It never ends. Caste system hasn't spared even our cities and countries

It's a truth about human beings: where we are is the centre of the universe. Where we are is different for different people, which is why there are as many centres of the universe as there are people. There is a word for this attitude of mind: provincialism.

Nobody wants to be a provincial. Those in south Delhi think that it is where "everything is happening". Even within south Delhi the centre of the universe varies. I live in R Block, Greater Kailash 1. (I also live in Dehradun, which confuses some people, but more on that in a moment).

Once I met a girl at a party who said: "But who lives in R Block!" Evidently W block is the right block to be; it's next to M Block market.

When my friends from Delhi come to Dehradun they say: "Nice place, but what do people do in Dehradun".

I say: "Well, they run restaurants, just like you do in Hauz Khas Village".

Those in Dehradun say: "Delhi, that god-awful polluted place. Who'd want to live there?"

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There's envy in the words. Those living in small towns might feel they always have to play catch-up.

My friends in Delhi see me as the quintessential small-town guy. My friends in Dehradun see me as the interloper from the big city.

As any Illahabadi paanwala will tell you: India is remote-controlled from Civil Lines. After all, Allahabad is the hometown of the Nehrus, the Bachchans and the rulings of the high court have a bearing on national affairs.

For the Illahabadi, Allahabad is the centre of the universe.

Those in Bombay think that Bombay is superior to other Indian cities and that Delhi is a village. Those who are tired of Bombay go to London, but it doesn't end there.

London can come to feel provincial after a few years and then it's time to move to New York. On planet Earth, it stops here; beyond that, there's Mars.

There's a caste system of cities and countries and it never ends. Once in Dublin, someone said to me in a pub: "Wonder what it's like to be in India - so far away from Europe".

For him I was from India - whether Bombay, Delhi or Dehradun, it didn't really matter. I know someone who grew up in Delhi but settled in Boise, Idaho, a one-horse town, because as long as you're away from India, you're a cut above.

You are in America and that's what matters. Never mind that among American cities, you are bottom of the ladder.

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What those in Bombay or Berlin or New York forget is that provincialism is about the mind and not location. The provincialism of Allahabad is obvious, the provincialism of New York less so.

The Argentinean writer, Jorge Luis Borges, makes this point wonderfully: "A writer who was born in a big country is always in danger of believing that the culture of his native country encompasses all his needs. Paradoxically, he therefore runs the risk of becoming provincial."

Simon Leys reinforces Borges' point when he writes: "People who live in Paris, London or New York, have a thousand convincing reasons to feel that they are 'where the action is', and therefore they become oblivious to the fact that rich developments are also taking place elsewhere."

I've sensed this about creative types from Bombay or Berlin. They might be doing absolutely nothing, but they're convinced they are doing something right; their location justifies their existence.

The truth is: you are just another human being in just another city, living in a delusional bubble.

How then does one overcome provincialism? It's an act of the imagination. If you lack in that aspect, you'll remain provincial no matter where you are.

Arun Kolatkar, arguably one of India's greatest modern poets, spent most of his life in Dadar. He hardly ever travelled.

His favourite hangout was the Wayside Inn, in the Kala Ghoda area of south Bombay, Kalaghoda being the black stone statue of King Edward VII mounted on a horse.

Kolatkar spent hours at the Wayside Inn, watching life go by. In a way, you could say, these were provincial poems, about one small stretch of land in one city.

But in a memorable 20-page poem called "Breakfast Time at Kalaghoda", Kolatkar imagines what could be happening in the rest of the world, as the denizens of Kalaghoda slowly wake up.

The poem takes in its sweep Tokyo, Seoul, Peru, Alaska, Texas, Byculla Jail, Vietnam. Kolatkar had never visited these places.

He wrote the poem in the pre-Internet era. And yet, he could imagine these places with a native's intimacy.

In doing so, the poet shows us how one can be local to the point of provincial, even as you enlarge your horizons to encompass the world.

Let me end with some lines from "Breakfast Time":

"It's still last night in the Americas.

In the state penitentiary of Texas,

a condemned man is tucking into a T-bone steak...

Juliana Quispe is cooking potatoes,

over llama dung fire

in her stone house in southern Peru.

Someone's hanging freshly butchered

reindeer meat

in his smokehouse in Alaska.

And aboard Salyut, the Russian spaceship,

the cosmonauts have just finished their breakfast

of pork, cheese, honeycake, prunes and coffee."

(Courtesy of Mail Today.)