Oh, to be in Lodi Gardens, now that November's here. Catch the honey-gold sun, as it swells behind Sikandar Lodi's tomb is this benevolent woodland. Here you might smell the Delhi of decades ago. You might remember the time when you lay in bed listening to cricket commentary on the transistor, while the sun drew long railings across your knees. Lodi Gardens used to be the playground of the children of the nomenklatura. Our fathers were servants of the State who used Forhans toothpaste and rode to office in creaky ambassadors. Our rebellious older sisters wore red scarves in their hair, twirled their T.S. Eliot and cooked Chinese soup in cement-black kitchens. Our mothers strode off to the Mahila Samiti with boxes of food for the smack addicts of Shankar Market. Those were days before vips and Black Cats. They were days of Krishi Darshan and Chitrahaar when five hungry undergraduates had barely enough money to split a single Hot Chocolate Fudge at the Connaught Place Nirula's. Nowadays as I dodge the sleek Mitsubishis and snarling commandos to reach my well-remembered trees, something about the undulating hills of Lodi Gardens, the gallant fountains spewing droplets of water and the frail rose gardens, always makes me dejected about finding out what life's really all about.
