Last year, when I shifted from Delhi to Udaipur, for the first many months I was answering curious questions about how it is to live here. In popular imagination, Udaipur is often seen through its much-peddled romance, natural beauty, and historic charm. This definitive mythos can overshadow the other parallel realities of such a fabled landscape.
In my early answers to those questions, the comparison between Udaipur and Delhi was rife. I missed Delhi’s everyday conveniences of grocery-on-call, its smooth and broad roads, the large, canopied trees and numerous gardens. But I also loved Udaipur’s cleaner air, and the constant, gentle breeze. My elderly parents no longer had to avoid the outdoors; instead, they basked in the winter sun without having to wear masks. The house I had rented was beside a small flower and vegetable farm; this implies a steady supply of fresh flowers and vegetables at our door. The view of green hills from the windows is wonderful, at least till high-rises obscure it. And the pristine countryside and lakes are minutes away.
As life unfolded in this new city, so did my answers, although the questions had ceased. Now that Udaipur is in news again — not as a celebrity wedding venue but for communal tension after a fight between two students of a government school turned ugly — this seems like an opportune moment to offer an updated, longer response on how living here “feels”.
During my early search for domestic workers in our neighbourhood, the three women I approached said they cannot take on more work but one of them revealed something else. “Aap khate peete ho,” she said. Khaate peete is a colloquial euphemism for those who eat eggs, non-vegetarian food and drink alcohol. In plain words, it is a sign of one’s caste — non-Brahmins or not-good-enough Brahmins. Out of kindness, she suggested that she would find me a Rajput woman because people like her (Brahmins) would not work for people like me. She pointed to the houses where she worked — each one belonged to a Brahmin family. My affinity with her as a woman and all the cultural mandates that our common gender bestowed stood bulldozed by the supposedly more powerful axis of caste.
Although such tragic caste marking is a banal reality of our country, such an encounter was a first for the privileged me, but not the last. A couple of days before Holi, I was standing outside the house watching children play with water guns and colour. One of them – a lovely seven-year-old girl who calls me Mausi — came to colour me. I hugged her but refused the colour. She immediately asked, “Why? Are you not a Brahmin?” This felt devastating, coming from a child that young. Her speech betrayed no inhibition — she associated my refusal as a sign of otherness, the us and them.
In due course, my eyes and ears became alert to such markers. In the market and on the streets, the angry, black, masculinist totem of Hanuman cannot be missed. There are many more vehicles here with the word “Hindu” on its rear window or bumper sticker than I have seen elsewhere. Ever so often, there are rallies on motorbikes and cars with “Jai Sri Ram” flags. When I am asked for a landmark to our house, I mention the unmissable bridge on the river and, sadly, the very tall and large flag with the words “Hindu Rashtra”.
It did not surprise me when I heard anecdotes about Muslims not being able to find a house in the city. This brazen ethno-nationalism is, of course, evident in online spaces, too. In the colony’s messaging group, when I objected to hateful messages against a minority community, I was dissed by men and women older than me. On a senior citizens’ group that I joined on behalf of my parents, a woman forwarded another similar message in defiance of my response. I spoke of the harm it does to all of us and quit the group.
A fortnight ago, cars were torched and stoned after a communal riot-like situation gripped the city after the stabbing. That very day, a plumber who visited us sported an unusually large red tilak on his forehead. “What if they think I am one of them because I have a beard?” he said, when he saw me looking at it.
A day after my birthday, a man came to deliver my birthday cake. He blamed the halaat (situation) in the city for the delay. “I hope better sense prevails,” I said. His retort was instant. “They will keep doing this. We must all react the way they did. In fact, you should also participate.” A man delivering desserts was also apparently carrying invisible bitterness and a flaming torch.
Soon after we heard that Section 144 had been imposed to “maintain law and order”, that the administration had bulldozed the house of the accused boy, in utter and complete breach of law and order.
Against such a backdrop, which unfortunately is not unique to Udaipur, living here can feel terrifying. There is a sense of foreboding that belies the advertised tranquillity. Besides, this deepening social schism does not reflect its syncretic cultural history.
Yet, multitudes abound here too, in all of their light and shade. I have also been witness to some of the finest expressions of love and belonging across communities. Last year, a Hindu couple who lost their daughter, their only child, offered their home to a young Muslim girl struggling to rent a room in the city. For many years now, a native family has been funding educational scholarships for hundreds of Muslim children. The city is also, still, home to some of the oldest Gandhian academic institutions. There is the doctor couple who serve tribals in the rural outposts of Udaipur and wait for the annual visit of their Kashmiri Muslim friend. There are women from different communities who organise pot lucks to undo India’s rising food politics. Public Eid milans here see well-attended multi-faith prayers and gatherings. In the older parts of the city, many shops have Hindu-Muslim men working together for generations.
Like the single candle that dispels the darkness in a room, the hope and healing of these few but powerful examples is enough to believe in the fairy-tale charm that Udaipur embodies.
Nandy is visiting faculty, National Law School, Bangalore, and author. Her work spans issues of gender, human rights, and culture.
