All in a Day’s Order

 All in a Day’s Order

The Delhi winter was upon us. 

There was an initial lull of cloudless skies and only the occasional fog. The parents, in deference to their Pahari genes, observed disparagingly how warm it was. But as interminable days of no sunshine, bone-chilling winds and clammy aspect set in, they suddenly felt the cold.

The subject of the weather naturally came up in telephone conversations with my brother, Vivek, in Mumbai — as in all conversations with anyone. “The weather bureau has forecast a severe cold wave all over North India”, Papa told us over the phone. We had been exchanging notes about the plummeting temperature, each convinced that their respective house was more of an ice-box than the other. “And one of our heaters has stopped working”, he continued. “I have asked Vivek to order an oil radiator. He’s used to online purchases.”

“Does Mummy know?” I asked. 

Mummy has a more than average dislike to what she calls ‘cluttering up the house’. This covers a fairly broad canvas. Anything that can, is promptly returned from whence it came. Or if it can’t, then invariably it comes our way, since we are closest at hand. Caps, clothes, gifts, savouries from the local market that an impressionable Papa is lured into buying, tiffin-boxes and vessels in which we are wont to take across occasional food items and special Bengali sweets, the bags they are taken in —- and sometimes what is contained in the tiffins too! Even Papa’s walks or visits to the local market are a daily source of trepidation. “Anytime he goes out, he comes back with a bag full of something or the other,” she complained. Consequently, we or anyone who makes an entry with any bag of any sort that may potentially contain anything, is regarded with utmost suspicion.

Vivek, as an ideal consumer, inhabits the other end of the spectrum. He believes in shopping often and comprehensively — not just for himself, but also for friends and immediate and extended family. And especially for the parents, for whom things arrive with nonchalant frequency — carried in breezily by him when he is visiting the NCR, and delivered by courier when he is not. Like Newton’s Third Law, an equal and opposite reaction ensues from Mummy each time. 

That very evening, he called up from Mumbai. In passing, he mentioned that he had ordered two oil radiators for the parents. “Two”! I exclaimed. “I thought they wanted one? They already have one working radiator”.

“They should have one in every room”, he replied dismissively. “What's the point of shivering? They’ll be delivered tomorrow.”

Foreseeing some fireworks, I enquired if  Mummy Papa were aware that they were getting two for the price of one, as it were. “I’ll let Papa know”, answered Vivek. And what of Mummy, I thought. Who will bell the cat?!

Not unexpectedly then, I got a call from Papa the very next day.

“Anisha”, he announced, “Vivek has sent two radiators and we don't have any space to keep them. Mummy is very upset. It's best if you take one.”

“That’s a bit much, considering he has just ordered them especially for you! You've been saying you have been feeling the cold even inside the house”, I reminded him.

But it seemed that Papa had made up his mind. “We have kept one in each bedroom. We don’t need any more. You take one; it will be useful in your house.”

 “We also have an oil radiator”, I protested. “And we don’t feel so cold.”

“Doesn't matter, you can keep it in the other bedroom,” he pronounced with finality, adding that he had already spent all morning trying to unpack and assemble one. “I can't get the wheels on,”he continued in an aggrieved tone. “I have asked Bhimraj, the electrician, to come. When will you be able to pick the other one up?”

A little later, an agitated Mummy called up. “Oh, please take the radiator,” she said without any preamble. "As it is, there are so many things in the house. I am black and blue with knocking into something or the other.”

 

“You have to walk more carefully,” I advised. “Don’t rush about the house. And there should be no problem in putting it in the study-room, where Papa watches TV? Since that’s at one end of the house, out of the way of your normal circuit, it should be fine there.” 

“How come he doesn't seem to feel cold when he's outside? He’s going for golf every morning,” she countered, side-stepping the main point with customary practice.

There seemed to be no answer to that, so I parried the question, hoping to delay things till she got used to having three radiators in their house.

It seemed there wasn’t much chance of that happening. A stream of suggestions followed from the other end of the phone. “Maybe you can present it to somebody?” Mummy went on. ”A friend’s anniversary? A wedding you have to go for? When will you come?” 

The next day, in reply to the same query from Papa, I suggested they put it in their dining room for the time being. But it seemed there was no room anywhere for the radiator — or for any more discussion.

“We have put it there for the moment. But we only sit there for ten minutes or so. Ask Snehanshu to find some time to come and pick it up while the weather's still cold. Otherwise, it will be no use.”

