COMING TO THE STOP
Vinoo N. Mathur’s ode to Indian railway buildings makes you want to ditch the flight for the train
The British in India invested ideologically in the railways, and some of the most grand and monumental structures were colonial railway stations. Anyone interested in buildings cannot but fall in love with this legacy, and Vinoo Mathur, an old railway hand, has done a wonderful job of documentation. The book is a feast of rare archival and other photographs, the text has been meticulously researched and the author’s grasp of the formal aspects of western architectural history is truly impressive. And it spans a range that includes chronological development, geographical spread, changing architectural styles, different functional needs—stations, offices, residential quarters, sheds and workshops, schools, hospitals, hotels.
The British themselves saw railway stations as islands of rational rule in the sea of traditional and backward India, examples of structured and regulated public spaces. No doubt these examples of Romanesque, Gothic, Saracenic buildings, complete with domes, arches, turrets and gargoyles, added a touch of the surreal and bizarre to the tropical landscape, but there were a few Indians, poor or rich, rural or urban, who remained unaffected or failed to be charmed. As standalone buildings, the careful planning, formal innovations— Roman temples, Gothic churches, Tudor cottages—appeared repeatedly, and their superb execution (by Indian workers, craftsmen and artisans) is endearing.
Railways and building activity gathered momentum after North India was reconquered in 1857. The concerns of defence lingered in the planning. Lahore station had bastions—just in case. Delhi, Agra and Lucknow had stations and railway lines cutting across them— these cities would no longer be fortified. Sanitation and land acquisition played a crucial role. Calcutta almost had Barrabazar wiped out so that a station could be built, which eventually happened across the river in Howrah. Railway buildings generated symbolic power and impressed stability and peace. Classical Europe was the model, but the buildings also benefited from innovations in techniques that came with the Industrial Revolution— the vast hangar-like sheds, the span of roofs, iron footbridges, the enormous platforms.
A book so lovingly written is bound to colour the view of British rule as admirable and benign. The author does not hint much at the darker legacy of railways: the spread of malaria, deindustrialisation and economic disruption where new termini replaced thriving marts to facilitate colonial extraction. But his enthusiasm for these architectural marvels will provoke thinking on the challenges of conserving historical buildings that have become integral to Indian culture, especially since there seems to be a trend to obliterate material remains that do not conveniently fit the narrative of contemporary political dispensations. Modern airports with their branded goods outlets and moving walkways can never replace the wonder and joy of the station experience.
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MMuzaffar Ali is a man of many arts. He paints, makes films and runs a fashion house. He also stages music and dance shows and is an aficionado of Urdu poetry. “Everything is connected,” he says. “If you don’t know poetry, you won’t know music. If you don’t know either, you don’t know dance. And if you don’t know body language, you won’t know the moving image.” Now, with Zikr: In the Light & Shade of Time, he wears another hat—that of an author. Perhaps best known for his film Umrao Jaan (1981), Ali made use of Covid-19 restrictions to pen the story of his life. Entrenched in Awadh’s Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb, Ali’s days have, in a sense, brimmed with creative journeys, but the polymath is not in the habit of imparting words of wisdom.
“Like many other things I write about here, I don’t recommend that anyone do this,” he writes. Instead, he lets poets be the experts, the voices of both beauty and intellect. By quoting them seamlessly, Ali makes his case for a more “poetry-driven” country. Be it Faiz Ahmed Faiz, one of his biggest inspirations, or Shahryar, his most frequent collaborator, the book makes one appreciate often unread verse. “These poets made me who I am,” he says. “They were, at different points of time, a part of my being, and in different times, have explained life to me.”
