Malvika's Ramblings

Lucknow

Nawab Wajid Ali Shah from http://lostcityproducts.com/blog/?cat=119

Lucknow. A city of nawabs who liked to bare a nipple in their royal attire, of schools where white school boys were once served beer, of Mutiny that besieged terrified British wives and their babies and babas, of the courtesan Umrao Jaan – equally accomplished at shaayari and seduction.

A city of gastronomic orgies. Where Tunde Miyaan serves you his lip-smacking kebab and paranthe carelessly, nonchalantly as he knows customers will pounce like pariah dogs outside a meat shop. Where the Id festival stocks narrow lanes with twinkling lights, doodh and sewiyaan. It’s only here that young fellows in delicate achkans, whizzing on their bikes – Pulsars and Karizmas, finally come to a halt.

But let’s not relegate the city to myths and fables, fantasy and allure. The city now takes immense pride in it’s generous sprinkling of malls, similar looking structures offering global indulgences like multiplexes, popcorn (“Plain mixed with caramel please”) and Big Bazaar.

It all began with Barista and then CCD arriving in the city. Before that Ganj-ing was the in-thing to do in Lucknow; Ganj-ing as in loitering up and down Hazrat Ganj, once a wide boulevard, with stops like the British Council Library, Burma Bakery and Mayfair Theater decked with sepia prints of Hollywood icons. Now of the three, only Burma Bakery remains. Perhaps, between books, cinema and coconut biscuits, the last were the most difficult to forego. Ganj-ing meant skipping Aminabad to look at more western clothes hanging along the pavement around Lovelane.

But if you want to entertain guests, show them the authentic maal, Aminabad is where you go. Here you can buy chikkan suits, pair them with dark sunglasses for an elite luncheon or simply don a salwar-kurta to pass a hot intolerable afternoon with no electricity due to load-shedding. Chikkan-kaari - complicated embroidery on see-through fabric, not just above but below the cloth too, showing off its intricacy in shadows; much like Lakhnavi women glimpsing from veils and hijabs, quickening their steps past tea-shops where men lounge.

Mangoes, MB club – Timepass in Lucknow. Come April and you’ll find yellow walls of mangoes as you drive down roads. Come July showers and flimsy tarpaulin of make-shift stalls sinks under the weight of the downpour and finally tips a flood all over mango mountains. Dussehris, safedas, langdaas and chausas. Fruit to be soaked to a delicious coolness in buckets,and devoured by a family and relatives sitting in a ring. Fruit to be carted off to business associates by the peti, and received in turn to mark good relations.

MB Club – a club with a marked colonial hangover, where men hold their whiskey long and lovingly and women don't mind their tipple either. Once a privilege of feudal lords and prominent defense citizens, it’s a place to pass a mellow evening in, as shikaar goes on overhead in miniature Mughal paintings; a retreat after a day of horse races at the cantonment, where Telibagh ki Rani and Bijli give each other stiff competition, kicking up dust and loud cheers. Maybe you’d sight here, the winner of the May Queen Ball held the previous night at Surya Club before looking away politely.

Out on the roads, you can now not help but run into intimidating statues of the Chief Minister Mayawati and her idol Dr Ambedkar. Recently, the city has gained quite a fortress-like demeanor with thick walls, I-won’t-budge-an-inch pillars, and parks that make an authoritative statement. You’ll find the manifesto of Mayawati’s party crammed in small print on huge hoardings at traffic lights. And not just one, but three or four hoardings so that drivers in no direction may feel left out. Perhaps the policemen still bring traffic to a stop when a politician, or anyone with a laal-batti atop plays Schumacher on the roads. Gunmen and supporters careen by, hanging on jeeps or discussing important matters of statecraft behind tinted windows.

However, Lucknow itself feels secure enough. It’s the hinterlands from where violent stories reach, of the antics of the goons in the fields. Meanwhile housewives in Nirala Nagar or Gomti Nagar continue to pen shaayari, hoping to publish a book one day, spurred on by what else, but the city’s atmosphere.