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Rushing towards London in the "tall heat" of an English summer, looking out on "where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet", what if Larkin's viewer suddenly came upon the scene in Ramanujan's poem? What turn would the poem have taken then? Would the English countryside, or suburbia, have been more interesting if such a thing were to happen? Perhaps Larkin's poetry would have been less grey, less spirit-crushing. But at what cost? Most trains coming into Mumbai's Victoria Terminus run all the way along the city's infamous Dharavi slum. The train sometimes seems to slice through the row of shanties, affording the commuter a vertical cross-section of private lives.


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The minutiae of everyday existence, the mystery of other interiors and intimacies, present themselves to the speeding gaze, indifferent to its discomfiture, voyeurism or unconcern. I remember one droll, enigmatic tableau - a man squatting on his haunches and tenderly feeding, from a bowl with a teaspoon, a goat tied to his bed-post.

The relationship between privacy and public spaces in urban India is formed by a whole range of often contradictory behaviour and attitudes, most of which are what Ramanujan would have called unthinking ways. This relationship and these attitudes are crucial not only to the growth or decline of Indian cities, but also to how we experience and present ourselves as individuals in these public spaces. Individualism - in the Western liberal sense - is routinely seen as alien to Indian life.

Emerging from the feudal idea of the jati with its hierarchies of caste, kinship and occupation, the notion of the individual is supposed to get taken up into various forms of collectivity, chiefly the family. Ramanujan - borrowing from the language of linguistics - sees Indians as "context-sensitive", their lives essentially "relational", contained within "concentric nests". This may be true with respect to the family.

But a much more resistant form of individualism - neither Western, nor quite liberal - comes into play when the "context" shifts from the familial to the civic. The notion of a collective responsibility to public, civic spaces seems to be quite alien to Indian city-dwellers. Cities tend to become agglomerations of domestic interiors, a citizen's sense of belonging remaining confined within these little units. What we do with domestic waste is most revealing.

Even the most genteel households mark their boundaries by throwing their trash just outside their carefully demarcated limits. Staircase landings, pavements and streets are all "public" domains, the dirtying of which endorses the hygiene and ownership of the "private". There are all sorts of taboos on certain intimate functions of the body; but the public disposal of the related refuse is a matter of general unconcern.

Like the ribald emptying of chamber-pots in Elizabethan London, shops open and close by vigorously sweeping their dirt into the bit of pavement just outside.

Where Sky, Water And Lincolnshire Meet: TMISOTBG Head To North Ferriby - The Daisy Cutter

It is up to the passers-by to dodge the clouds of dust or the lash of a zealous broom. Domestic hygiene becomes a means of marking out private territory. In this, the nuclear family acts as a unit of privacy pitted against the encroachments of the city. As a result, such spaces as elevators, compounds, pavements and even hospitals, crematoria, government offices, public toilets and parks remain nobody's business.

Littered and despoiled, they never become part of a civic identity. Parks are renovated, lit up against vice and then kept locked up, looking vaguely municipal. They never quite come to life in the same way as, say, the piazza and its myriad life are integral to Mediterranean sociability. The sense of belonging to a city expresses itself, if at all, in such ultimately useless passions as nationalizing its name.

Where Sky, Water And Lincolnshire Meet: TMISOTBG Head To North Ferriby

In India, these practices of domestic hygiene are exactly mirrored in attitudes to personal hygiene. And here the body becomes the vehicle of a fastidiously guarded purity with its own long history , which is, perhaps, an individualism of sorts. Here again, through "Poona Train Window", we must think of the lower bodily functions and of a few relatively higher ones as well. Waking up to the noise of general and furious hawking as part of the neighbourhood's morning ablutions has always been a rather comforting routine for many Calcuttans.

In a city like Calcutta, teeming with a large migrant and shelterless population, notions of privacy get fundamentally altered. So much of the intimate life of human bodies takes place entirely in the public eye.


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Free at last, And loaded with the sum of all they saw, We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam. Now fields were building-plots, and poplars cast Long shadows over major roads, and for Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem. They watched the landscape, sitting side by side —An Odeon went past, a cooling tower, And someone running up to bowl—and none Thought of the others they would never meet Or how their lives would all contain this hour. I thought of London spread out in the sun, Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:.

There we were aimed. We slowed again, And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain. Philip Larkin grew up in Coventry, England. In he became librarian of the Brynmor Jones Library at the University of Hull, a post he held until his death.