I left Delhi to come back home to the south in February last year, at which time Rana Dasgupta’s Capital was the ‘in-book’. It tells you something about Delhi that there’s such a thing as an 'in-book', but that’s not the point; in those days, everyone with even mild literary inclinations was talking about it, either reading it and talking about not reading it. I had been looking forward to it since Dasgupta’s excellent long-ago Granta essay which foretold the tome. Even William Dalrymple, whose City of Djinns I still consider THE Delhi book, had called it the next great book on the city.
And then it started, the entire gamut of reviews and that a long awaited book like this receives, and I was immediately submerged in them. I read a few of them, and found that the book divided opinion with severity. It was either great or very bad, and there weren’t a lot of in-betweens. I was influenced by a well argued, particularly scathing review and decided not to read it until I was sure it was worth my time.
That was a mistake.
Because when I did get around to reading Capital this year, I understood why it is a brilliant book and why it was attacked in the way that it was, and why it didn’t win all the acclaim it should have. This was arguably not just because of the issues it raises, which discomfitures the city’s elite and their self image, but because this deep an analysis of a city and its people, broken and lost as they both are, is something few writers would endeavour to approach in this way, let alone do justice to; Dasgupta is looking at Delhi differently, he wants the reader to as well - not something all critics will be happy with.
Capital is a disturbing book. From the beginning, this point is made clear to us, that this is not going to be easy to read. Delhi is not an easy city to live in, and the forces that sustain and propel it are not easily distinguished or explained. This means that there will be a lot of conjecture, the imagination will have to take a few leaps. Only then can we even partially come to terms with what the India's capital has evolved into. The author stresses that this process hasn’t ended; the seemingly bottomless energy of this constantly changing city is what guides the narrative. Remember, Dasgupta tells us as we read, this capital of yours is alive.
The book starts with an introduction of how trade works in this city. And slowly the narrator’s vision takes us higher up; this isn’t the looking up from the ground approach of Barbara Ehrenreich’s reportage, or the view from the grime of Old Delhi that Aman Sethi conjures up in A Free Man. Dasgupta sees Delhi from up on high, as he comments on the forces that shaped the city and continue to do so.
Inevitably, the author starts with liberalisation and writes a beautiful chapter on the artists of Delhi’s early 90s, the bohemians who first felt the change underfoot and tried to understand it with their art. And then abruptly, he contrasts that time with the seemingly ideal-less present, achieving an effect that he uses repeatedly in the book. This contrast might be rather in-your-face set piece, but it is necessary. Delhi can never be understood without going back to its past.
Rana Dasgupta talks to Delhi’s nouveau rich, all endlessly and distressingly drawn from a similar set of people and circumstances - the post partition frenzy of finding financial security by any means possible, a mood that has never left this city, and continues still, more than anything else, to define it. Delhi’s wealth is not independent of location, Dasgupta reminds us again and again. Delhi’s rich are rich precisely because they find (and in a lot of cases, found) themselves in a unique setting of time and place, the likes of which are exceedingly rare; and they took advantage of it. Of course, this isn’t to generalise. A lot of people built perfectly honourable, institutions, establishments and businesses in this melee. But Dasgupta isn’t talking about them. He’s talking about the ones who recognised the opportunity for what it was - a gold rush, and set about mining it. Dasgupta posits that, knowing where they came from, this wasn’t surprising or even unnatural.
Except that Delhi forgot when to stop. Crony capitalism that feeds on the abundant political connections available, and inflated real estate, is where Delhi’s money comes from, and neither of these avenues is for the faint of heart. For Delhi’s elite though, the ability and the resolve to wade through this muck comes naturally.
Dasgupta’s sentences are sometimes magnificent, sometimes brutal and edgy but seldom inane. His eyes are that of a novelist’s, looking at a landscape at large but resting on the innocuous and the mundane, before joining the two dots together and making an observation that astounds and delights at the same time. Though there are instances in which his arguments seem overstretched, at no point is his tone anywhere near unbelievable. As I mentioned, Delhi is not an easy place to understand. A leap of faith is necessary.
In the end, as even Dalrymple did, Dasgupta returns to ancient Delhi, and writes a moving elegy to the city's threatened and rapidly fading water sources, the natural resource that first made the city possible. In perhaps the only tone of reassurance, however morbid, that he offers us in the whole book, the author talks of the almost eternal perpetuity of the old Mughal capital. The city we now call Delhi is the most modern, though perhaps the most lawless, incarnation of the place that has seen so much and endured, across centuries, kingdoms, sultanates and governments. And it will outlive us too, and what we have made out of it. There will come a time in Delhi when this will be the past too, and the river which gave it birth will still flow on, winding its way through the plains of a great, ancient civilisation.
Perhaps justice will yet be done.