Delhi vs Mumbai

Yes, that tedious little debate is far from over 

Last week I visited Mumbai after an absolute age to attend an exhibition dedicated to the pottery of my late mother-in-law, Vimoo Sanghvi, one of the leading ceramic artists of her time. As I circulated among the guests, I came upon a journalistic acquaintance who I hadn’t seen in ages. We had barely exchanged pleasantries when she went off into a diatribe about how much she hated Delhi. “It’s such a jenani city,” she sniffed. 

I was a bit bemused. Do you mean that it has a feminine energy, I asked. Oh no, she responded, “it’s just so aunty, if you know what I mean.”

Honestly, I had no idea what it meant except that it wasn’t supposed to be complimentary. So, I just laughed and responded, “Well, you know, I am happy to answer to ‘aunty’ any time.” 

But as I withdrew from that conversation I began to think about why people in Mumbai are so keen to diss Delhi whenever they meet someone from there. I can understand that many Mumbaikars prefer their city to almost anywhere else in India. But what purpose is served by telling visiting Delhi residents that the city they come from is a bit rubbish? You may well think that Delhi is a hellhole but what does expressing this opinion achieve?

Do you want the Delhi dweller to feel bad about his or her life choices? Do you want to establish your superiority as a Mumbaikar? Are you trying to head off criticism of your own city? Or do you simply have a chip on your shoulder that you can’t help but use to batter another city’s reputation?

I really don’t know what all this is about. But I have encountered this kind of Delhi bashing at so many social events in Mumbai over the years that I have learnt to just smile and move on. Hate Delhi? Knock yourself out. As for me, I couldn’t give a monkeys. That, at least, is my attitude. 

While I can’t fathom why people in Mumbai have such visceral responses to Delhi, I do wish that they would try and look for the best in the cities they visit, rather than search for the worst bits. I try to do that as much as possible. 

Instead of complaining incessantly about the traffic in Bangalore, I try to focus on the beautiful parks in the city. Rather than lament the dreariness of some Calcutta suburbs, I spend time in such attractions as the Strand and Botanical Garden. Instead of kvetching about mid-town congestion in Mumbai, I try to concentrate on the majestic beauty of the sea. 

Maybe that’s a strategy that visitors from Mumbai to Delhi could try. Instead of complaining about how horrid the capital is, how snobby the people are, they could spend some time enjoying what Delhi has to offer. 

And it does offer a lot: beautiful monuments that you can get lost in; wide, tree-lined avenues that lead to stunning parks that dot the city; world-class museums that offer a glimpse into everything from the Indus Valley Civilisation to modern figurative art; bustling restaurants hubs that offer cuisines from across the world; and more. 

What’s a little ‘aunty’ energy — whatever that might mean — compared to all that?

The spirit of Pujo

It's alive and well; and prospering outside the confines of Calcutta as well

Growing up in Calcutta meant that Pujo was a very special time — even for a true-blue Punjabi family like mine. Yes, my mother sowed a pot with khetri (wheat germ) and we had special pujas every evening in the Navratras and performed Kanjak puja on Ashtami like all devout Punjabis. But we also celebrated the Bengali-style Pujo with equal fervour. As a child I particularly enjoyed getting four sets of new clothes to go pandal-hopping on Shashti, Saptami, Ashtami and Nabami, eating the bhog at different pujos to get a true measure of the culinary delights on offer. 

And then, fate decreed that I had to leave Calcutta and come live and work in Delhi. For many years after I moved, I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate Pujo the same way as I did in Cal. Yes, I knew that there was a sizeable Bengali community in Delhi which celebrated the festival with zest and fervour. But somehow I couldn’t see myself joining the festivities I always associated with Kolkata in a small corner of Delhi that is always Bengal (Chittaranjan Park, of course). So I would content myself with ruminating on Pujas past and promising myself that next year — for sure! — I would go back to Cal for the festival. 

It took me several years to come to the realisation that that was not going to happen. So I did the next best thing. I began attending the Pujos in my immediate neighbourhood in Delhi. These were smaller, more intimate affairs, with many familiar faces, and a genuine sense of community. And I felt that familiar Pujo spirit return to refresh my mind and soul. I soon grew emboldened enough to venture further and attend the larger, more famous Pujos in the capital. And before I knew it, this became an annual ritual. 

