Today's an odd sort of day. The weirdest things are acting as triggers for memories I thought long buried. Nirula's hot chocolate fudge and the parking lot outside it. The lawns outside my house, the brightly lit Bata shop. It all began early on in the night.
My bus stop is deserted, so I take an auto back. One wrong turn and I find myself along the Pragati Maidan road instead of the Sarai Kale Khan one. There's a sort of flowery smell in the air. The wind is perfectly cooled; warmer than Bangalore might be now, colder than it was earlier in the day. My shawl is draped uselessly on my shoulder and the road, although one I haven't taken before, seems uncannily familiar.
Delhi now is so different from Delhi then two years ago. Delhi then was all wonder and excitement. Fragile in its freshness. Everything was beautiful and dream-like, my third visit to the city that became home. The expanse of India Gate when it suddenly appeared around the corner, the unexpected ruins of Lodhi Gardens, the upper crushed cafes of Khan Market, inner lanes of Tilak Marg, the darkness of the theatres on BD Road.
The people. Eight people, in various combinations and permutations, doing everything together. Eating - paranthas from moolchand and Maggi and Big Chill - sleeping on two beds hoisted together and on mattresses - driving each other's bikes and cars through the market lanes, to Videocon Towers, to ITO.
Delhi now is insipid. I find myself wandering through Lodhi Gardens: it does nothing to me. I have been here so many times now. India Gate is a tourist attraction to be pointed out to other first-timer's. Our food is made for us now, we don't have a roster to decide who cooks. We don't leaf through the same menu books. We don't lure boys home with the promise that we'll cook for them.
I live in the same house but that's changed too. There's a flood-lit badminton court outside now. The scraggly dog that used to empty our dust bin's contents onto the stairs is dead. Just like that Delhi.
