Old timers of Delhi, like me, with a high level of ‘nostalgia’ quotient, reminisce the days of yore. Of how the city I love, of which I am an ever — youthful ‘boy’, has metamorphosed over the decades — of how much we have lost, and how callously the soul of this beloved has been trampled upon.
Undoubtedly, gains, in terms of development and progress are substantial, but pale in comparison to what we have lost, the experiences that were once the heartbeat of the city.
For me, growing up in the city continues to be a Golden chapter of my life. And the lost experiences, well, there is a plethora of them, though, the foremost remains the numerous visits or picnics I enjoyed at what was then known as India Gate, in the company of friends and family. Those were the days when one could walk up to the eternal flame and pay homage to the fallen soldier. Then, and even now, I boast of knowing Dilli like the back of my hand. But the world has always been a tricky place, full of surprises — one of which I came across in July 2003.
It was a cool and breezy weekend. After a spell of heavy rain, I, along with my better half, Sonia, and my daughter Mehak, visited the sprawling lawns adjoining what was then called Rajpath.
Expectedly, it was swarming with boisterous revellers. As the lawns were soggy, we sat on the footpath, where sundry ice cream vendors lined up in a row.
As usual, it was a chaotic panorama of sounds and scenes — everything required to make it a fun-filled and enjoyable picnic was on sale — colourful balloons, an occasional ‘monkey’ man, once in a while ‘bear’ man, numerous ‘fast food’ joints where hawkers sold ‘channa jor garam’, betelnut, corn (which had a taste and aroma worth dying for, as it was roasted on a small bed of burning coals, and handed over dripping in slurpy lime and heavenly ‘masaala’), soft drinks in buckets full of ice, the bantewaali bottle, well, heaven.
There was much more to look forward to sadly, interspersed with poignant scenes of deprivation — of toddlers with running noses scavenging for leftovers with stray dogs — the experiences are so widespread that they can not be encompassed in this space.
Anyways, amid this hullabaloo, our attention was drawn to some loud music, jarring to the ears. Initially, we thought it to be the churlish misdemeanour of a yuppie passing by. But when the commotion persisted, Mehak and I went to look. Having covered a few yards, we came across the source of the brassy sound a bi-scope — being pushed on a small cart by a humble hawker. Mehak was clueless about it, her curiosity stirred.
As for me, I had seen it umpteen times at India Gate, and my association with it enhanced substantially through sundry Hindi films — where its myriad virtues were extolled in mellifluous ditties by voluptuous lasses at pristine environs. The picture of a bi — scope got indelibly imprinted in my mind when one of my all-time favourite actors, Mumtaz, essayed the role of a sassy bi-scope waali in the 1971 box — office smash hit, Dushman.
As times changed, the ethos of the films also metamorphosed, and the bi-scope completely disappeared from the screen, as well as from our collective imagination.
That evening, to satisfy Mehak’s curiosity — by now the eagerness had rubbed on me as well — I asked the chap to play a ‘show’.
He gave a cue, and we kneeled to peep into the box. He operated a handle, which, slowly, almost painstakingly, moved pictures — crumpled at many places — of ruling Bollywood deities on the small screen, lit by a bulb. It lasted a few minutes, and at ` five per person, my daughter and I enjoyed it to the hilt.
We were exhilarated — on cloud nine — as if we had unearthed a treasure or made a pathbreaking discovery.
What cheered me even more was finding an archaic relic, preserved in the heart of New Delhi. It reflected hope and hope is the wheel on which the world moves.
(The writer works with an oil and gas PSU. Views expressed are personal)
