Finding poetry in New Delhi

MANILA, Philippines - Long, long ago, in a not too faraway land, lived a prince who, when his wife died after giving birth to their 14th child, had a mausoleum built in her memory as a symbol of his undying love. It took more than 1,200 elephants to bring the building materials to the site, and some 20,000 workers to execute the dream architecture of translucent white marble, decorated with calligraphy, paintings, sculptures, meticulously inlaid sapphire, turquoise, jasper, lapis lazuli, carnelian, crystal, and jade from different countries. The exquisite “jewel of Muslim art” was finished in seven years. The result: the Taj Mahal, one of the eight wonders of the world. The stunning sight left this writer speechless and gaping in awe. It is said that during a full moon, people troop to the Taj Mahal just to see the carnelian gemstones glow through the marble walls.

I visited the Taj Mahal several years back, when my husband received a Lifetime Achievement Award as a screenwriter in the Cinemaya International Film Festival. This time I returned to India as an invited delegate to the World Poetry Festival in New Delhi.

For six days in May, around 50 participants read their poems to an audience of poetry lovers, writers and critics, and people from the academe. It was the first international poetry festival organized by the Sahitya Akademi and India’s Ministry of Culture. It commemorated the 150th birthday of Swami Vivekananda as well as the 100th year of Rabindranath Tagore’s Nobel Prize win.

The big event took place at the Meghdoot Theatre Complex. A group of musicians playing ethnic instruments welcomed the guests on the red carpet, and flags, blown-up poems, and a book sale set a festive tone. Dr. K. Sreenivasarao of Sahitya Akademi, the tireless organizer, served as master of ceremonies.

Among the Indians who interpreted their poems were Chandkrant Devtale; S. Shivaprakas: K. Siva Reddy; and PP Ramachandran. Other admirable poets include Antonio Colinas (Spain), Helda Marie (Seychelles), Mandakranta Sen (India), Jean Aranasayagam (Kandy), Tulasi Diwasa (Nepal), George Szirtes (Hungary), Ingrid Storholmen (Norway), Najwan Darwish (Palestine), and Pia Tafdruf (Denmark).

The biggest surprise of the grand affair was the reunion of some of us who met in July 2013 in Medellín, Colombia, for the 23rd Festival Internacional de Poesía.

In less than a year, we were together again! There were Ingrid Fichtner (Switzerland), Les Wicks (Australia), Tanure Ojaide (Nigeria), Maram Al-Masri (Syria), Tiziana Cera Rosco (Italy), Oscar Cruz (Cuba), Lorna Shaughnessy  (Ireland), Moya Cannon (Ireland), Gérard Noiret (France), and Nikola Madrizov (Macedonia).

The reunion of the “Medellín Cartel,” as we jokingly called ourselves, was made possible by K. Satchidanandan, himself a noted Indian poet-participant in Medellín.

No matter how tight our schedule was, no matter how strict our guardians were, we couldn’t gad about without permission of the organizers, couldn’t go shopping even after the programs, couldn’t have a taste of the nightlife, couldn’t even get acquainted with the area of Janpath, where we stayed. In short, we could not, much to our frustration, get to know New Delhi. The first-time visitors whined they could not even tell when or if they could come back to India again.

The prayer to see New Delhi, however, was suddenly answered when we finally had a last-minute tour in the afternoon of the last day of the festival. It was a hurried visit to a few places of interest. It seemed almost like a miracle that we got to see some tourist attractions. Through the din (vehicles honking, considered by the Indians a great favor because horns instead of signal lights help them steer through chaotic traffic, street hawkers, beggars, countless shimmying motorcycles whose riders often wear no helmets, motor taxis, auto rickshaws, etc.)

Yes, we managed to get a glimpse of the gardens where the remains of poet-novelist Rabindranath Tagore lie, and of Mahatma Gandhi, the hero who espoused non-violence.

We also saw remnants of the huge Red Fort, where, for two centuries, the Mughal emperors resided. The fortress of a palace, designed asymmetrically, is located in the heart of Delhi. Independence Day (from the British) on Aug. 15 is observed at the Red Fort with the national flag hoisted and a speech delivered by the prime minister.

We stopped by the Qutub Minar, which, said our tour guide, is the highest tower in India. Built entirely of red sandstone in 1193, it is the main attraction of an archeological compound of temples and mosques, including one of the oldest in northern India, a pretty gate, and structures with columns.

Another source of pride of India is Humayun’s Tomb. The widow of the second Mughal Emperor Humayun had the large mausoleum constructed in 1569-1560 for 1.5 million rupees. It was the first garden tomb with a lovely gate, cypresses, long pond, and water fountains. On a platform stands the enchanting tomb with a very high dome and delicate carvings and paintings. It became the model of the Taj Mahal, which is the last grand tomb of the Mughal empire.

Passing through Connaught Place, the biggest financial and commercial center of New Delhi, we caught sight of the beautiful Shih Temple. It is known for its huge kitchen where 1,000 volunteers cook and feed thousands of people every day.

Slogging back to our hotel in Janpath, we went by India Gate, a national monument built in 1931 and patterned after the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Lit at night, it is always filled with strolling natives and foreigners. It is a memorial to the 90,000 soldiers who died fighting the British during World War I, and who fought in the Anglo-Afghan war.

New Delhi, the capital of India, speaks of a glorious and inglorious past and a progressive present. It is the hub of hotels, temples, and night markets. It is brightly colored saris and sitars, traditional songs and dances. It is Bollywood, which is meant for the Indians and not for foreign award-giving bodies. It is the sound of poetry in the different tongues of India, which is anything but the voice of the silent.