Delhi: A Soliloquy
A city whose name tugs the strings of my heart wherever I go…
My life started in a city where places are systematically called by numbers. But it is a city of chaotic neighborhoods, legends, and long-forgotten buildings that I tend to call — home.
I have wandered through the chaos that is Chandni Chowk; marveled at the ruins of Mehrauli; scouted the Sunday Book Bazar for the next read; rejoiced in the bloom of Lodhi Gardens. The love deepened with every reading of the City of Djinns and yet a realization crept within me. I am a stranger to this city like hundreds who migrate here daily.
For the city of Delhi, I am a blank canvas where it etches its memories upon. The only thing this city remembers is the continued bloodshed. Today it stands testament to the countless attacks brought by the divide across the region, religion, politics, and more.
Yet the city outlives its inhabitants. Those kings, queens, and their loyal subjects are long forgotten.
So it is natural for me to understand the magic this city beholds in its depth. Usually, this quest takes me to museums, art, theatre, and books. Loads of books.
One such book that I recently read was Delhi: A Soliloquy by M Mukundan. I must say it was the most beautiful and poignant read for me in a while. The book depicts the city’s disorder through the eyes of a Malayali migrant, Sahadevan.
It is 1959 and Sahadevan decides to migrate to Delhi in search of better opportunities. His end goal is to get his sisters married and write a novel. On the way to the city of his dreams, he sheds the burden of his caste and shortens his name. He had hoped his miseries (read as poverty) would vanish once he reached the capital of the new India. The new India where everyone has jobs, access to education, healthcare, and more.
Only to find himself facing scorching heat and open defecation upon arrival. Sahadevan had many challenges awaiting him in the city such as securing a good job and house among other things. Yet he was hopeful that this mighty city of Delhi would greet him with new life experiences. Interestingly, he feels orphaned as he processes the separation from his family, his relatives, and his land.
Luckily, he found refuge in the home of another Malayali migrant, Shreedaharaunni. It was heartening to read how the sentiment of community was strong even back then.
Sahadevan becomes part of his family. He grows to be a guardian and friend to Shreedaharaunni’s children. It is with them that he experiences the wars of 1962, 1965, and 1971, followed by the Emergency, the 1984 Sikh riots, caste hatred, and communal mistrust to the eventual assassination of Indira Gandhi. The reader experiences these all historical events through Sahadevan’s long soliloquized walks.
Though he is the protagonist, the book revolves around other migrants and the poor of the city. It is their stories and narrative that make this book a success. The reader gets to think in-depth about the many views across culture, caste, and politics.
What stood out to me throughout the book was the author’s brilliant writing. He did not let the story of one character die for the convenience of his protagonist. He gave voice to the nameless poor who were at the receiving end of these historical events.
Mukundan lived 40 years in the capital city as the Cultural Attaché at the French embassy. The book serves as a reflection of all the events that he had seen during his stay and the changing façade of this city. Once known for its safety and greenery, it has now become one of the most violent places in the world and a smog bowl!
Another theme that captured my eyes was the growth of the Malayali community in the capital. As more and more Malayalis made Delhi their home, the reader teleports to Mayur Vihar — home to the bustling community of South Indian migrants in the capital city. This led me to ponder as the city absorbs its migrants from all over the country, yet most of its residential colonies get built upon region and religion as criteria.
The one thing that I can say about this book is it would stay with me for a long time. Not because it covers the tapestry of Delhi, but its characters and writing are in a league of their own. A well-deserved 2021 winner of the JCB Prize for Literature.
If you are looking for a translation and a little bit of history as your next read, this book is not to be missed.
PS. I also want to offer my gratitude to the two translators and Westland (now, defunct. courtesy of capitalism) for the book’s translation.
PPS. Throughout the course of reading this book, I also found myself revisiting Aga Shahid Ali’s work on my shelf. I cannot pinpoint the reason but certain chapters evoked an unnamed nostalgia. His words served as the perfect balm to my aching soul.