This year was different, though. The day the festivities began I was due to travel to Jaipur to attend an event — and who in Rajasthan would be celebrating the Pujos? 

Well, it turned out that a lot of people would be doing just that! As I discovered, there are many as 15 Pujo pandals in Jaipur (reminding me of that old joke: What do you get when three Bengalis get together? Two Pujo Committees!) even though the Bengali community in the city is far from large. 

So it was that on Mahasaptami I managed to recreate my Calcutta memories. I put on a new outfit and headed out with my husband to visit Jaipur’s oldest Durga Pujo pandal in Bani Park. And strangely enough, it was this Pujo that most closely mirrored the Pujos I remembered from my childhood. The pandal was small and compact, the Durga idol was beautiful and serene but not overstylised, the bhog was a simple khichri and tarkari, and the place was overrun by the same kind of Bengali aunties and uncles who used to spoil me when I was a kid. 

Perhaps that explains why, as I stood there, saying a silent prayer to the Goddess, I felt myself retreat to a child-like state of wonder. Or maybe it was just the Devi blessing me with a few moments of grace. 

I would like to think that it was a little bit of both. 

There is something in the air...

Yeah, you guessed right, it’s pollution — and it’s not just a Delhi problem any more

There was a time when I used to fly to Mumbai (while Delhi was engulfed in thick winter fog) just to see blue skies and breathe some fresh, unpolluted air. Those days are long gone, alas. 

This winter when I travelled to Mumbai, it was to the same grey skies that prevailed over Delhi. Thanks to a largely unregulated construction boom, a miasma of dust and pollutants hung over the Maximum City, making it look like a dystopian hell from the future. Nearly everyone I met had a hacking cough and doctors reported an influx of patients with some pulmonary problem or the other. A quick look at my air pollution app proved what I had suspected ever since I landed: the pollution levels in Mumbai were 

worse than those in Delhi. 

But you know what was worse than the pollution? It was the apathy. 

When pollution levels hit the high mark in Delhi, everyone acts as if there is a national emergency. Prime time debates on television discuss the problem night after night. Newspaper headlines bemoan the polluted air in increasingly hysterical tones. The state government is eventually goaded into taking some kind of action, even if the benefit of this is entirely illusory. For instance, diesel cars are taken off the roads. Odd-even schemes are launched to lessen the number of cars on the road. Construction is banned for weeks on end to get a handle on the problem. 

And that’s just at the macro level. At a micro level, every inhabitant of the national capital scrambles to find an air purifier that suits his or her budget. Offices agree on a work from home policy on days when the pollution is at the worst. And so on. 

But this time in Mumbai, I found that air pollution was just about beginning to register as an issue. Sure, television media in India is very Delhi-centric and tends to ignore stories emerging from other metros, so there were no daily prime time debates on the subject. But city newspapers were starting to focus on pollution, even though it was rarely the main headline. And the only time the state government banned construction to curb pollution levels was when there was a G 20 meeting scheduled in the city. Once that was over, it was business as usual. 

But why single out Mumbai? I was in Kolkata recently, and a quick look at my air quality app showed that the pollution levels here were just marginally lower than those in Delhi. There was the same grey haze enveloping the city; my eyes stung and watered when i ventured out; and my asthma was triggered within hours of landing at the airport. 

Sadly, over the past few years, air pollution has ceased to be a Delhi problem and mutated into an India problem. Open an air quality map and you will see practically all of north India depicted in red, to indicate dangerously high levels of air pollution. But though this is undoubtedly a national issue, we have yet to see a national campaign waged against this bane of our collective existence. 

Instead, we look for temporary fixes. Wearing N 95 masks to protect us against pollution (rather than Covid). Running air purifiers round the clock in our homes and offices. Exercising indoors rather than heading outdoors for a jog. Taking a break in a hill station or a beach resort to breathe some healthy air for a change. 

Sadly, that’s like putting a bandaid on a gunshot wound. It’s simply not going to work. 

Mask? What mask?

Negotiating a world in which no one believes in Covid protocols can be a scary experience

 

What do you do when you are the only person wearing a face mask in a room full of unmasked people? What do you say when the unmasked lady sitting next to you asks, in a very passive-aggressive manner, “Are you very scared of Covid?” 

