No Escape from Delhi

If you think a cultural festival outside the city is the perfect excuse for a holiday, go prepared. It might just seem like you’re back in Delhi

There are some things one should never do. Don’t ever stand near the hind legs of a donkey, horse, zebra or giraffe. Do not mix shots when drinking. And do not make holiday plans with a photographer.

The Escape Festival of music was about to happen at Naukuchiatal in Uttarakhand. About 30 bands were scheduled to play music of all kinds over three days. The venue was beside a lake nestled in the hills. The event was being organised by a group with a cheery name, Potheads. It all sounded very good.

Most of my closest friends are photographers. So, even though I know them well, I made plans to drive to Naukuchiatal from Delhi with a bunch of these guys. I even told pretty girls who wanted a ride to the festival that there was no room in my car. In the end, of course, I ended up driving alone because my dear friends pulled out at the last moment.

This was 21 May, the day of the Rapture, an important day because the world was supposed to end. Osama was dead, the Left had lost West Bengal after 34 years, the people on the Most Wanted List India gave Pakistan were being found all over Mumbai and Thane, and Amar Singh was explaining that he had said “Age matters between the legs” to a man, not Bipasha Basu. The signs of impending doom were all there.

I left Delhi at the crack of dawn, 8 am. I had never driven out of the city before. A dust storm had just wound down. The skies were as dark as my mood. Soon it began to rain and the wind started to howl. Trees and poles fell on the highway to Uttarakhand. I drove through it all like a maniac at speeds of around 100 km per hour, trying to calm down by listening to Abida Parveen. It was only when the traffic jams started near Moradabad that problems began.

There are no rules in that part of the world. For example, you cannot assume that traffic on the left of a street is going in only one direction. They have full freedom of movement, speech and expression out there. I was hit by a bike coming from the wrong side of the road. The riders then cursed me roundly since they had been honking while coming down the wrong side and I had failed to hear them.

Eventually I got to Naukuchia and the festival. As I walked in, I met a friend from Delhi. Then another, then a whole bunch. It was very pleasant to walk in and find good friends, but it made me think of what several people had cited as a reason for not going to the Escape: because it would feel just like being in Delhi. Everyone you want to meet and don’t want to meet would be there. It would be no escape at all.

That happens with all the festivals around Delhi. At the Rajasthan International Folk Festival in Jodhpur, it was like a mini Delhi. The Jaipur Literature Festival was worse. It was a Delhi concentrate: all of Delhi’s culture people squished together into a venue that is now too small for the festival.

I can’t really complain. I was there too. And while the largest number of people was from Delhi, there were plenty of people from all parts of India and the world.

The prime reason Delhi people are such a big bunch at these festivals is simple. It’s a matter of geography; Delhi is closer to Jaipur, Jodhpur and Naukuchiatal than comparable cities.

Delhi also has a very vibrant cultural life. It is the culture capital of India, and has quality events at easily accessible venues on an almost daily basis. It also has many art, culture and journalism institutions that offer venues and work opportunities to young artists, writers and photographers. This attracts people interested in these fields to the city. Over time, everyone in this set get to know one another. We all work in the same fields, go to the same events and have friends in common, so it’s only natural.

The city is going through a good phase in its cultural life. There’s an energy in Delhi that is missing in the other metros. Kolkata and Chennai lost their mojo long ago. There are signs of revival, but as far as I can tell, the revival hasn’t achieved any scale yet. Mumbai and Bangalore also have good scenes, but there’s less happening than Delhi. In Mumbai, it’s more about the entertainment and ad industries. Besides, the scene is spread thin. Bandra has no real culture spaces I can think of. There’s Prithvi Theatre in Juhu, which most ‘townies’ from SoBo would consider way too far to descend to. There’s the NCPA in Nariman Point which is a long haul for folks from Juhu or even Bandra. It’s only major events that excite people enough to get them to undertake the expedition to the other side of town.

Delhi’s culture spaces are all concentrated around Central Delhi. They are easy to reach by road or Metro. Moreover, and very importantly, events in Delhi are free, so even poor students and broke artists and journalists can access them easily.

Bangalore has Ranga Shankara, and 1 Shanti Road and the Alliance Francaise. There are regular events at these venues, though the kind of buzz that Delhi sees is missing. The locations are dispersed. The culture crowd is also smaller, and would all fit into one wing of the restaurant Koshy’s. They can’t generate too much energy anyway, since the city shuts at 11 pm.

The upshot of all this is that many of the folks from Bangalore, Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai and elsewhere who would have contributed to the cultural lives of those cities wind up in Delhi instead.

They are people like Lalrinawma Tocchawng, the main organiser of Escape at Naukuchiatal, who is a Mizo from Shillong. He’s been in Delhi for over 20 years. He freely acknowledges that a majority of people at Escape were from Delhi. People simply got into their cars and drove up, he says. There were enthu cutlets from elsewhere, but they couldn’t just drive across or hitch a ride with friends.

On my way up to Naukuchaital, after being ditched by the unreliable photographers, I had ended up with a passenger for part of the way. It was a police officer from Moradabad I met while trying to drive through a jam before Rampur. He began by doing something unacceptable. He ate all my cookies. However, he tried to redeem himself by kindly offering me free country-made revolvers and local women in return. He also informed me that he made Rs 1 lakh a month in bribes, and that thanas closer to Delhi made much more. I learnt a lot from his conversation.

A photographer friend at Naukuchia asked for a ride for part of the way back. He surprised me by actually coming along. After dropping him, as I was driving alone, I came to the same traffic jam where I had met the cheerful criminal in police uniform earlier. One of his subordinates tried to extract a bribe from me for no reason, and I had the satisfaction of telling him to piss off.

In the end, I must say, I quite enjoyed going solo.

Samrat is the author of The Urban Jungle

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