Siddarth Chodhury is 31 years old and has just published a novel that noone has actually read. He is bearded and bald and built like an over-the-hillmiddleweight. Even though he lives somewhere in South Delhi, his friends do notyet call him ‘Sid’.
But since he fancies himself as a novelist, he does on some frosty Januaryevenings, after a couple of pegs of superstrong Hercules XXX rum—bought from atheka near Ashram Chowk—wish for the kind of success that would necessarily gostraight to his head. A success after which hopefully everyone would startwhispering ‘Sid rocks’. And how. Chowdhury sometimes suffers from delusionsof grandeur.
Every morning, sharp at six, Siddharth wakes up and plays Kishori Amonkar onhis computer. Usually Raga Basant Bahar. She is more effective than Bloody Mary,he feels. At 6.30 he is ready for the day. He usually wears a battered oldHerringbone jacket that will soon need to be patched with leather, from hisZakir Hussain College days, over a bottle-green Nike sweatshirt and fadedWrangler jeans. His feet are shod in slightly scuffed brown Brogues. Chowdhurythinks of himself as a sharp dresser.
After tying on a tartan muffler, he sits at the dining table trying to workon a 10- line poem he has been writing for the past two weeks. Till now he hasgot two lines done. A line a week. He thinks it to be good progress. He writeswith yellow Staedtler pencils (134 HB) on natural shade prescription pads. Amonth or two more and he will have the poem licked.
7.20, he puts the pencil in his jacket pocket and goes into the kitchen. At7.30, he has a single hard-boiled egg with two slices of toasted white bread. Hebrews a small pot of very sweet, heavy on milk, tea to wash it down.
7.45, he walks briskly out of his housing colony. He finds the early morningchill and fog invigorating.
Two of his neighbours are up and doing their bit for the South Delhi parkingwars. Sullen school children with sleepy-eyed mothers wait for their buses nearthe back gate. Siddharth takes a short-cut through the nearby Gurudwara to reachthe Ring Road bus stop, from where he will catch the ‘Teevra’ Mudrika toRajghat. He works in a publishing house. His office is on Ansari Road, where allthe publishers are. From Rajghat it is a five-minute walk. His is the room atthe top.
7.55, Chowdhury buys a pack of Gold Flake Kingsize cigarettes from TripurariPandey, who hands him a clutch of Hajmola candies in lieu of the change.Tripurari is from Sonepur, across the Ganges from Patna, Siddharth’s hometown,and plies his trade by the bus stop.
After waving off three partly filled-up Mudrikas, Siddharth gets on to onewhich is almost empty and has all its windows intact.
8.05, Sarai Kale Khan Bus Terminal. A beggar girl gets on the bus and startscrawling on all fours towards him. She has cataract in one of her out-of-focuspale green eyes. She is probably on smack. Before she can press his feet in aknowing way, Siddharth drops the Hajmola candies into her extended hand.Astonished, she catches all of them thinking it to be change. One of these daysSiddharth will ask her her name. Chowdhury is a collector of names.
As the bus leaves Sarai Kale Khan, a spare man in a shiny wine-colouredthree-piece suit, which he probably got stitched for his wedding, called FaridKhan, jumps onto it, and in a voice perfect for selling biscuits, says ‘Attention’as if he were at a parade ground.
Farid Khan is not a vendor of biscuits. He is a vendor of books. LikeSiddharth. They are from the same trade. Farid is from Agra. One of hisancestors had engraved a panel of aayat on the Taj Mahal. It took himthree-and-a-half years. Siddharth thinks it to be good progress. Today Farid isselling Delhi Tourist Guide. For five rupees. After Siddharth buys one, fourmore get sold.
8.25, Rajghat. Gandhi Baba’s resting place. Chowdhury takes Delhi Times outof his green canvas bag and spreads it on his favourite iron bench to soak upthe dew. If he can’t be on Page-3, at least he can sit on it. All around himjoggers move about in quiet desperation. He admires a magnificent bull mastiffwith an ungainly owner. He worries for a bit about the dog’s soul.
It always cheers Siddharth up immensely whenever he watches the human racebattle against the ravages of time. He himself has lost the battle a long timeback. The sun has come out. Siddharth lifts his face to the sunshine. Forseveral seconds his eyes close. He rummages inside his magical bag for the bookof the day. It is the Cyril Connolly classic Enemies of Promise. The 1979Penguin Modern Classic edition with a detail of Eton College Chapel on thecover.
A good choice and Chowdhury would do well to read it carefully.
9.00. He is in his room at the top and all is well with the world.
Siddharth Chowdhury is the author of Patna Roughcut (Picador India).This article originally appeared in Delhi City Limits, January 31, 2006