Apart from poets, another life coach was Ali’s father, Raja S. Sajid Hussain of Kotwara. He had packed him off to Aligarh to study and get rid of the “feudal fragrance” he was raised in. The chapter Ali dedicates to Aligarh in Zikr is altogether lovely. The city “moved me to feel and think”, writes Ali as he documents the beginning of his love affair with poetry, and packs in many delightful anecdotes. He says, “If you step into Aligarh and don’t see a whole pitaara [trove] of humour, you may as well walk out of it. It’s a strain of humour which has helped me in my daily life.” In Zikr, Ali also takes us to Calcutta, where he’d work with the legend Satyajit Ray at the ad agency Clarion McCann. We see him move briefly to Delhi and finally arrive in Bombay, where he’d have an 11-year association with Air India before jumping into the world of films.
What stands out, though, is Ali’s yearning for a bygone Lucknow. He writes, “The city went from a peaceful and culturally rich setting to one whose fine arts and cultural values underwent an ugly degeneration… Will we always be oblivious to the culture of sensitivity and refinement for which Lucknow has been known the world over?” Ali highlights the two Lucknows he grew up in. One reminds him of his father, for it was “intellectual and humanist”, and the other he associates with his mother Kaniz Hyder for its “feminine and feudal” characteristics. Ali, notably, seems reluctant in talking about his own roles as a husband and father. He shares professional details more freely than private ones.
ZIKR: IN THE LIGHT & SHADE OF TIME by Muzaffar Ali PENGUIN VINTAGE `699; 264 pages
The minute one thinks of Sufism, writes scholar Rana Safvi in her book, one that is both descriptive and interpretative, “the two strong images that come to mind are qawwalis and Melvana Jalaluddin Rumi’s mystical verses”. The qawwali, developed in the 13th century by Amir Khusro, is embedded in our popular culture and was once a must-have in every Bollywood movie. Rumi, founder of the Mevlavi Sufi (1207-1273), was a poet and scholar, described by the New
Yorker as “the bestselling poet in the United States”. His couplets feature in the albums of artistes as varied as Chris Martin of Coldplay and Madonna.
Coleman Baker, Rumi’s translator, recites this from Rumi in one of Coldplay’s albums: “This being human is a guest house/ Every morning a new arrival/ A joy, a depression, a meanness,/ some momentary awareness comes/ as an unexpected visitor.” But, of course, there is more to Sufism than qawwalis and Rumi, and Safvi’s meticulous research gives us a view of both its depth and width.
When a system communicates largely in similes and metaphors, it is either misunderstood or it invites different interpretations. Asked to explain the highest form of religious devotion, the Sufi saint Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti said, “Develop a river-like generosity, sun-like bounty an earth-like hospitality.” Most religions gain strength from the poetic nature of their utterances; there is both beauty and richness in this. But there is also the scope for ambiguity.
Safvi clarifies some of the misconceptions surrounding the term ‘Sufi’ and traces the origins of Sufism and its spread in India through two streams: history and legend on the one hand, and personal experiences on the other. The latter includes “field visits to the dargahs across India”. She brings to this task the rigour of a scholar and the awareness of a populariser. The result is an erudite, depth-seeking tome that also serves as an introductory volume to the precepts and practices of Sufism.
“Sufism,” says Safvi, “is a vast ocean of mystical thoughts, doctrines, literature and poetry, and a legacy of its saints.” It has always been a part of Islam, although Orientalists of the 19th century saw it as something distinct from it. Sufism both contributed to and absorbed from India’s syncretic culture. It also went through the occasional dip. During one such dip, Persian scholar Abu Al-Hasan Fushanja wrote, “Sufism today is a name without a reality, whereas it was once a reality without a name.” Today, it is both a name and a reality, something the author captures well. As the Sufi mystics came to India and settled down here, they were influenced by the local Hinduism. There was a great and constant cross-fertilisation of ideas, says Safvi.
is clearly a labour of love and includes a chapter on women Sufis and the contribution of women to Sufism. However, there are dargahs where even today women are not allowed. The patriarchy is deep-rooted, but occasionally shows signs of loosening its grip. ■
a visitor from the US came to India looking for kudal varuval (spiced goat intestines), one might point them to a locally famous pitstop, possibly beside a tyre repair shop along the highway. Or, perhaps, to the home of a friend, where the labour-intensive dish is a house specialty. Or one could tell them to head to New York, where a heap of soft and spicy kudal varuval features prominently on the menu at Semma, currently the only Indian restaurant in the city with a Michelin star, which it won this October.