 

Well, I don’t know what the etiquette in such circumstances is, so I can only tell you what I did. I kept my mask – an N95 no less – resolutely on, refusing to take it off even for the pictures that everyone was posing for. And I responded, as coldly as I could, to the question I was asked. “Yes, I am scared of Covid,” I said, and then added after a beat, “And so should you be.”

 

It’s probably needless to say that she paid no attention to my advice, and continued to keep her face mask off for the duration of the event that we were both attending. As did the rest of the audience in that large hall. 

 

I should not have been surprised, really. Ever since we landed in Amritsar for a book launch, the one thing we had noticed was the complete absence of mask discipline in the city. Nobody on the roads wore masks, not even the policemen. Guests at our hotel cheerfully ignored the signs that specified masks in all public areas and moved around barefaced. And those who did put them on, kept them around the chin area, leaving their noses and mouths unencumbered. 

 

When we mentioned this on Twitter, we were told by some people who had visited the Golden Temple that they had been asked to take off their masks by the guards before they were allowed inside the Darbar Sahib. “Don’t you trust in God to take care of you?” they were asked. There was only one way to respond: and that was to remove their masks.

 

Hurriedly cancelling our own plans of visiting Harmandir Sahib – hitherto an essential stop on every trip to Amritsar, given my Punjabi roots – we settled down in the safety of our own room to recover from this culture shock. Coming from Delhi, where mask discipline is strictly enforced and adhered to (especially after the second wave), this mask-less world took some getting used to. 

 

When I tried to explain this to some of the guests at the book launch the next day, they waved away my fears with an airy, “Oh, there is no Covid in Punjab now. Only 30 cases in the entire state.” Yes, I agreed, but there are only around 30 cases every day in Delhi too, and yet people wear masks to make sure that we don’t have a third wave in a few weeks’ time. Oh Delhi, they muttered exasperatedly, that is nothing like Punjab.

 

There was no good response to that, so I kept my peace and moved on. But this exchange – and many others like it – did get me thinking. Were these people being totally irresponsible and risking sparking a third wave in their city? Or was I being needlessly nervous about contracting Covid in an environment in which nearly everyone was double vaccinated? Were they being stupid or was I just virtue-signaling?

 

Well, you can make up your own mind about that. But, as far as I am concerned, in these times, discretion is the better part of valour. And in the age of Corona, discretion involves masking up in public, especially when indoors, practicing social distancing from people who are not in your bubble, and sanitizing your hands ever so often. So, that’s what I did during my short stay in Amritsar, ignoring the pitying looks being cast in my direction from all the mask-less people around. 

 

And it came as something of a relief to finally land back in Delhi, at an airport where everyone was masked, driving back home on streets where people observed mask discipline. Of course, it felt even better to take off my mask in the sanctuary of my own home. But that, as the saying goes, is another story.

 

Raindrops keep falling...

At long last, the monsoon arrives in Delhi – and I couldn’t be happier

 

It is an admission that is usually met with derision, but the monsoon is one of my favourite times of the year. There is something so magical about seeing those dark clouds gathering on the horizon, bearing the rain that will release the magnificent smell of petrichor from the parched earth, and bring solace to all those suffering from the blistering dry heat of a north Indian summer. I can spend entire days just gazing out of the window, watching the sky change colour, marveling at the rain as it comes crashing down, and luxuriating in the cool breeze that accompanies it.

 

This year, though, I had a long wait on my hands, as the monsoon was delayed in Delhi for one week, then another, and then yet another. Such was my frustration at this state of affairs that I decided to do something that I hadn’t done in my entire life. I decided that if the rains would not come to me, well then, I would go to where the rains were.

 

So it was that I arrived in Goa one cloudy afternoon, braving a flight from Delhi. The moment I stepped off the plane and smelt the moisture in the air, I was in heaven. As I drove to the hotel, the dark clouds threatened rain, which finally came pouring down after I had checked into my room. That was my cue to take up residence on the balcony and just watch the skies open up. 

 

And what a sight it was! The vast expanse of green lawn soaked up the moisture greedily, even as the tall palms swayed sinuously in the breeze. The grey sea roiled in the background, as the showers gathered in intensity and then abated to a gentle drizzle. The show was mesmerizing to behold and I was crushed with disappointment when the dark clouds finally moved on and sun came out in its full glory.

