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Evolving tapestry

Photo: Priya Krishnan

Straddling continents: The Bosphorus in Istanbul that separates Asia from Europe.

When your child plays competitive tennis, very often, you find yourself in cities you never thought you’d visit in a hurry. Yangon, Islamabad, Hanoi… Istanbul was one more in my share of unusual stops. It’s difficult to combine tenn is and tourism but it’s not everyday you walk through pages of the past and stand at the crossroads of East and West. Once I was there, I also realised it’s not everyday either that you can feast your eyes on a blue Bosphorus and a mouth-watering breakfast buffet — at the same time!

Istanbul is a sprawling city. Given that one in five Turks lives here and the 16 million population doubles every 12 years, there was no sign of “people, people, everywhere”, the words uttered by most first time visitors to India. And Istanbul is green. Hills are dotted with Cypress trees. Every few miles, domes and minarets emerge. Plane trees create shady groves for thriving cafes and branches tantalise with plump apricots. In this verdant setting, approaching Sariyer is Emirgan, home to the famous Plane Tree Café. At this adda, writers and thinkers in the late 19th and early 20th centuries sipped tea in the shade of the Plane trees, with a spectacular view of the Bosphorus.

The taxi driver took us full throttle, up and down slopes, through alleys to avoid traffic, and, in the process, gave us our money’s worth of thrills and chills. We reached the suburb Sariyer, on the European side of Istanbul — the only city in the world spread across Europe and Asia. Here, the Fuat Pasha, our charming hotel, stands on the Bosphorus strait that separates the two continents and connects the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara.

Shades of emerald, azure, silver and gold sparkle as sunbeams play with the water and slice through the early morning mist. I saw the city wake to the rhythms of daily life. Some were at the bakery sipping tea in tulip glasses, others at bus stops headed to work. Even on weekdays, anglers were out like the proverbial early birds, for a good catch. On weekends, it’s a bustling waterfront with young and old trying their hand and luck. Pushcarts sell Simit — a kind of bagel sprinkled with sesame seeds — crisp and hot, to be savoured with tea. It was the middle of May. The breeze was chilly, yet welcome, effacing the humid memories of a sweltering Chennai.

The market street is a mix of facades — vintage wood, weathered in every sense, others refurbished for a look that’s au courant. Pastanesis (bakeries) with fresh breads, Lokum, Baklava and other Turkish delights entice with their aromas. Juicy peaches, apricots and cherries ripened in the warmth of the Mediterranean sun announce the arrival of summer.

The waterfront suburbs of Tarabya, Yenikoy, Bebek are up-market addresses with boutiques, bistros and patisseries. The route is lined with fine seafood restaurants and private waterfront homes, many of them old yalis (mansions) belo nging to the Ottoman pashas, now owned by a growing breed of wealthy locals. Our hotel, too, was an old yali. Built in the late 18th century by a pasha (high-ranking man), it became the residence o f the ruler Abdulaziz’s grand vizier, Kecizade Fuat Pasha. The yali remained a home until it became a hotel in the 1930s. It sill retains the warmth of a home. Those of us with rooms overlooking the central courtyard watched wedd ing celebrations and as guests danced into the night, we drifted into sleep to the melodies of Frank Sinatra.

My Name is Red, Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s novel, went with me to its world. In the Sadberk Hanim Muzesi (museum), a few doors from the hotel, Pamuk’s words came to mind…“Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight”. Artefacts, textiles and ceramics from the early Islamic and Seljuk periods to the early 20th century reflect this thought. Beauty imbues everyday objects — blue tiles from Iznik and Kutahya, a dessert set, hand mirrors, or the specialised implements of the scribes — nibbing, knives and artfully designed pen boxes. Their exquisite penmanship reflected in the fermans, pages of books, and the styles and forms of calligraphy, which reached its zenit h under the Ottomans, is reflected in the adage “The Koran was bestowed on the Muslim world in Mecca, read in Egypt and written in Istanbul.”

I thought about the paradox of the phrase “cradle of civilisations” used to describe Istanbul. To be a cradle presupposes a milieu of peace and stability. But this city, once the capital of three empires — Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman — went through bloody cycles of conquest. Yet, it has endured and nurtured cultures to evolve its own ethos. No monument embodies this better than the Hagia Sophia, which was used as a church until the Ottoman conquest. It is remarkable the Ottoman rulers didn’t destroy this unrivalled piece of architecture. They turned it into a mosque, plastered the walls and mounted wooden medallions inscribed with the names of Allah and the Prophet Mohammed. Thanks to Ataturk, the Byzantine mosaics, hidden beneath the stucco, came into view when it reopened in 1935 as a museum, which it remains to this day.

