Dilli Dur Ast

(An old rant parked in the Drafts folder, posted today.)

Dilli Dur Ast. True for all lesser Indians.

One reason it was easy to write about secessionist movements with an open mind was that I did not grow up in the capital city. I grew up in Bombay, watching Delhi kids get every fun opportunity; Delhi roads improve on each holiday, and Delhi get all the hype--acutely aware that we paid more tax. Even when I was in school, I knew that.

Growing up in Maharashtra, with stories about Shivaji's rebellion against the Mughals, resentment towards the imperial centre was part of one's inheritance. The story of Shivaji's alienation and isolation in the Aurangzeb darbar captured the non-Delhi Indian's continuing daily alienation in so many ways. Early encounters with Delhi bureaucracy (mainly in libraries) reinforced that. I love that story; it rings so true.

Today, living in Tamil Nadu, everyday a stubborn-if-irrelevant holdout for the idea of India in the face of an almost isolationist, Tamil-only nationalism, I watch how this continues in every sector. After starting the NGO, I realised that all the funders are Delhi-based, and so one had to go to Delhi to meet them. Even so, Delhi organisations seem to have first dibs on funding. But that's one thing, and since we do not have FCRA, it quickly became irrelevant to us.

Now, I watch with varying degrees of irritation and resentment--varying with how hot Chennai is mostly--the Delhi-centrism of my colleagues in the social sector. When statements for 'Indian women' and the 'Indian women's movement' emerge, and have been drafted entirely by a small cluster of Delhi women; when they acknowledge each other's work, while loads of others remain invisible and unheard; when they nominate each other to this and that... it seems the rest of us do not exist. Sour grapes? Envy? Resentment? Check all of the above. But remember the kernel of truth somewhere within: Delhi is so far away that we only start to count when we move there or stand with them. On listservs, social networks or other platforms, we can only speak for the exotic and distant, never for India.

I want to say, I am not really from Tamil Nadu because I did not grow up here. I inherited Maharashtra, Tamil Nadu and India, so don't put me in a box. No matter how clearly I speak, I feel like I have to shout to be heard. No matter how prescient my writing, it has to be written by someone from Delhi to matter. (And I am not even raising gender here, that cross-cutting, all-crushing reality!)

On a panel on nationalism many years ago, my colleague presented a paper titled with a quotation, "I have seen India, and it is us." The paper was about UP politics, but really it is in Delhi and around Delhi-ites that I have remembered it most.

Yes, Delhi is today far more cosmopolitan than when I was growing up, and the truth is that some of my best friends are Delhi-ites, even though they might prefer to think of themselves as Delhi-based. But the Delhi charter continues to say to others, "Oh, you're there?" in a tone of surprise. Is there really life beyond the Yamuna and the Aravalli? Non-Hindi speaking life?

It is now possible to commute to Delhi, going in the morning and coming back by the end of the work-day. But is it possible to communicate with Delhi--with official and non-official Delhi? I am not sure.

Delhi is still too far away from all of us. And this is a rant from someone who has Delhi connections and can speak Hindi. How must this feel for others? What are the ramifications when this alienation comes from a federal system in a centralising political culture--for language and culture, for finances, for political autonomy? We all know the answer.