Mud mud ke na dekh - look onward, forward
Mud mud ke na dekh, meaning don’t turn back and look at the past, is a hit song from the 1955 Hindi film, Shree 420.
It’s good advice. For a long time, I used to romanticise about revisiting the scenes of my past. I thought it would be nice to catch up with the leisurely Redfields area in Coimbatore, the cloud topped hills of Shillong, Subroto Park in Delhi Cantonment, the picture postcard prettiness of Manasagangotri in Mysore, the dusty plains of Kanpur, the blazing hot charms of Chennai. And of course, the vivid green of my native Malabar.
I have gone back to some of these places and it’s been a disappointment. They have been lesser than I remembered. More crowded, dirtier, and not worth the trouble.
A recent visit to Dakshinachitra in Chennai typifies the regret. Dakshinachitra, meaning ‘picture of the south’, is a living museum where the creators have transplanted homes from the four south Indian states. Within the complex you can stroll from, say, a Chettiar house of Tamil Nadu to a ‘nalu kettu’ house of Kerala and so on. My wife and I were big fans of the concept when we lived in Chennai in the 90s and early 2000s and had driven down several times to watch the concept take shape. As the houses came up one by one, they were peopled by artisans from those regions to recreate village scenes or markets. So you could, for example, get your fortune read by a parrot-astrologer in a faux Tamil village or have a north Karnataka meal in an authentic setting. The pace was unhurried and there was space for everything.
Today, the place is crammed with shops selling trinkets, and there are social and corporate events. It looks like another bazaar.
And the road to get there? The East Coast Road used to be this strip of tar shimmering in the sun beside the Bay of Bengal. There were very few buildings on the beach and for the most part, there was nothing between you and the sea as you rode a bike or drove a car.
No longer. The beach is now chock-a-block with shops, food courts, residential high rises, and private farms. High walls and thick foliage block the view of the sea. The city has crowded the road from either side, and while the toll road is well maintained and broad, it is now just another urban highway.
But this is not a rant about how Chennai or Dakshinachitra has changed. They are just examples of how everything changes. As the population explodes, as rapid and unplanned urbanisation proliferates, as municipal infrastructures struggle to cope with increasing people, vehicles, and garbage, India is getting more crowded and dirtier.
I'm no longer greatly interested in revisiting my past. Let the old memories remain. But the journey is onward and forward. New experiences beckon.
Lekin Rukega Na Yeh Karwaan
Duniya Usi Ki Hai Jo Aage Dekhe.
Watch the song.
It’s good advice. For a long time, I used to romanticise about revisiting the scenes of my past. I thought it would be nice to catch up with the leisurely Redfields area in Coimbatore, the cloud topped hills of Shillong, Subroto Park in Delhi Cantonment, the picture postcard prettiness of Manasagangotri in Mysore, the dusty plains of Kanpur, the blazing hot charms of Chennai. And of course, the vivid green of my native Malabar.
I have gone back to some of these places and it’s been a disappointment. They have been lesser than I remembered. More crowded, dirtier, and not worth the trouble.
A recent visit to Dakshinachitra in Chennai typifies the regret. Dakshinachitra, meaning ‘picture of the south’, is a living museum where the creators have transplanted homes from the four south Indian states. Within the complex you can stroll from, say, a Chettiar house of Tamil Nadu to a ‘nalu kettu’ house of Kerala and so on. My wife and I were big fans of the concept when we lived in Chennai in the 90s and early 2000s and had driven down several times to watch the concept take shape. As the houses came up one by one, they were peopled by artisans from those regions to recreate village scenes or markets. So you could, for example, get your fortune read by a parrot-astrologer in a faux Tamil village or have a north Karnataka meal in an authentic setting. The pace was unhurried and there was space for everything.
Today, the place is crammed with shops selling trinkets, and there are social and corporate events. It looks like another bazaar.
And the road to get there? The East Coast Road used to be this strip of tar shimmering in the sun beside the Bay of Bengal. There were very few buildings on the beach and for the most part, there was nothing between you and the sea as you rode a bike or drove a car.
No longer. The beach is now chock-a-block with shops, food courts, residential high rises, and private farms. High walls and thick foliage block the view of the sea. The city has crowded the road from either side, and while the toll road is well maintained and broad, it is now just another urban highway.
But this is not a rant about how Chennai or Dakshinachitra has changed. They are just examples of how everything changes. As the population explodes, as rapid and unplanned urbanisation proliferates, as municipal infrastructures struggle to cope with increasing people, vehicles, and garbage, India is getting more crowded and dirtier.
I'm no longer greatly interested in revisiting my past. Let the old memories remain. But the journey is onward and forward. New experiences beckon.
Lekin Rukega Na Yeh Karwaan
Duniya Usi Ki Hai Jo Aage Dekhe.
Watch the song.