I went to a concert the other night at the National Centre for the Performing Arts (NCPA). Not in Mumbai: in Beijing, where I now live. The concert — Mahler and Sibelius — was excellent, by the London Symphony Orchestra. But that isn’t the reason I remember it.

The surreal space makes a statement. Designed by the French architect Paul Andreu (best known for airports, including Charles De Gaulle’s inadvertently collapsible terminal in Paris), it is made of glass and titanium and hovers over water, looking like nothing so much as a giant egg. Yet its cavernous interior has an opera house, a theatre and a music hall, without feeling the least bit crowded.

The seats were expensive, the audience well-behaved. There were treats before and during intermission, and alcoholic refreshment for those so inclined. We even arrived by public transport. Tiananmen West, on Line 1 of the Beijing Subway, has an exit earmarked for the NCPA. Yes, Tiananmen: the Great Hall of the People and Chairman Mao’s mausoleum are next door, the Forbidden City across the road.

Imagine that — having a publicly funded temple to the arts in the geographical and spiritual centre of your capital. Can we push for an NCPA in Delhi, between Parliament and Rashtrapati Bhavan, that actually rivals both those behemoths in scope and ambition?

What a statement that would make about the role of the arts in our republic.

It is now taken as read that public spending on the arts is decreasing in the developed world. Music, film, theatre; the plastic arts and books; indeed, the entire gamut of culture consumed for pleasure and edification is seen, now, as luxury. Much better to leave it to the private sector, letting government concentrate on the stuff that people really care about.

You know, guns. And pensions and debt servicing and the like, and, if you must stretch a point, education. “Culture”? You must be mad.

Yet my two countries — India and China — resolutely march down the road less travelled, signposted with akademis , ustads alaap-ing away gratis to empty seats, and posters stating that the government is in the business of pushing culture.

Good thing too. Aside from a few honourable exceptions — the Shrirams in Delhi, the Tatas and the rest of the Parsi cultural-industrial complex in Mumbai, the Mahindras, and a few other groups countrywide — which moneyed patron have the arts attracted in our supposedly culturally vibrant country?

If it weren’t for state patronage at the kendriya and rajya levels the sad truth is that India’s only culture would be of the “popular” variety.

Thanks to governmental interventions, riyaaz hasn’t yet been sacrificed to Auto-Tune. But still, hesitant as I am to bitch when we should all be grateful for small mercies, can’t the powers-that-be in Delhi see their way to giving citizens a decent place to watch a show?

Mumbai, of course, has its jewel-like NCPA. But isn’t its very exceptionality testament to an Indian disease, that we’re okay with watching world-class talent in shoddy surrounds? (I’m not talking about freebies, please note. The “free” concert — with a few honourable exceptions like the ‘Music in the Park’ series — demeans the performing professionals, and that lack of respect filters down to the public. Ticketed concerts give the performers their due.)

Why aren’t there more NCPAs? It’s all very well to say that our performing traditions don’t need that sort of built infrastructure; that a khayal exponent is equally at home on a stage in the open in Ludhiana, in a living room, and inside an auditorium.

Good for them, but has one of them ever complained about not having to be mic-ed in a room with world-class acoustics? Has a dance troupe or theatre group ever complained that the sound and light options were too generous, that the area backstage was too much, that the green rooms were too nice?

That there was a provision for mechanically moving backdrops and sets?

Heaven forbid. They’d hate all that.

And that’s just the performers. Coddling practitioners and keeping them fed and practising is only one part of the remit of the cultural czar. The other, equally important one, is to make sure that audiences consume the good stuff. But why would a ticket-paying customer come to a crappy venue, when comfort and quality are a matter of instant public audit on social media?

The Forbidden City Music Hall is in Zhongshan Park in Beijing. I went there to see schoolchildren perform. Okay, they were from a bunch of posh international schools, and their parents and other well-wishers could afford the price of the tickets that made the whole enterprise worthwhile. But imagine parking your vehicle inside the larger environs of the Forbidden City. Imagine getting out and walking through avenues of ancient trees in the moonlight, with other quietly conversing people, looking forward to a treat. There’s no security, no blaring horns in the parking lot, no VIP stickers to be fought over. In the near-distance is the lit façade of a hall that comfortably seats more than 1,000, and also accommodates 300 performers on stage.

In the foyer, a largely well-mannered crowd queues up for coffee and wine. To the sides are clean, plentiful loos. In the hall an army of ushers make sure the liquids stay outside. And when the lights go down, the doors are closed.

End of story.

Can’t imagine it sitting in Delhi, waiting to make the U-turn to Siri Fort on a weeknight, a river of traffics headlights bright in your eyes?

Neither can I.

Avtar Singh was formerly managing editor of The Indian Quarterly and editor of Time Out Delhi, and is the author of Necropolis

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