“I don’t think what’s happening can be planned,” says Roni Mazumdar, the restaurateur behind Semma and Unapologetic Foods, a mini-empire of Indian restaurants in the city. Outside, a line of people waiting for the doors to open begins to form. “As a matter of fact,” Mazumdar says, “I’m not even sure we fit into the category of Michelin.”
Mazumdar isn’t being humble—that’s not his style—nor is he off the mark. “If we’d set out to get a Michelin star, we could have done a tasting menu with [Semma’s chefpartner] Vijay Kumar and it would have had every molecular gastronomy and modernisation you could think of.” Instead, Mazumdar is acutely self-aware of being part of a transformation in the way the world understands Indian food and, by extension, the heterogeneity
Notable Indian restaurants around the USA
of the Indian diaspora.
Mazumdar and his partners are among a new crop of restaurateurs and chefs who are unapologetic about cooking Indian dishes for Indian tastes. Inadvertently, they’ve won over non-Indian diners, who have never tasted food like this before. While these restaurants now routinely win coveted awards abroad, it also signals a shift, for Indians, from an obsession with “all things ‘foreign’”, as Mazumdar puts it. Finally, Indians are starting to move away from the idea that until our food is “noticed by other people… it’s not worthy; “we believe it’s pedestrian. As if it doesn’t require any effort, desire, emotions, artistry”.
The food at Semma and other Unapologetic Foods restaurants walks a smart line between novelty and authenticity. For example, one of the most popular dishes is nathai pirattal, gingertamarind snails served with mini kal dosa, an appetiser that Kumar admits he would likely not be talking about if he were back in India. After joining Unapologetic Foods from Rasa (a California restaurant that won a Michelin star), Kumar “casually” recounted to Mazumdar and chef Chintan Pandya, co-owner of
Unapologetic Foods, how as a kid he used to collect snails for the pot. “Roni and Chintan looked at each other and were like, ‘This should be on the menu!’ I said, ‘You both are crazy.’ They replied, ‘New Yorkers will love this.’” They were right.
It’s a different world from a decade or so ago, when Mazumdar opened his first restaurant, Masalawala, as a retirement project for his food-obsessed father. Back then, Indian cuisine abroad was still defined by ‘tikka masala’, and even Mazumdar had to compromise. It was only when Pandya, an Oberoi-trained chef with an interest in recipe-hunting, joined him that the two found the courage to open the casual restaurant Adda, regional specialist Dhamaka, fried chicken joint Rowdy Rooster, a couple of catering concerns and, most recently, the new Bengal-centric Masalawala
in Brooklyn, where rather than tikka masala you’ll find bhapa ilish on the menu. “We’ll tell you it has a tonne of bones. If you don’t want it, just don’t order it,” says Mazumdar. “That’s what the whole essence of Unapologetic is. I’m sick and tired of apologising as if we’re so desperately trying to fit into someone else’s mould.”
And so there is space at Semma for Kumar’s childhood memories of rural Tamil Nadu, and at Adda for Pandya’s beloved chilli cheese toast. Interestingly, there’s no beef on the menus, and the only pork dish is doh khleh
(a Khasi specialty made of pig’s head) at Dhamaka. But besides the intestines and snails, there’s goat neck, goat belly seekh, tabak maaz, gurda kapoora, bheja fry, venison, paya, kaleji and, of course, that bone-in hilsa. And there’s plenty for vegetarians, too. “If we’re going to talk about food as an expression, then it also comes with a certain level of vulnerability,” says Mazumdar. With each restaurant, “we wanted to embrace the heritage of each one of these individuals and have a very clear point of view.” Even within India, such pluralistic visions of cuisine in a fine restaurant setting are rare. ■
Sonal Shah
Roni Mazumdar is acutely self-aware of being part of a transformation in the way the world understands Indian food and diaspora