The kitchens and the jewellery section of the Topkapi palace, round the corner from the Hagia Sophia, offer windows to the lives and times of the sultans. The gigantic pots, pans, ladles and 16th century Chinese porcelain conjure up scenes of banquets — pilafs and succulent meats simmering in spices. Exquisite paintings capture the royals at table and the colours of spice markets. Huge emeralds, diamonds and rubies encrusted in head ornaments and swords leave you wondering ab out indulgence and excess!

For an ancient city, Istanbul copes well with the droves of visitors to the historical district. The strain on infrastructure shows with overcrowding in peak hours and delays in bus schedules but transport links are efficient. Sea buses are available too. The metro in the city centre alleviates woes caused by surface traffic. Something urban planners and tourism ministry officials in India should see to believe. In Sultanahmet, the metro stop for the famous Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Grand Bazaar, street side cafes hum with the clink-clank of crockery and cutlery. Never once did I feel unsafe.

“From Hindoostan?” (That’s how they say it.), people often asked. In the Kapali Carsi (Grand Bazaar) a salesman hollered, “Shah Rukh or Amitabh?” Not a difficult choice for someone who loves baritone and grey! It’s hard to exercise restraint in this clean, quaintly eastern, covered market with its temptations. All I bought was a magic lamp, evocative of my visit.

There was a light drizzle as we got off in Ortakoy, a picturesque waterfront stop. We still wandered through the outdoor market with tables of exquisite silver and stone jewellery. Staring at us from the food stalls was Kumpir — a fluffy baked potato into which you fold in olives, bulgur, grilled veggies/ meats and a tangy tomato relish. We succumbed.

On May 19, the area around Taksim, the heart of the city, was draped in flags. Young boys sang martial songs. I asked an elderly gentleman if it was Ataturk’s birthday. In flawless English, he said it was a day commemorating youth and sports. He also proudly stated that Ataturk was the George Washington of Turkey. They love Mustafa Kemal (Ataturk) here. In my chats with Nasreen, the receptionist, I learnt how zealously many like her guard the secular spirit he instilled in politics and society. Just two weeks prior to our visit, nearly a million people had congregated at Taksim Square, to defend secularism and limit the role of religion in government.

Sampling Dondurma (ice cream) and homemade chocolates, we ambled down Istiklal Street, Istanbul’s Champs Elysees, which runs into Taksim square. Our feet were tired and ready for the ferry. Cool winds wafted us into a lilting and sometimes choppy ride along the shores of Europe and Asia, each visible from the opposite side. As we went under the magnificent Bosphorus and Faith Sultan Mehmet bridges connecting the continents, they seemed to hang in the air.

The following night I alighted at Eminonu, the metro stop for Sirkeci station. I was catching a performance of the whirling dervishes by the Sufi group of the Galata Mevlevi Lodge. Sirkeci is not any train station. It’s the final destination of what was once the opulent railway experience, the Orient Express. The waiting room on platform no.1 was the event hall! The evening light filters in through the blue and yellow stained glass windows and you are led into “intangible heritage” — the gentle and mystical world of Jalaluddin Rumi, a spiritual master and poet who founded the Mevlana Sufi order, a brotherhood of Islam that speaks of tolerance and love.

The Sema or the whirling ceremony is a meditative journey. The dervishes (semazens) trace the movement of the soul in four cycles — from birth, the ego, the casting off of it to reach the stage of non-existence within the Divi ne. As they begin to whirl, the arms are extended, right hand facing up, left hand turned downward, as if to say, “from God we receive to man we give”. At the end, the lone sound of the flute and verses from the Koran still the mind.

On the return, I looked out of my window one last time. The night lights flickered in dark waters, adding to the collage of daytime images — the violets and reds of flowers on balconies, old water fountains, a mosque tucked away in a by lane, a stately Armenian church…

On our last day, as always, at the appointed hour, the muezzin’s call to prayer echoes through the air. It moved me. It’s a voice unchanged, heard across the ages ceaselessly, melding effortlessly as other voices do, into the fabric of life of a city that’s much more than just one of domes and minarets that pierce the sky. Istanbul is convivial, edgy, energetic, calm, nuanced, simple. And as it reconciles opposites and grapples with political realities, it lives amicably with its history — everyday, at every corner, without desecrating it.

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