“Vivek won’t be pleased,” I said again. “He ordered them for you.”

“Oh, but we are keeping both the ones he has sent”, he replied, with unassailable logic. "We are sending our old one to you!”

——————-

It was the following Sunday, a couple of days after Papa Mummy’s old radiator had been ensconced in our house. The phone rang at 7:45 am in the room, where Treya, in celebration of it being a non-college day, was sleeping the sleep of the just and the free. I ran to pick it up. It was Papa. In response to my “Good morning”, he said: “Anisha, Mummy needs your help urgently!”

Naturally concerned, I enquired in alarm what had happened. 

Fortunately, it was just an extravagant turn of phrase. “You know,” he began. “We had asked Vivek to order some cut jackfruit and some dry fruits. He has also sent lots of other things with them. Sprouts and corn and red radish and cut-methi and much more. Mummy says she can't handle all these. You please take some. And don't order any vegetables for yourself for some days.”

“All right”, I said. “We will be coming in any case this evening for dinner —“ 

But it seemed they would not last till evening! We were asked to come and take them in the morning.

I was still in the midst of relating the newest episode of the online shopping saga to Snehanshu, when the phone rang again. 

It was Mummy this time. “The entire lobby is full of packets of things we don't eat, all with an expiry date of tomorrow. There are at least twenty-five. About four big packets each of walnuts and almonds and pistas! And little-little packets of sprouts of different kinds! Oof, my back is aching with unpacking and sorting them. And you know Papa, he had as usual bought so much stuff — vegetables and dals. Our fridge is already overflowing. “

“And then Vivek sent all this,” she began again. “Sprouts and what not. And a big carton of eggs! Please take them. When are you coming?”

“It's only eight in the morning!”, I said. “Sometime after breakfast?”

Fortunately, that seemed to pacify her. “All right. And please tell Vivek not to order so much for us.”

That evening, Mummy, slightly mollified by the fact that some perishable items had been duly collected by Snehanshu during the day, began afresh. “You know, Papa saw an advertisement in the paper that there is a sale of dry fruits at Big Bazaar. He asked Vivek to order some for us. And Vivek instantly ordered — from Big Basket!” 

“Along with I don’t know how many other things — sprouts, corn, eggs, dal — and a huge number of dry fruits. And it was delivered at the crack of dawn, everything in bags within bags of plastic. I thought I would go crazy.”

“But Big Basket doesn’t use unnecessary plastic,” spoke up Snehanshu. “They are quite responsible. We order from them too.”

“No, no, not Big Basket. Milk Basket,” said Papa. “Milk Basket are the people who send us milk every morning.”

“They deliver all this too,” asked Snehanshu, surprised.

“They deliver everything,”declared Papa serenely. 

“And it's all from Bombay,” said Mummy. 

“Bombay?” We all piped up. “Chopped kathal and methi from Bombay?”, asked Snehanshu in disbelief.

“Yes, it comes by air,” replied Mummy. 

“Can’t be, it must be from somewhere local”!, said Snehanshu.

“Well, anyway it was ordered by Vivek in Bombay,” said Mummy. As I was marvelling at how the three of them had contrived to make Big Bazaar morph into Milk Basket, Mummy confided, “Actually, it was only because there was a sale in Big Bazaar that Papa thought of ordering from them, otherwise our local shopkeeper, Amit is very good. He delivers instantly, and he is always ready to exchange items if required.”

“It wasn’t very much,” an unmoved Vivek responded, when I told him later what had happened. “Only about 250 g each of mixed sprouts and some moong sprouts and some corn, and a few other things they should be eating. Next time, I’ll order more.”

It’s evidently not long till we will be party to the next episode of the inevitable combination of Chinese Whisper and Passing the Parcel — only till the next order!

Urbanisation and its Imperatives

Text of the talk delivered at the Architects Meet, IIA Noida Centre, 9 September 2022

Good evening.

I am going to strike what may perhaps seem a completely different chord in the panel discussion on Urbanisation and its Imperatives.— and turn the theme for today’s discussion on its head. It appears to me that we are spending excessive energy and attention on urbanisation — both literally and metaphorically. What we should instead be discussing is Ruralisation and its Imperatives.

When I say this, I am neither being irrelevant nor flippant. We only have to look at the primary evidence around us — the volume of dust and pollution; the piles of garbage and waster; the insanitary, unhealthy and degrading conditions amidst which the majority of urban dwellers live; the issue of clean and sufficient water that confronts all of us; the traffic and the distances we encounter in our daily commutes — to realise that the current model of planned urbanisation is a failure on multiple counts.

