The other Side of Delhi

The express train hurtled across the landscape - remorseless, uncaring. I sat by the window looking at nothing in particular. Suddenly the sky burst open and unleashed liquid needles of rain on the expectant earth. The root above me rattled in protest as adventurous little drops skipped in through the window on to my lap. And then imperceptibly, I had melted into the six-year old who peeped through the doors of her grandmother's house in Delhi, at the newly baptised world outside, wondering if she would be allowed to play in the rain.
Through the rose-tinted glasses of childhood, every season unfolded layers of wonder and promise. In the monsoons, I would revel in a celebration after the first shower. The freshly-bathed trees, shrouded in a dim fairy twilight, held a temptation that was only just stronger than the aroma of pakoras from the kitchen. Resolutely, I would turn my back to the call of the appetite and instead step out into the emerald atmosphere that beckoned. The smell of henna, strange to say, came from every tree that I ventured near! In the back verandah, my tiny plastic children revelled in the treat their mistress was giving them. In those celebrations of prosperity, of meeting old friends; of gorging on home-made sweets; of November weddings; of Diwali lamps and Christmas bells; of sitting ensconced in warm rugs by the stove; I somehow loved making up stories about poor and destitute children whose only source of worth were hugs, and whose only food was charred bread dunked in water. Yet, magically, the day of the festival, we would wake to clean, cloudless skies and an embracing sun.
It is amazing how the very essence of a season is conveyed simply by the quality of the air. Lilliputian dishes were packed in a tiny basket, my dolls attired in their best clothes and a plastic mat procured. If was the source of legends among them for weeks to come. Drawing back, I observed that there was one misty oval, right in the middle of the pane - the signature of my breath. Their expressions of indulgent pleasure were music to my cars.