 

But this was Goa in the monsoons so, thankfully, I did not have to wait long for a repeat performance. In another hour or so, the clouds were back and so, in time, was the rain. This time I decided on a more immersive experience, and wandered along to the beach, where in solitary splendour – no one else was mad enough to venture out in this kind of weather – I allowed the rain to soak me to the skin. 

 

The experience transported me straight back to my childhood. In those more innocent days, the arrival of the rain meant stripped down to my chemise and running up to the terrace to get sopping wet in the rain. I would be joined by my best friend at the time and we would create a little swimming pool of sorts (by blocking all the water outlets) and skid around, whooping and hollering with joy.

 

I was very tempted to do the same sort of thing on the beach, but the presence of the lifeguard meant that I behaved like a responsible adult instead of a giddy child even though it went against my every instinct.

 

But like all good things, my Goa sojourn also came to an end. And it was back to Delhi, which was (still!) waiting for the monsoon to arrive. 

 

And then, finally, it did! I woke up one morning to see an overcast sky that promised rain later in the day. And sure enough, as I sipped on my first coffee of the day, the rain came pouring down, accompanied by a strong wind that whipped my hair all around my face and deposited a gentle spray of rainwater on me. The temperature dropped by a good 10 degrees and the mugginess of the atmosphere disappeared as the moisture was leached out of the air.

 

Monsoon had finally arrived in Delhi. And it was time to roll out all my monsoon rituals. Khichdi, alu chokha and begun bhaja for lunch. Kanda bhajiya for tea. And a walk in Sunder Nursery in the evening, as raindrops kept falling on my head. Bliss!

 

Spring has sprung

And it’s time to make the most of it, before it dissolves into summer

Every year, as the days get longer and warmer, I make a resolution: to make the most of the short-lived Delhi spring. And short-lived it most certainly is, dissolving into summer in the blink of an eye. I often say that living in Delhi means having the heater on one week and then switching on the AC the next. So, if you are going to enjoy the nano-second that spring lasts, then you better have your to-do list ready and be quick about ticking off all the items.

First on my list this year was an item that I have been putting off for way too long: a visit to Humanyun’s Tomb. I finally managed that last evening, going the whole hog and hiring a guide to make the most of the trip. My husband and I ended up spending a few hours in the complex, exploring every monument in sight, watching the sunset and the moonrise as we walked around the sylvan grounds. There was a cool breeze blowing and spring flowers blooming, and it was possible to forget all about the pandemic and pretend that all was right with the world.

That’s the magic of the Delhi spring. For the few weeks it lasts, it makes up for the bitter indignities of winter and harsh humiliations of summer that we have live through. The trick lies in making the most of it, so that you store up enough memories to carry you through for the rest of the year.

So here, in no particular order, are just some of the things that you could try and accomplish in this brief season.

• Have a blooming good time: Quite literally, that is. This is the period when all the roundabouts and parks in the capital are heaving with magnificent spring blooms. So, if you are driving everywhere, keep your eyes peeled for the splash of colour that they provide. Better still, visit your local nursery and pick up a few pots of salvia, cineraria, fuchsia or whatever else catches your eye to brighten up your balcony, terrace, or garden.

• Travel back in time: They say that at least seven cities once flourished on the site where Delhi now stands; and each one of them has left some evidence behind. This is the best time to explore that heritage. You can do the rounds of the usual suspects: Qutub Minar, Red Fort, Purana Qila, Safdarjung’s Tomb, all of which are much less crowded these days because there aren’t any foreign tourists in the mix. Or you could go totally off the beaten track and explore the lesser-known monuments in the city, where it will be easier to socially distance from your fellow citizens.

• Parks and Recreation: This is the best time of year to visit such parks as Sunder Nursery and Lodi Gardens. Take a brisk walk around to enjoy the spring flowers, and then find a shady corner to settle down with a nice book or a picnic. But hurry, because the rest of the city will have had the same idea, and it’s the early bird who will bag the best location. 

• Eating out: If a picnic in a public area does not appeal in the time of Covid, don’t worry. There are plenty of other options for al fresco dining in the city. Choose a restaurant that does outdoor seating and enjoy the last few days of balmy sunshine. Or simply throw your last barbeque of the season, hosting your friends and family in your garden or your terrace. 