Nonetheless, ignoring this primary evidence, the solution at a policy level is to push for greater urbanisation. More funds for more cities. And more schemes for alleviating the so-called ‘inevitable’ problems of urbanisation in existing cities. What I question is the validity of these presumptions. So:

1. Is urbanisation inevitable? Do we need so many cities?
2. Is the inequity, waste and loss of ecology that accompanies urbanisation, inevitable? Do we need the kind of cities that are being planned?

To me, the answer to these questions is a resounding NO. When I say this, I am obviously not in line with conventional professional wisdom or government policy. According to Government of India projections, “urban areas are expected to house 40% of India’s population and contribute 75% of India’s GDP by 2030”, up from the figures in the 2011 census of “31% of India’s population housed in cities with a contribution of 63% of the GDP”.

That these projections are seen as inescapable — even desirable — is evident from the stated objective of “attracting people and investment to cities” as part of “a virtuous cycle of growth and development”, in the description of the Smart Cities Mission (SCM). The SCM, declared to be an ‘innovative and new initiative’ by the Government of India, further announces that “the focus is on sustainable and inclusive development”. This is proposed to be achieved by “enabling local development and harnessing technology”. Nowhere in the Mission Statement is the necessity or desirability of urban shifts and population concentration evaluated.

There is clearly a fundamental contradiction in the proclaimed objectives of such programmes and their methodologies. How can you provide sustainable and inclusive cities without examining and addressing the root cause that gives rise to unsustainable and inequitable conditions? It is because such analysis is missing, that there is no acknowledgement of the fact that our cities are nothing but a manifestation of the centralised large-scale industrial method of production and control, that we have adopted with such enthusiasm.

If we continue with this same old economic system and its exploitative and mechanistic ways, we cannot escape their attendant effects — including rapid, uncontrolled urban growth. What I propose may be termed an ‘out-of-the box’ approach. The imperative of urbanisation, in my opinion, therefore is to halt such growth, and both the number and the extent of cities.

Though we are architects gathered here, an analogy from medicine should help to better understand the logic of this statement. Growth in the human body is part of the natural cycle of life — but unnatural, rapid growth results in cancerous cells, that has to be stopped to prevent loss of life. Isolated, concentrated, expensive efforts such as chemo or radio-therapy are largely unsuccessful in providing a cure. Similarly, “project based approaches” and “area based strategies”, put forward in the SCM statement, will not succeed in infusing humane conditions back in our cities. We can only do so, by finding alternatives to centralised, industrial ways of production and living.

We are fortunate that we have such alternatives in the scientific, artistic and technological knowledge embodied in the resource of our crafts and craftspeople — the largest such resource anywhere in the world. The development of the crafts sector, a ‘creative and cultural industry’ as it now recognised and designated internationally, is a national imperative. It is important here, to mention Prof Ashoke Chatterjee’s observation that India’s crafts-sector, even in its denuded and neglected state, satisfies 11 of the 17 Sustainable Development Goals adopted in 2015 by all UN Member States. And this sector with its key characteristics of de-centralisation and emphasis on natural, local materials and hand-skills can be carried out not just in urban areas but equally well — if not better— in rural areas. Yet, there is practically no dependable statistical data about numbers of craftspeople or their contribution to the GDP, nor a specific Ministry for the crafts sector as a whole and sufficient budgetary allocation, reflecting the lack of seriousness with which this sector is taken in institutional and official planning policies.

Where do architects and organisations of architecture come into all this? I believe, they can actually lead the way — in convincing policy makers about the necessity of shifting to alternative ways of production and building; as well as by pioneering a shift to acquiring knowledge about alternative, natural, low-energy materials and decentralised design and planning processes. In other words, to focus on both ruralisation and what has been termed rurbanisation — within the context and practicality of our culture and society.

I would like to end by reminding ourselves about the celebrated historic city of Shahjahanabad, established in the 17th century. It encapsulated many sustainable and equitable urban features by following a philosophy of building and making the optimum rather than the maximum — while epitomising urbanity in all its meanings of courteousness, consideration, and refinement. This is clear even in accounts by observers such as the Frenchman, Francois Bernier, despite his bias in favour of his own culture and his city of Paris. Through him and other sources, we learn how the very heart of the city of Shahjahanabad makes space for the poor, even in areas immediately outside the imperial Fort. And how the main ceremonial streets and urban spaces of Shahjahanabad, house markets that do not just display expensive life-style stuff but also basic food and grain for the less affluent, and accommodate artisans of different trades and a variety of goods.

