Twilight in Delhi

January 22, 2009

Jama Masjid at Sunset

 

There are some books that feel like perfumes. They usher you into a world, a time, an atmosphere. The story is just an excuse to let you wander through the song and air of that time. 

You shut these books with an eerie feeling. And you never forget them.

Such is Twilight in Delhi, by Ahmed Ali.

I read it at a time of intense history binge. I was reading every single book I could find about Moghul India, and India until the end of the nineteenth century. Most of my reading were history books, which I enjoyed thoroughly. But I was craving some fiction. I knew the facts, now I wanted to feel them.

Moghul India is mesmerizing, and whoever dives into it emerges dizzy, groggy, and deeply nostalgic. There is this heartbreaking time, at the end of the 19th century when Delhi awakes to the total decrepitude of its old world. Moghul princesses have become beggars, and the infiinite grace with which life was infused slowly surrenders to modernity. 

Twilight in Delhi is set at precisely this time, in 1911, in an aristocratic Muslim haveli. Pigeons are flown at dusk and women’s hair still smell like ittar (pure perfume extract). But their world is crumbling. There is no money to sustain the zenana, and no imperial court to sustain Delhi. The English are parading in the city. Holding on to their izzat (honour) and their torn muslins, the people of Delhi witness, immensely sad, the end of their world.

The book, unlike this post, is written very soberly. Each sentence is chiselled, adjectives are few, pathos is banned. It’s just the sky of Delhi and the helplessness of its people.

Twilight in Delhi is, to me, utter perfection. It’s history as a story, India as a poem. I find it so completely enchanting it hurts me to even write about it: there is nothing to say, nothing to add.

One Response to “Twilight in Delhi”

  1. Orooj Ahmed Ali Says:

    I was glancing through the web and I came across your views on Twilight in Delhi. How sensitively and beautifully you have expressed them. The city was so dear to him. 2010 is the birth centenary year of Ahmed Ali, the author of “Twilight in Delhi.” Perhaps one day you may like to read the French translation “Crepuscule a Delhi” published by Editions Gallimard, Paris, and let us know how it reads.

    Although the friends are oblivious of my being,
    I have a thousand associations with them.

    And though that Delhi is dead and gone, yet Delhi still remains.

    Orooj


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