Be it Allahabad or Prayagraj: Why a typical Illahabadi won’t be bothered at all
Allahabad, my hometown, has been renamed Prayagraj. On hearing the news, the first thing I did was to rename myself. Henceforth, and to whomsoever it might concern, I will be known as Prayag Raj Malhotra.
Changing the names of roads, cities and markets is an Indian pastime, which cuts across party lines. Some names stick while others don’t. Connaught Place remains CP, except on the Delhi Metro, where it is Rajiv Chowk. Madras became Chennai and Chennai it remains.
Will Prayagraj stick?
Unlikely. There are also instances, where we combine the old and the new: most people now say ‘Bangaluru’ rather than ‘Bengaluru’. Prayaabad is an option.
When I came to St Stephen’s in the 1990s, the question that was asked of me again and again was this: ‘But what do people do in Allahabad? What did you do?’
Well, Allahabad is a pleasant enough town. The air is clean, and punctuated by the gentle tinkling of cycle rickshaw bells. It’s also home to the cow belt gangster, country pistols and crude bombs. For years, it prided itself on being the centre of the universe based on an old university in steady decline, the Nehru-Gandhis, the Bachchans and the Kumbh mela. It’s the land that time forgot, until the other day when it trended on Twitter.
The typical Illahabadi prides himself on not being fazed by anything, least of all name-changing. The blasé one-liner is a default setting; staring an Olympic sport. The Illahabadi will stare at anything: man, woman, stone, animal. When my parents bought a Nano, one of the first in town, Illahabadis lined up on the streets and chanted ‘Nano, Nano’, as they drove past.
When my friends started The Rock Street Journal, Sam Lal, one of the editors, would tuck his ponytail inside his baseball cap, as he rode home from work, to avoid pandemonium on the streets.
For years, Allahabad had one hamburger joint, a carbon copy of Nirula’s. For some reason, the girls had money while the guys didn’t. In the evenings, the lads would sit outside on their motorcycles and go in only to take a slash and lock eyes with the girls. Romance blossomed even in this hopelessly unequal frugal equation. These are the marriages that have stood the test of time, and remain a beacon for future generations.
The best place to get a feel of Allahabad, even now, is the Coffee House. It’s full of men talking politics, swearing in the local dialect, at the top of their voices. There’s music in the obscenities. The humour is often self-deprecatory; it has a touch of the Irish.
Allahabad is Mughal; Allahabad is colonial; Allahabad is the beautiful dusty boondocks. Allahabad was home to renowned Hindi poets, but as with most Indian cities, history is soon forgotten, except when it comes to renaming. Allahabad is also home to the High Court; every second person is an ‘advocate’. Men in black coats can be seen rushing around town on their cycles and scooters at all times.
Over the years, the town has changed. Old bungalows came down; malls sprang up in their place, selling beanbags and iceberg lettuce. The change is superficial. Allahabad is reassuring in its lack of ambition. Aspiration is tacky. Come to Dehradun — it’s trying to be Chandigarh, and it’s an unseemly sight. At most, Allahabad wants to be Prayagraj.
Come to think of it, it’s the humblest of ambitions. A town wants to be a train. For that is what Prayagraj means to most Illahabadis — rumoured to be the longest train in India. Always on time, as any Illahabadi will tell you with pride. When news came in of the renaming, the WhatsApp jokes reiterated the centrality of the train: ‘Which coach were you born in?’ It’s a local creation myth.
Allahabad can also surprise you. The colonial town is built on a grid, so Illahabadis are fond of saying: ‘Why go to Manhattan, Manhattan is here.’ Once every twelve years, during the Kumbh, Manhattan does descend on the banks of the Sangam, yet another reason not to go to Manhattan. The Japanese have strung a swanky suspension bridge over the confluence; one doesn’t have to go to Tokyo either.
Drinking in Allahabad has its pleasures. One can hire a cycle rickshaw by the half hour and ask the rick-puller to keep peddling until the bottle runs out. The more adventurous: Hire a boat, the boatman keeps rowing until the sun sets. Which is when you move to the cycle rickshaw. If there’s anything left in the bottle that is.
Liberals are making much too much about the name-change. This is no Mumbai/ Bombay narrative. Allahabad/ Prayagraj makes and lives by its own rules. Writer Pankaj Mishra, once a student at the university, told me a story about his hostel days. A cricket match was in progress. Mishra clean bowled a local student leader. The student leader refused to vacate the crease: ‘Dekhat nahin baiting karath hai?’ (‘Can’t you see that I’m batting?’)
(Courtesy of Mail Today)