To put this in context, imagine that the vista of India Gate leading up to Rashtrapati Bhawan, is inhabited by a market — which not only sells expensive items for the rich, but also goods for the poor and lower-income groups. Imagine that bands are allowed to practise and play music in the Vijay Chowk area, and later on in the evening, that informal performances, street-plays, and itinerant markets are held here. 

Put this further in context. Recall that even designated market-areas now increasingly disallow goods and services that do not cater to the rich. Tailors with sewing machines, watch-repair wallahs, food-vendors, hawkers are regularly evicted from markets and road-sides — including the Brahmaputra Market in my neighbourhood in Noida — even when a landmark Supreme Court judgement reinforces their right to sell in public places as part of the Right to Livelihood enshrined in the Constitution of India.

I leave you with an incident from a fictional account of an event in 19th century Shahjahanabad, written by Mirza Farahatulla Baig Dehlavi, who was born and brought up in Shahjahanabad. In  his book, Dilli ki Aakhri Shama, or ‘The Last Mushaira of Delhi’, Maulvi Karimuddin, an actual personage from history, and the organiser of the mushaira, is described as ‘footing it across the lanes and streets of the city, in search of patrons and poets’ for the mushaira. He traverses practically the entire city on foot,  from Zauq’s house near Kabuli Gate to Ghalib’s in Ballimaran; from Hakim Momin Khan’s Haveli in Kooche-e-Chelan to the Lal Qila itself. 

In contrast, though our gathering of today is barely 1.5 kilometres from where I stay, it is virtually impossible for me to walk here in comfort or safety.

Of Monsoons and Mangoes, and Outings in Orchards

Consider this:

‘The girls now go towards the mango orchards…Various kinds of mangoes grow here: Mohammad-shahi, laddoo, shahad kooza, shah pasand, batasha, safeda, gulabi, sindoori and siroli. They are piled up ready to be eaten. Jamuns fall from the trees and the girls rush to pick them up. Several fruits — sour lime, mulberries, oranges, phalsa berries, khirni, gular, star fruit, berries, jackfruit, peaches and apricots — have ripened, ready to be plucked from the trees…While the grey clouds sway and dance in the sky, every now and then a burst of rain adds to the beautiful ambience. Peacocks sing, nightingales chirp, koels sing…A girl pulls at the fruit cluster of the banana tree…and they climb various trees in a rush to be the first to pluck the fruits and eat them on the branches itself…Some friends continue to swing from the trees laughing joyously.’ 1

This is a description of the princesses and their friends, maids and attendants, enjoying themselves in the baghs and amriya’n, the mango orchard near Zafar Mahal in Mehrauli in the monsoons. The family of Badshah Bahadur Shah Zafar accompanied him here every year for some weeks before and during the Phoolwalo’n ki Sair held in the month of Sawan. Not just the royal family and their retinue, we are told that ‘Monsoon is the season when everyone spends time in the gardens’. 2  

In a time when the onset of monsoons in Delhi essentially means water-logged roads, sweltering heat, more traffic jams and mosquitoes, this description of how monsoons in Delhi might have been around two hundred years ago, sounds idyllic — and impossible. The stuff of stories. Too far away to seem real.

Amidst the first few showers of the season, as these thoughts ran through my mind while reading about nineteenth century Delhi, I happened to speak to my Mausi, now in Shanghai where she has been ever since the lockdown. The talk turned, as it invariably does between us, to gardens and green things. She was missing her litchi trees in Dehradun, and trying her best to make up for it by growing chillis, marigolds and melons in pots in her daughter’s house. 

Not one for normally reminiscing, in the course of our conversation, she was led to recall that when she was a child, the litchis would ripen much earlier in summer than they did now. And how after they returned from school, entrance to their grandfather’s house on 36 Lytton Road — where they lived with their mother, and their uncles' families — would be preceded by a climb up the litchi tree at the gate. Only after eating their fill of the half-rosy half-green litchis, would she and her cousins and siblings pick up their bags and satchels deposited on the ground at the foot of the tree, and proceed inside the house. 

