Does a city have a soul? If so, does it have one or several? Is there some supra-Delhi spirit floating just visible over the skyline of Connaught Place, its wispy tendrils embracing the plate-glass skyscrapers of Gurgaon and the squat rooftops of Lado Sarai? Because, for a city to possess just one soul it would have to be demographically inclusive: there can be no exceptions, no reservation allowed here. 'The city', in history, literature, on television, is an anthropomorphic entity: it has a centre of gravity that apparently radiates solace, inspiration and meaning. In a word, it has a philosophy that comforts its inhabitants in times of need, inspires them when their hopes run low –"Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London" was definitely the soul of London, calling on the discouraged 14th-century mayor when he decided, fed up and sick at heart, to call it a day and go back to whatever rustic darkness it was from which he had escaped. Because ultimately – and this is the essence of the city's philosophy, the siren call, the uber-urban message – it is all about opportunity and endurance.
But how is that soul manifested? How does it, historically, 'speak'? Judging by literature and popular culture, the city is heard through stories, through soap operas, through songs and sayings that its dwellers compose about their lives. It is through such devices that we can excavate how the people living within a city's boundaries see their surroundings, and check out whether these are considered largely beneficial or malign; finally we can leach out from such narratives the idea of the city that has the most widespread currency, the one that has the most resonance. There are, theoretically, as many voices and ideas as there are city dwellers, and it is hard to know exactly how and when the main narrative emerges. But once it does it generally seems to be a hopeful one, one that sees 'the city' as a place where dreams are realised, a location that has a generally benign, facilitating presence. Of course, there is the other side of the city narrative as well, the one that looks at the lurking dangers, the alienation and the loss of a gentle, supportive pastoral connection.
Most often, however, well-established city narratives tend to celebrate opportunity, variety and, most of all, modernity. Nearly 4800 years ago, the Epic of Gilgamesh, which is usually read as a king's reflections on his mortality, brought the city of Uruk to life. It described the wonders of its brick walls, its cedar trees, the beauties of its temple prostitutes and the fealty of its shepherds. Here was a whole teeming urban world, where people grappled with the fundamental issues of survival, power and love, just as they do today. The somewhat more contemporary Alexandria Quartet, written during the 1950s by the Irish novelist Laurence Durrell, is a four-volume deliberation on the human drama in which the Egyptian city Alexandria plays a definitional role. The city, seen through Durrell's eyes, is venal, corrupt and amoral, but is also depicted as the repository of all wisdom and experience.
All city dwellers come up with their own set of stories about the city. These view the city as an autonomous 'being', one with a personality that is mostly compassionate but with some elements of malevolence. And while these narratives usually perceive the city as a place of infinite possibilities for advancement and success, structured into them is also the fact that cities can be uncaring, that they can often have a brutal lack of regard for the vulnerable individual.