of Dilli in the 20th century, her odhni used to hide herself, for she knows how to sell to all customers. Forbidden fruit is the most delicious. They might be from the old legends. A lone gopi collecting water from the well and the river, her hips moving with a ladylike swing as she walks by, with the matka balanced on the crown of her head, only to be teased by the young village swain, hoping for an annoyed smile. Or perhaps they are two characters simply passers-bys on the streets today. They fight over an auto on the streets of Delhi, and then are on their separate ways, never to see each other again in the many, many convoluted gallis.There’s something strange about golden sunsets. In my mind there’s an inkling of frustration that there are no deep crimsons like the clouds are bleeding or the pinks of watercolor paintings. Only yellows. The color of the sun itself, infusing the sky in shades of gold. But at the same time there is a sense of warmth looking up to see the sky a rich healthy shade of gold. The clouds tinted in shades of gold fleece, pale marigolds – the ones thrown out of wedding malas because they aren’t bright enough, melted butter for maple syrup pancakes and banana bread, butterscotch ice cream last of the season before it’s too cold in the city to eat any. The warm breeze caresses our cheeks and as the sun sets behind flaxen clouds I am reminded of daffodils and dandelions, honey and amber, kesar and haldi, lemons and pineapples all under a hot Delhi sun. Too far to touch, but just a look away, floating in another sunscape.Who is the prey and who the predator? Predatory humans are so common in Delhi, and how I wish they weren’t. They frolic amongst us like smiling tigers, waiting to snarl. It’s a hub of conflicting ideologies that are Indian, and amongst all the diversity there are the vicious beasts dressed as humans ready to destroy and kill for there being differences. At least we can justify wearing masks because of COVID19 when they really should be worn for fear of being infected by religious, casteist or sexist toxicity. I wish I could see anything else in this mural. But that’s Delhi I suppose. Shrouded in darkness now, for future eras to learn from…There’s such a lack of blue in Delhi. The brightest skies here are a dull grey with just a tint of blue, because our skies are so polluted. The Yamuna that should frolic and wave like lithe teal ribbons with colourful boats embroidered throughout it, stays a stagnant black, the fumes scaring away those who dare near it. Even the bougainvillea flowers bloom fuscia and white. There are no blues. But when I see this, this inexplicable blue marble, I see all that is missing from this city. There’s the sky represented at the top of the marble. The sky painted baby blue with iceberg clouds. The flowers that can’t survive the heat of Dilli air, cerulean hydrangeas, mayan cornflowers, royal blue irises. And most of all the Yamuna. The prussian depths of it teeming with fresh water fish swimming in hurried excitement, the lapis lazuli tinted tips of the small waves glinting in the sunlight, the rippling sapphire and frothy white that would come into view as the oars of the reedy boats made their way towards the horizon. The blue we so desperately should want in our Delhi, the blue that has faded away into dingy, dirty black, the same way this mural has. Perhaps as a city we are completely incompetent in protecting our blues and in doing so, we don’t deserve to have them.Lodhi Art District is just a stone throw away from Lodhi Garden, where history from the Delhi Sultanate comes alive. The greenery surrounds, old historical structures from the Tombs to the Athputla to the Mosque. The park has it’s own distinctive style, of old browning stone, aesthetic arches and larger than life domes. And two blocks from the main entrance of this beautiful park lies this modern and trendy complex, filled with a plethora of wacky artwork. With the perfectly painted walls of the exteriors and the stained, crumbling of the interiors this piece is a homage to the decay that surrounds Delhi history. The arch that is so typical of so many of the Delhi monuments. The color of the stone, fading pinks and browns. And inside the yellowing apartment building so distinct from the fresh paint coating the outer walls. Decaying history dipped into the modern era and still we try so desperately to grasp onto our past, our history that even our artwork is a reflection of it.I wonder whether other people felt the same as I did when I walked past this mural. The heavy judgement falling upon my shoulders as I stood in front of him.
A watchman of the youth. He’ll look at young couples holding hands and laughing and shake his head in disgust, ‘aaj kal ke bacche’ he’ll mutter in disgust. Then he’ll go and complain to his wife and children while eating thaals of hot naan and butter chicken. His own children will sneak out late at night to drink beer with their friends of course. Or an Uncle Ji at one of the elaborate Delhi soirees where everyone who is everyone is invited. My mother will nudge me in a show of manners and ask whether I’ve said hello, and I’ll politely mention that of course I have greeted Uncle Ji, whose name I cannot remember. He’ll look at me and smile maybe hand me a crisp five hundred rupee note all while thinking how shamelessly short my clothes are. Or perhaps it is me. Judging a man who I have never met, nor will, but judging at face value. Judging him on the basis of him being a Delhi Uncle, if that’s even what the artist meant to paint. And perhaps I can’t help but wonder if the judgement I felt earlier, was my own, for a Delhi man. A Delhi Watchman. A Delhi Uncle.When I see this I often wonder if this mural has captured Delhi the best. The constant bustle of people. Rushing. Rushing to be here and be there. Rushing to see this and see that. Rushing, rushing, rushing. The metro crowded with people at rush hour the smell of sweat unbearable. The women’s compartment filled with ladies, some talking on the phone, others with watchful eyes to see if any man dares wander into their sacred territory. And if they do, they will be beaten with handbags as they cower saying ‘Sorry didi! Sorry didi! Galti se ho gaya…’ They may not be safe in the rest of the city but this is their territory. And amongst corona the rushing seems to slow down a bit, a motorcyclist in the heart of this city making his way in a city that has slowed down in the face of a pandemic. A lovely oxymoron to have captured as a memory…Another rain and the last in my vault for my Dilli Sunscapes. Well, for now at least. But this one is particularly my favorite of them all. An amalgamation of desires. It reminds me of blood red amaryllis for the radiant beauty of autumn, crimson asters for the devotion of the sun to the sky and of course cerise chrysanthemums in full bloom. Red fades into orange, as all rainbows do. Tangerine begonias and milky coral butterfly weeds fill the sky like crackly autumn leaves falling from the trees, the titian ranunculus and apricot dahlias burn the sky softly with a mixture of heat and lukewarm breeze. Oranges fade into pink as any well suspecting spectrum ought to in my opinion. Light pink roses, pale pink carnations, starlight pink asters, cherry blossoms and of course the evergreen bougainvillea. When I took this photo, I saw only the sky and when I came back to look upon it I saw the gardens of the sky. Watered by August rains and fed by the last sultry dregs of summer sunshine. And when it fades into the deep black of night, I’ll see the white mogra twinkle through the clouds in a mimicry of the faded stars.
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