She also told me how the children in the house and the neighbourhood would walk from the Lytton Road house in the heart of town, all the way to Ballupur to their extensive orchards and fields and the family-temple. Their grandfather had given strict instructions to the contractors who manned the orchards in the fruiting season, that the children should be allowed to eat their fill whenever they came. So they would eat quantities of litchis and mangoes straight from the trees, play around under them, and then walk back home singing all the way. My mother, when I mentioned Mausi’s recollections, remembered cycling there in big groups and sometimes staying-over on the top floor of their Nana’s house there, clattering over the wooden floors.

And suddenly, it seems to me that Bahadur Shah Zafar and his family, just like the other residents of Delhi then, and my mausi and mother as children in Dehradun in the middle of the twentieth century, had essentially done the same things. Enjoyed the seasons, frolicked under trees in the company of family and friends, feasted on fruits. The Badshah and his family and the people of Delhi swinging under trees and sampling mangoes in orchards, are not so distant after all.

Growing up in cantonments, I am fortunate to have somewhat similar memories. My walk back home from school in Wellington in the Nilgiri hills, was enlivened by the simple device of choosing a different path back home everyday rather than simply following the road. Sometimes that meant sliding down stretches of a steep grassy slope, or getting momentarily lost amidst tall trees and shrubs, or climbing up a particularly challenging tree-trunk. But the one constant in all these different routes, was the eating of the blue-black lantana berries that grew profusely everywhere. We plucked and consumed these with single-minded concentration, berry-stained fingers and much delight, despite already having had two tiffin-breaks at school.

I have not gone back to Wellington, but the fact that it is a cantonment means there is a greater chance that it is still green and blessed with trees. Not so Delhi. Nor Dehradun — or indeed any part of the country. We can only visit them in memories and in drawings — such as the one Snehanshu made of the mango orchards that once surrounded his ancestral home in Birnagar in Nadia.

Mukherjee-Bari among Mango trees, Birnagar, Nadia, Bengal.
Sketch by Snehanshu Mukherjee

I remember the first real project I was more or less independently entrusted with, in the architectural studio I joined after graduating. It was a tiny building in Najibabad, a place I had not heard of till then, about five-six hours drive from Delhi. We needed to set out at five am to reach there by mid-morning, and then head back after checking work at site and a late lunch. 

It was always a tiring journey, but the distance and the discomfort of being cooped up for hours in the Ambassador taxis, was, at least for me, always mitigated by the mango orchards that bordered many of the narrow roads or lay beyond the fields on the way. As we sped past their dark stillness, with golden bars of sunlight slanting through their intensely green solidity, I would beguile myself with visions of lying there on a charpai, with a favourite book, nimbu-paani, mangoes, parathas. And the scent of the mango blossoms wafting in as we dozed or looked out into the dark on the way back, stayed with me long after we entered the noise and hard lights of the city close to midnight.

It seems strange to think that the number of years that separate today’s time from the days of my mausi’s and mother’s childhood, is half of that between their time and nineteenth-century Delhi. Yet the experiences between them are closer. We have come a long way away in the past few decades. And lost experiences that celebrated everyday life amidst the changing seasons. We have forgotten how much joy trees and gardens can give everyone, even the mere sight and scent of them. So we cut down trees, thousands of them — mango, neem, oak, jamun. And gouge out the earth to widen roads, make stadiums, offices, flyovers. Any excuse will do. What we need is many more trees, orchards and gardens, not manicured memorials, ministries or malls, but is anybody listening?

Trees cut and hillsides levelled in Rajaji National Park and Mohand, Dehradun, April 2022,
Photo: Treya Mukherjee

                                                               

1  Dilli ka Aakhiri Deedar, The Last Glimpse of Delhi, Syed Wazir Hasan Dehlvi, published 1934, Dilli Printing Press; this excerpt is from City of my Heart, p. 50-52, selected and translated by Rana Safvi, and published by Hachette India, 2018. A description of the Phoolwalo’n ki Sair is also included in Bazm-e-Aakhir, The Last Assembly, Munshi Faizuddin, first published in 1885, p.122-128, and included in the same collection of translations.

2  Ibid., p. 23

This I Remember - Conversations with Professor Ashish Ganju

This I remember

Professor Ganju's Ayanagar Loft/Discussion Space

 

My interactions with Professor Ashish Ganju, sporadic as they were, consisted almost entirely of conversations. Initially, conversations related to the way history was taught in colleges of architecture — or taught in general — as part of a group that, individually and collectively, were grappling with a sense of dissatisfaction with how we regard our present and our past. And, as a natural extension of this, to conversations about what it means to be Indian — in everyday experience and in architecture.

