I
t’s a late winter afternoon in theearly fifties. Delhi has all but absorbed the hordes of the dislocated and thedisinherited refugees from the newly carved Pakistan. I belong to this tribe.Once or twice a week I absent myself from my routine and loaf about. On thisparticular afternoon, I get off a bus or, perhaps, a phatphatia at Madras Hoteland walk over to the famous paanwala, red in tooth and claw, perched on hislittle throne in the corner. Fortified by a pan and a Capstan cigarette, I enterthe Central News Agency and browse at leisure among the newspapers and journals,foreign and domestic, displayed there. Occasionally, I also buy some weekly orother carrying a piece by me or some friend or foe. I walk over to the foyer ofRivoli where I briefly gaze at the stills of the forthcoming attractions inEnglish and make mental plans to sneak a morning show some day. I cross thestreet, peer through the windows of American Express with absurd yearning, andmove on. The Wenger’s bakery and the restaurant upstairs beckon me invain—they are for rare occasions. My next stop is Ramakrishna. Owned by anelegant man with handsomely chiselled features, curly hair, a lordly stoop, anda benevolent smile, the place is narrow and crowded and rich with overflowingbookshelves. Prakash, the ever-helpful owner, lets you linger and browse as longas you like; he also fishes out any book that you can’t find. And he gives yougenerous discounts and lets you buy on convenient credit. We don’t have abookshop like that anywhere in Delhi now. After resisting many temptations atRamakrishna, I stop briefly at the office of Shankar’s Weekly in thebuilding that houses Odeon. I hand over my piece sheepishly to the shy assistanteditor, Vishvanathan and nod gingerly to Shankar himself. Then I ogle my waythrough the crowded corridors to the end of the Circle or Circus, cross over toJanpath, vacillate between going to a lecture by Mulk Raj Anand or dropping inat a new art show, and enter instead the Indian Coffee House, the Mecca ofobstreperous Delhi intellectuals. It is a smoky womb where you find refuge fromyour stressful real life. I look around for my cohorts and join them in theirnoisy debates about fundamental problems facing the nation and the world. A fewyears later, I’ll devote a whole section of my novel, Bimal in Bog, toBimal ruminating among the argumentative patrons of this place. The Coffee Houseserves the best coffee, employs civilised waiters, and is overwhelmingly male inits clientele. Occasional visitors of the other sex are rare sights to feastone’s starved eyes upon. Their male companions invite murderously enviousstares. As the night begins to fall, people who have to take a bus or, perhaps,a phatphatia home get restless. I pay my part of the bill, walk out, and take ashort cut via Regal to the Madras Hotel.The Indian Coffee House has had many avatars since then but none worthy of thegreat original; Connaught Place has lost much of its lustre; I’ve lost myyouth; but Delhi hasn’t lost all of its enigmatic charm. I still think of itas an irresistible maharani in mad glad rags. I also think of it as a dear dustythreshold of my vocation as a writer.