Roundtable: A Delhi Fable

Watch Jazzy now, as he speeds his Ferrari towards a Connaught Placeroundabout at a comfortable 120 kmph, maintaining an unusual degree of controlfor a man with twelve Page-3-party whiskies dancing in his bloodstream. Hewhizzes from circle to moonlit circle like an atom in a teacup, taking turns atrandom, cursing loudly and freely. Why? Because he’s lost in CP. Again.

Magic has left the world many centuries ago, but there are some places in thehearts of great cities where normal rules don’t apply. There are places likeTimes Square or Leicester Square where, if you wait long enough, you willeventually meet everyone you know. Connaught Place is another of those places;it’s easy to get in, but you’re a different person when you get out of thelabyrinth. If you get out.

Jazzy, however, doesn’t know all this, so when he crashes his car head-oninto another Ferrari coming the opposite way at 120 kmph his first reaction isirritation. His second is surprise, because his car and body are both unharmed,and in a place where normal rules applied he would have been able to servehimself as fine mincemeat in one of his restaurants. Surprise is quicklyfollowed by relief; Jazzy realises, using his lightning-fast brain, that he cannow ask for directions and escape the maze.

He gets out of his car, and finds the driver of the other car waiting for himon the street. His face is clear in the moonlight, and Jazzy cries out in horrorand disbelief, for the handsome, clean-cut face in front of him is his own. Ifthis were Bombay, Jazzy and his long-lost twin brother would have been dancing adance of family reunion in the Alps by now. But this is not Bombay, and Jazzy isan only child.

‘Who are you?’ he asks.

‘I’m you,’ comes the reply.

‘If you’re me, who am I?’ asks Jazzy.

‘You’re lost,’ said his doppelganger with a chilling smile.

‘Rubbish,’ says Jazzy, regaining his composure. ‘It’s very late, andI must be drunk. You’re a hallucination, or my conscience, or a ghost, orsomething like that. Now tell me the way out of this damned maze and get lost.’

‘The very first time you were lost in this labyrinth,’ says the otherJazzy, ‘you left a part of yourself behind. Me. I’ve been lost in CP foryears now, changing cars every time you visit, and my only hope of finding a wayout was to meet you alone on some moonlit night.’

Jazzy opens his mouth, but finds he has nothing to say.

‘You know, if you spend enough time trapped in a city’s heart,’continues his not-twin, ‘you find yourself becoming a part of it, growingwithin it, feeling its pain. Maybe it’s because I-you-we are so importanthere, because we shape the city by our every action, that events have taken thisstrange turn. You moved on, changing the city, bleeding it dry, sucking itswater, draining its power, eating its lands. I stayed, holding on, watching,powerless. Until now.’

‘Forever?’

‘Until we meet again.Who knows, if I can make things all right, maybethere will be no need for both of us to exist.’

Jazzy laughs out loud. ‘You know, I actually believed you for a momentthere,’ he says. ‘I do have the weirdest imagination. I’m getting out ofhere.’ He jumps into his car and guns the engine into life.

Arkesh Arora watches Jazzy speed off to the next roundabout, driving like aman possessed. ‘You can’t get out,’ he says to himself. ‘You don’tknow the way.’

He turns back towards his own gleaming Ferrari, smiling. It’s going to be along drive, he thinks.

And then there is a dull thud, as a police van, full of people notorious fortheir magic-killing abilities, runs him down in the middle of the road.

His life, and his city’s hopes, now hang by a very slender thread. And thisis where you come in.

If you believe in Delhi, clap your hands.

This piece appeared in the first sample issue of Delhi City Limits.