I was always struck by how much space he gave to others to put their thoughts across. It was not as if did not have anything to say; he made pertinent, sometime profound and occasionally provocative interjections. But, generally, he heard one out, and was encouraging and positive even when he was critical of what one had to say.

One of our last conversations was on the telephone on the 30th of March 2021. It was supposed to be brief. He was surprised when I told him we had talked for more than an hour — something I was aware of because of my mobile phone display. Surprised, and miffed at the way everything one did these days was overshadowed by the intrusion of a time-slot. As I check on my phone records, I see that the call was for 83 minutes 10 seconds.

Our conversation too, was in fact provoked — in part — by the time-constraints of our forthcoming dialogue on architecture, an initiative supported and organised by the India International Centre, New Delhi. The series, titled ‘Talking Architecture’, was conceptualised to address the disconnect between architecture (and architects) and the people it is meant for. And to publicly dialogue to discover how we can participate in the making of architecture that is socially and aesthetically fulfilling. The Discovery of Architecture - A Contemporary Treatise on Ancient Values and Indigenous Reality, a radical examination by Professors Ashish Ganju and Narendra Dengle of both ‘the heartlessness of contemporary mainstream architecture’ and ‘the origins of history’^[1] , seemed to me the most appropriate beginning to this public dialogue. 

My concern was how to bring their radical ideas — themselves the outcome of a twelve-month dialogue between both of them, and written primarily for architects and their ilk — clearly into the public domain in the inaugural episode of the series. So that they could be grasped easily by not just those who design and make buildings, but also those who commission and inhabit them — in short, pretty much everybody. I had been urging Professor Ganju and Professor Dengle to couch the essence of their ideas in a way that could be accessible across professions and patrons.

When I emailed them my notes summarising what I understood of the book, as a prelude and accompaniment to the questions that I thought needed clarification, both Professor Dengle and Ganju responded in their own characteristic way. Professor Dengle wrote me an email of his thoughts on the range of issues encompassed by what he called the paradox that 'architecture is not visual; it is also visual’— as a follow-up to his initial response to our discussions conducted over a Zoom meeting communicated in a detailed note on ‘What is Architecture’. 

            Professor Ganju called me up. The conversation was in the nature of the Panchatantra tales. A complex connected weave of recollections, stories, theories and hypotheses. Professor Ganju was concerned that the time we had for our forthcoming discussion was insufficient to take the questions I had noted. Even if we just picked a couple of them, he was unsure if we would be able to actually answer all their facets. He reiterated what he and Professor Dengle had clarified in the Zoom meeting between the three of us a week earlier: they had further developed their thoughts in the eight years that had elapsed since the publication of The Discovery of Architecture, and to that extent what they had written in the book could not cover the entire range of their ideas.

            As we spoke, it was clear that everything hinged on what we think of as ‘architecture’. He recollected his experience of his aunt’s house in Benaras, when he was still studying. How utterly unlike it was from all that he had hitherto seen, because it was completely ‘free’ of the influence of Modernism. How moved he was by it. How it completely transformed his idea of what architecture could do, and what architecture could be. I asked him to talk about this in our dialogue, as a way to explain architecture through this anecdote of the house he lived in Benares. He corrected me and said that he merely visited the house, and did not really stay there for any extended time. And said that he couldn’t summon up an anecdote in a pre-meditated manner. It would depend on what he felt like talking about at that time.

He also spoke at length about his search for a theoretical, philosophical foundation that could create such architecture. And his belief that if there was no philosophical base, there could be no architecture. His aunt had directed him to a Pandit in answer to his questions. And later to Brahmacharin Ganeeta, whom he thought I may have heard of. I had to confess I had not. In fact, I do not know if I have even got the name right. From what I remember, he told me she was related to Maneka Gandhi’s mother’s family and had been adopted by Anandmayee Ma. He recollected meeting with her in the house of her relatives in New Delhi, and the incongruity of her appearance in her ascetic robes, in the setting she was in. He had been told that she would provide a direction to his search, and the answers to his questions. But all she told him was that he should read the Upanishads. He said when he tried to do so, he could make no head or tail of them! He spoke about his inability to comprehend them and to reconcile all that he saw and read, despite being brought up in what he called ‘the arrogance of the Kashmiri Shaivite tradition’.

