Does Kailash destroy the mountain—or preserve it?

      And I thought to myself: What would happen to Benaras if the river Ganges were redeveloped to look like the Seine? If you took the myriad activities that occur every day along the ghats—the ritualistic bathing of pilgrims, the cremation of bodies, the reading of horoscopes by astrologers, the chanting of Brahmin priests, and the boatloads of tourists clicking away with their cameras—if you took all these activities and placed them on the manicured quays of Paris, what would you get? The compound of a general hospital? The big scene of a disaster movie? In the context of Benaras, on the contrary, this tableau becomes a metaphor for human existence. It makes you reflect on the metaphysics of life. Why is this? Precisely because on the far side of the holy river, the landscape is empty and shrouded in mists, stretches flat and enigmatic, as far as the horizon.

      This complex and ambiguous relationship between man and nature is central to Indian architecture. Europeans—starting with the ancient Greeks—have habitually conceived of architecture as a man-made object, complementing nature and quite separate from it. Hence the Parthenon on the Acropolis in Athens is the quintessential object placed on the sacred mountain. Building and nature converse in harmonious dialogue, but do not imitate each other. Most Western architecture, right down to this century, follow this paradigm. Hindu architecture never takes this extreme position; nor does it take its converse. Instead, we have the ambiguity of Ajanta—that stunning sweep of caves carved out of the mountain, each perpetually revolving in its place. And at Ellora, does Kailash destroy the mountain, or preserve it? Is it part of nature, or does it belong to man? Again, the philosophical pluralism that underlies the Vedas reveals itself, disdaining the dualities of simplistic choices.

      The mythic values of the past affect us not only on issues of monumental architecture but on those concerning basic issues of shelter as well—issues of vital importance to the millions of urban poor living in our squatter colonies. In Latin America, where the phenomenon of these settlements first surfaced, you can scan the age of a colony by the stages of improvement carried out by its inhabitants. (First the asbestos roof, then the TV antenna, then the lace curtains, and so forth.) This is seldom true for India. Old squatter colonies, even those which have been legitimized by the authorities, do not look so different from the brand new ones. Not that there are no improvements, but just that these are not as palpable as those in Latin America. Why? Because the hedonistic images of Mediterranean mythology place a premium on the house (the casa) as a symbol—and a focus—of good living.

      Now, as was pointed out earlier, building models of the cosmos leads to austere and metaphysical built-form; it was the Garden of Paradise that brought sensuous delight to Indian architecture, classical music and dance. Because we are not hedonistic, visitors assume we are not materialistic. Not true. Indians are as materialistic as anyone else. The reason the family of a very wealthy businessman is living in two miserable rooms of a crowded chawl in Mumbai is that his symbol of conspicuous consumption is not his casa but, rather, the size of the diamond earrings in his wife’s ears.

      This absence of hedonism is primarily the outcome of the belief, central to Hinduism, that this manifest world is not all there is. It is mere illusion. Thus, down the centuries, the model hero in India has never been he who wins all—but he who renounces all. This prototype continues to beckon to countless millions of Indians—even as we get more and more acquisitive every day (just as the image of the archetypal cowboy perpetuates the myth of the heroic individual in America). Sanyas, the oath of renunciation, is the third duty specified in the Vedic shastras, after those of being a student and a householder. It represents an attitude understood throughout the length and breadth of this land—one central to Mahatma Gandhi’s philosophy and to his political appeal. It is implicit in the historic photograph of his last possessions: the pair of spectacles, the bowl, the sandals, the trio of monkeys (‘see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil’). In this Gandhiji (who, like the great Mao Tse-tung, had almost no visual sensibilities), has generated an aesthetic image of the highest order—one which makes vivid to us the enigma of existence. If ever we are going to be able to construct the socioeconomic context, the intellectual mind-set, needed to address the issues of the urban poor, this image of Gandhiji’s last possessions will provide the key.

      And if ever we can summon the political will to enact this programme, the people of India will respond. We cannot get rich overnight; poverty is going to be with us for some years to come, and our 21st century will be dominated by the struggle for human equity. For us in India, those colossal waves of distress migration engulfing our towns and cities are going to occupy centrestage—generating the overriding political and moral issues of the next five decades.

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