The slanting sunrays lose their sting of September; they are mellow like the lions in the older national emblem; benign with their thick grinning whiskers; and, not snarling and sabre-toothed like the new avatar. The wind no longer feels like a slap across the face, but a zephyr, its sweet embrace is soothing and languorous, with political pundits trying to gauge which way it’s blowing. Plump Mexican silk cotton flowers twirl down from the high branches, like Vishnu’s Sudarshan Chakra, sans the firepower, landing silently to make a spongy, pink-purple carpet. The neem and the pilkhan have a blow-dried look, the generous rains and the assorted acids in the air have bleached them to an indescribable green. The parakeets and the barbets, the treepies and the hornbills, the doves and the babblers chirp around, merrily flying hither and thither as if they are in Ashoka Vatika.