As I try to summon the conversation to mind, and regret that I had not thought of recording it, two main things remain with me. The fact that it was the transformative experience of architecture that led Professor Ganju to search for the philosophy that could create such architecture, and effect such transformation. A search that for him began early on in life, and continued till his very last days. And the realisation that most of us, even those who are formally involved in creating architecture, almost completely lack an intuitive or intellectual access to such a philosophy. This philosophy is not limited to texts. It is manifest in architecture, if only we can see it — in the way architecture is generated, and equally in the way it is re-generated often by those who are not accredited with formal educational qualifications.

This re-generative aspect, both for the people who build and the people who inhabit — as well as for all that exists in and around the act of building and inhabiting — is what is or what ought to be, the objective, the method and the outcome of architecture. And to access this, one needs an understanding of both text and practice; of rituals and the presence or absence of rationale behind rituals; of the knowledge-systems we have inherited, especially those arising from our own context. At least this is how I seem to understand that conversation. And while I continue to wish that I had recorded it and not have to trust to the vagaries of my memory and understanding, I also realise that it is the very lack of any such recording that has compelled me to think more deeply, and to revisit that conversation with Professor Ganju again and again in my mind.

The fact that he chose to approach my questions tangentially, and did not furnish any straight answers, is also I think an answer in itself. That all of us, individually and collectively, need to search out our own ways of discovering and re-discovering the meaning and the potential of architecture, as of life. It certainly helps if we are given a structure or a path to follow, but finally it is we who have to journey on that path. Sitting on the sidelines will not take us anywhere. And beyond his belief in dialogue — an important prerequisite to finding the path — Professor Ganju had the conviction and perseverance to actually go ahead, walk the path, and live his philosophy. He is the only architect that at least I know of, who did so.

The field of his influence extended far beyond the compass of the conversations I knew him by. Though these conversations certainly formed a vital part of his intellectual pursuit, he did not confine himself to mere intellectual enquiry or just words. There was constant reflection and resonance between his ideas, his actions, his architectural practice. He demonstrated how dialogue ought to be an integral part of the philosophy of how we live with each other, with our environment, and with the buildings we have inherited and those that we make and inhabit.

To me, the most inspiring instance of his sustained engagement with the transformative potential of architecture activated by dialogue, is the way in which he worked with the community in the urban village of Ayanagar, among whom he also chose to live. It is remarkable how he persevered over years to effect the provision of basic amenities like sewage disposal and sanitation and clean water to people who had been literally left 'to sit on their own shit’. Through his indefatigable efforts to facilitate so many people to live with dignity, through the ideas he transmitted and encouraged many of us to think about, and through the changes he successfully made in the actions of at least some governing agencies and communities of people, he has left us with a structure and a path that we can also choose to follow. To actively question, hear, observe, see, think, and then independently yet collectively decide how and what to do. As he wrote in the notes that he sent about the points he wanted to highlight in our discussion: ‘The ability to create well-being in our habitat, a promise inherent in the knowledge base of architecture, is no longer taken for granted. How can this situation be turned around for public benefit ?’^[2]

I believe the demonstration of this ‘promise inherent in the knowledge base of architecture’ will remain his enduring legacy. And I hope it can serve as a starting point for the rediscovery of architecture for all of us.

(This is a link to the inaugural episode 'The Discovery of Architecture' of the series 'Talking Architecture', dedicated to the memory of Professor Ganju: https://youtu.be/gI1y5enqaPU)

 

Appendix

What is architecture? For the Dialogue with Anisha Mukherji

Narendra Dengle, March 27, 2021

The first thing that comes to my mind when we discuss ‘what is architecture’, is that architecture is part of life; not a fragment of life — it IS life. Life is not just one’s own life, life is also not the life lived by the human species on this planet Earth and beyond. Life is a continuously energetic process that sprouts, sustains, dies, and is recreated. In that it is independent of a huge number of imagined concerns, which have fragmented from life, especially after Industrial Revolution. The imagined concerns I refer to, are due to the ‘erroneous reasoning’ trapped in the equation of immediate cause: effect. As one learns from ancient wisdom, there are ‘many causes’ that prompt an act.

The other side of this argument is that as citizens of the world, we function in numerous ways with different faiths, beliefs and motives. Individuals respond to situations in drastically varied ways in the circumstances they face. There is no standardisation of circumstances encountered by all of us. Even those claiming to follow certain paths — religious or whatever, marked by the masters they revere, are astonishingly varied in their response. Even when one discusses the popular terms — ‘sustainability, eco-friendliness-green architecture’ –- we seem to confront a huge number of attitudes in opposition to each other! There is no एकसूत्रता. Hence, there can never be one definition of architecture. An attempt to define ‘what architecture is’, in effect becomes an attempt to connect the philosophical base of ethics-philosophy-technique. It is an attempt to discover the RIGHT (!) PATH. If one looks beneath the much clichéd Satyam- Shivam- Sundaram, it tells us that the true is creative-protective-regenerative and hence beautiful.

