But, upon revisiting Paris recently, I was nearly urged to abandon this notion. The leafy boulevards, broad pavements, and plethora of brasseries reinforced the belief that this city was eminently walkable and liveable. The uniform Lutetian limestone facades that provided homogeneity also ensured that narrow lanes and cul-de-sacs were bright and approachable. The slate-coloured mansard roofs, with their dormer windows, perfectly assisted the prospect of long summer days that postponed the sunset.
Here my reverie was dashed by a fellow traveller staying at the same hotel. He was vocally unimpressed.
‘There’s nothing spectacular in this,’ he declared in that ineffable mixture of English and Hindi favoured in North India. ‘Delhi offers the same.’
‘Really?’ I mildly remonstrated.
‘We, too,’ he explained, ‘only permit construction up to a certain height, and encourage a consistent colour. They prefer cream. We employ a more practical mixture of beige and grey. Moreover, these people don’t have to deal with our pollution,’ he opined as if this were an unjustly levied import duty.’What about the sky and the sunset?’ I challenged him.’The sky be damned. Indians keep their eyes on the ground. You never know what you’ll step into. Personally, I prefer a shorter sunset. Parties get to start earlier,’ he concluded before ducking into a corner bistro.
The next day – as if he had divined my itinerary – we found ourselves trudging down the middle of the Champs-Elysees on the way to that unmistakable Gallic landmark: the Arc de Triomphe. After huffing up 300 steps to get a bird’s eye view of the surroundings, I expressed my admiration for some of Napoleon’s exploits in general and the monument in particular.
‘It is nothing,’ he pronounced with perfect sangfroid. When pressed, he said that ancient Indian kings had been greater generals. When I civilly countered with the Code Napoleon, he randomly threw the Manu Smriti at me. In any case, Indian cities were littered with edifices and arches more ancient and majestic. When asked to name one, he snorted in derision and muttered beatifically in Sanskrit.
After this, I tried to avoid the dubious pleasure of his company. But fate ruled against me, and I was forced to accost him at least once a day. His attitude was steadfast. He was unwaveringly chauvinistic and blissfully dismissive. His sense of certainty – derived from some je ne sais qoui potpourri of facts and revelations – about India’s past, present trajectory, and future destiny was frightening and impressive.
If he had not yet convinced me of urban India’s supremacy, he had sown sufficient doubt and disenchantment.
Our paths crossed one last time on a chilly evening outside a mediaeval church, where a crowd had gathered for a Spectacle de Lumiere.
‘What are these people waiting for?’ he asked impatiently.
‘Quasimodo,’ something nettled me to reply.
‘What is that?’
‘A famous hunchback who used to ring the bells at Notre Dame. After the fire, he relocated to this church. His special trick is to swing from the ropes in the belfry while the bells peal. The show will begin presently.’
‘Is that all?’ he seemed disinterested. But curiosity made him stay.
I resolved, therefore, to vanish as quickly as possible.
‘I’m a little cold. I think I will return to the hotel.’
He wore a look of triumph. ‘Carry on,’ he said, pointing to his flimsy Armani T-shirt, ‘Luckily, I am a man for all seasons.’
Never was a truer jest spoken in earnest.
