You are riding down from Connaught Place to South Delhi. You pass Krishi Bhawan and stop at the traffic light. Inevitably, you look left at the India gate and then right at Rashtrapati Bhawan, locked in a symmetry so tight it seems to contain a promise of eternity. The light changes and you turn right. Past Vijay Chowk you enter the glacier like road between North and South block. The relative desolation of the huge chowk gives way to the hustle bustle of the two blocks which house the most important government ministries. You park your scooter in the North Block parking and step out. It is a lovely afternoon.
It is the best time of the year in Delhi and the best time of the day at this time of year. A warm, breezy January afternoon and the whole place is deckeed up with bulbs and national flags. Standing with your back to Rashtrapati Bhawan you can see hundreds of saffron, white and greens fluttering symmetrically on both sides of Rajpath. Well, you can't stand here all day feeling patriotic with the wind in your hair and the gentle Sun nourishing your body. You have your CS212 register in your hand and you have to make notes for an assignment you have to submit. So, reluctantly, you turn and face Rashtrapati Bhawan and start looking. From this close that magnificent building is less obscure than it seems from a distance. You can clearly see the vaulted ceiling of the large hall at the top of the steps. A number of pillars hold up a mighty ceiling which is capped by a dark dome. On either side of the dome are fountain like cup-shaped structures. The building itself is square in shape and at one time only one side is visible to your satisfaction. Reducing the strain on your eyes you let them linger over the Jaipur column; a gift to a bygone Viceroy from the bygone ruler of a bygone princely state. Atop the column is the star of Asia, a four pointed metal construction whose significance is lost in the mists of time. On either side are the fountains and the well manicured lawns which are a hallmark of Raisina hill. The large cast iron gates are flanked by columns on which stand regally howdahed elephants carrying lamps as their passengers. On the columns you have cherubs holding vines and even a few gargoyles. These are the only details which are European in nature here.
You realize that you have to take notes and find that you have lost your pen. A man is standing there wearing Reebok shoes. You ask him for a pen and he gives you one. The sight of his shoes has stirred something in your mind. You take the notes, return the pen and start to saunter down the road.
Both North and South blocks are rectangular buildings with one eastward projection and three projections in the directions of the road. Each of these projections has a verandah with many pillars and a very high ceiling. Where the pillars meet the ceiling there are four identical, symmetrically placed sculptures of an animal. On the outer pillars this animal is the elephant, a symbol of the military power of the imperialist. On the inner pillars it is the cow, probably to denote the fecundity of this land. But to the post-imperialist, almost jingoistic mind, this is the cow which they milked dry.
Between the second and third projections is a large done reminiscent of the gigantic cathedrals of Europe. The entry to this is, however, an arch in true Mughal style. Written on this arch, with brass lettering, and you soon realize that all the brass here is post independence, is an almost propagandist truism.
Liberty will not descend to a people. A people must raise themselves to liberty. It is a blessing that must be earned before it is enjoyed.
Pondering over this and avoiding the inevitable fountains you enter the octagonal hall under the dome.
You are swamped by a wealth of detail. You have no pen. You panic. Just then you see a little boy sitting there in a government school uniform playing with a top. He is Christopher, which he pronounces Christoffer. You strike up a conversation with him and you borrow a pencil from him. As you turn to look up you wonder at the various forms that the detritus of imperialism takes. Thee are four large arches here; one for entry, one for exit and two with little fountains under them engraved with sheshnag motifs. On each of the four arches is a bas relief imperialist manifesto.
Queen Victoria said : In their prosperity will be outer strength, in their contentment will be our security, in their gratitude our best reward.
High up on the dome are Indian coats of arms. Delicate jali work breaks the monotony of stone. There are four alcoves which have no statues in them row and at your feet lies a discarded Pepsi foods wrapper desecrating the impeccably inlaid stone floor.
Your mind is seething now. You don't have any more place for details. You are buffeted by words like liberty, subjugation, freedom and imperialism. You can see Christopher with his childhood spent in between imperial grandeur and the dirt and stench of his Badarpur home. You can see the CEOs in America with their 7 figure salaries and plush homes. You can hear the cries of the hungry children and you can feel power brokers as they move around in the corridors around you. You want out. Back in the open now, you rush to your scooter, dump your register and get moving. You see India Gate against the clear sky and behind it the National Stadium and, even further back, the Purana Qila. Your turmoil quietness down a bit. You think of Indraprastha and of the Khiljis and of Babar and of Clive and of Pepsi and of Coke. And you realize that India will persevere, India has always persevered. India will absorb India has always absorbed. You think back to the steps which bring you down from South block to Vijay Chowk. Canting them on your way down as you pass the alcove containing the name of Lutyens and his associates, you find that they are forty-seven in number. Warp and weft, warp and weft, the tapestry of History keeps coming out of the cosmic loom as you turn right and catch Krishna Menon marg on your way south.