Response to survive, making a livelihood and especially through practicing architecture is almost entirely driven by real life situations — these may be defined through anthropology, sociology, psychology, business, politics, or whatever. If one is pushed against the wall with no access to food, water, shelter, or fear, honour, then one’s response in thought and deed can considerably vary from one another. Here, paradoxically, the idea of delight and beauty have never lost their significance. These emerge not in abstraction (words-visual enticement etc) but through the awareness of ऋतुचक्र, and its seasonal impact on immediate surroundings and life. If we miss out on this and further fragment away from life, then we enter a fantasy world primarily generated for a profit — a concept adhering only to one’s own life as LIFE.

Architecture with its own sphere of concerns (in construction and materiality) may not apply to all concerns in life and yet architecture must be thought of as a connection with life by those engaged in its sphere. This is the paradox –- if you like. But in reality, it is not a paradox at all!

If architecture is seen this way then one may observe that any tangential deviation from it leads to a fragmentation of life. Fragmentation becomes decadence sooner than later; destructive to the life of ‘others’ or other species, and of nature as a whole. So, I would say that the habitational activity that does not go away from this fact, brings sense and beauty to life.

We may be able to view architecture through at least three different frames for the purpose of analysis.

1. Patron: Architect: Constructor

 2. Architect herself for the ‘growth’ within, and

3. Architecture: Nature

 

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[1] As noted in his email of 10th April, reproduced below:

Munishwar Nath Ashish Ganju <mnashish@gmail.com>

 

Sat, 10 Apr, 17:02

to me, Narendra

Notes for dialogue/public discussion on Architecture moderated by Anisha

 

1. Re: the pamphlet/book "Discovery of Architecture : a contemporary treatise on ancient values and indigenous reality" -  we thought of writing this essay after 25 years of practice as an architect and teacher, recognising that there was something missing in our approach which was mainly derived from the modern movement in architecture and its derivatives, the International Style and so on. There seemed to be a theoretical vacuum in the discipline. We organised a 12 month long dialogue between Narendra and myself, leading to the writing of this paper in order to clear the ground for theory to emerge. It was an invitation to fellow architects and interested others to continue the conversation and join in the discovery of true meaning in architecture.

 2. In the 8 years since the original dialogue, there has been an expansion of the circle of persons who have joined in the process, in India and abroad. The basic format for thinking was a 4 part matrix, starting with Self as Community, going on to the Act of Building with cosmic awareness, further to Renewal of the built environment, leading to Regeneration for Learning. The matrix was discussed in several forums, in a few schools of architecture as well as conferences/workshops; and this is a continuous process to address concerns regarding the practice and teaching of architecture, and the heartlessness of contemporary mainstream architecture.

3. The concern with theory was enlarged to examine origins in history, since it seemed that teaching and research in history of architecture was not a current preoccupation in schools of architecture. Consequently the training of emerging professionals in the discipline was directionless and the vast repository of young talent was misguided. The integrity of the discipline was being damaged, resulting in loss of social worth. Young ( and not so young) architects find that their expertise is not valued in the task of nation building. The ability to create well-being in our habitat, a promise inherent in the knowledge base of architecture, is no longer taken for granted. How can this situation be turned around for public benefit ?

Hope this can serve as a starting point.

Good wishes,

Ashish

 

 

^[2] Ibid.

The Idea of India

An exploration of the meanings of identity and design in the Indian context - now and in earlier times. Looking at the Idea of India, and ideas from India through the concept of lakshana - distinguishing characteristics. Can these be used to illustrate principles of progressive thinking?

 A film made by some very bright students! On the Jantar Mantar, based on my book, Jantar Mantar, Sawai Jai Singh's Observatory in Delhi.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4Oim7FuCH8

anisha identity and design part2

A continuation of the exploration of the relationship between design and identity. Through a comparative analysis of the meanings of 'modern' and 'Indian', as seen in contemporary and earlier pieces of architecture and design in India, we see how culture, society and philosophy affect aesthetics and ethics - and thus, the appreciation or articulation of design