• Spread your wings: If you have done all you could in the city, then head a little further out to make the most of the decent weather. You can still squeeze in a skiing vacation in Gulmarg, making the most of the snow before it finally melts. These are the last few weeks you can vacation in Rajasthan before the heat makes it all but impossible. And this is possibly the best time to visit game sanctuaries across the country.

But don’t worry if you can’t squeeze all of this into the remaining spring days. Just do as much as you can, and store the rest away for the following year. Because if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

Got a ticket to ride

But should it be free, if you are a woman travelling in the national capital?

As I write this, every single TV channel is discussing just one thing. Arvind Kejriwal’s announcement that the AAP government in Delhi would, in a matter of months, make travel on the Metro and state transport buses free for all women in the capital. Women will now ride for free and the loss will be made up by the state government, which will pay for this subsidy. This, Kejriwal announced, was being done so that women are more safe and secure on public transport

There are many, many things wrong with this scheme. For starters, it makes no sense to make travel free for all women, no matter what their income levels, while withholding this perk from men who are economically worse off (Kejriwal did say the scheme was optional; but honestly, do you see many women refusing to avail of this facility if it is, in fact, available?). So, an income cut-off would make more sense, so that only those who actually need this subsidy get it – and that should include men. 

Two, getting a free ride doesn’t equal getting a safe ride; even if the number of female riders increases exponentially, women will still be travelling in an environment where they are outnumbered by men and their wandering hands. Then, there is the problem of overcrowding; more and more women will avail of the scheme, increasing the load on a public transport system that is already near breaking point because of lack of capacity and excess demand. 

I suspect that Mr Kejriwal is well aware of all these problems, but doesn’t really care because he knows that the scheme will never reach fruition anyway. The Metro system, for instance, is run in partnership with the Central government, which will never agree to it.

But I guess the AAP leader believes that there is no harm is selling this dream to women in the capital, even though he knows it’s destined to be dashed. That way he can claim victim status, complain yet again how nobody allows him to do any work, and if he is feeling particularly perky, even sit on a dharna to showcase his angst for TV cameras.

On the off-chance, though, that the AAP leader is actually serious about making Delhi safe for women and is willing to spend around 700-1000 crores (which is what the scheme to make bus and Metro rides free would cost) to make that happen, here are just a few of the measures that he can implement.

• Let’s start with the Metro, just like Mr Kejriwal. The biggest problem right now for women who use the Metro network is last-mile connectivity. They may have a safe, secure and comfortable ride on the Metro, but it doesn’t deposit them to their doorsteps, either at office or home. For that they have take a two-wheeler, a rickshaw, or simply walk. This is where these funds can come in useful. Set up a network of rickshaws or scooters that do the run from Metro stations across the city to the destinations of passengers. Make sure that at least 50 per cent of them are driven by women, so that ladies feel more secure using them. And yes, make them free for all passengers if you so desire, and subsidy that cost. 

• Make sure the Metro runs later into the night, which is when women really need a safe ride home. As of now, the Delhi Metro starts at 5.30 am and the last drop-off is at 11.30 pm. So, women who work late hours, or those who are out having a night out with friends, or even those who are on a date, don’t have the option of taking the Metro home. They have to rely on two-wheelers or cab riding services, which can often be unsafe. What would it cost to extend the working hours of the Metro so that it runs until, say 1 am? And while you’re at it, to increase the numbers of women-only coaches, or even increase the number of trains available.

• Improve street lighting across the city. There is nothing more frightening that walking down a dark street at night, not sure what dangers lurk in the shadows. Installing streetlights – and making sure they work – would make a huge difference to women who have to walk home from the bus stop or Metro station.

• Hire more women as drivers and conductors in DTC buses. Make it mandatory to have women marshalls in all buses and Metro coaches, and empower them to crack down on any misbehavior against female passengers.

• And most important of all, increase the number of women constables in the city. At present, women account for just over 8 per cent of the work force in the Delhi Police, which is quite abysmal by any standards. There should be a push to make have at least 30, if not 50, per cent women among the police officers who patrol our streets, ride in our PCO vans, and preside over the local thanas. It is this, more than anything else, that will make the women of Delhi feel more secure. 

As for those free bus and Metro rides, employ a means test, have an income cut-off, and give them to all those who need them – irrespective of gender. That is the only way for an equitable society to function.  

Breathe easy

This winter, treat yourself to some clean air – even if it is just over a short break

There was a time when I spent the entire year looking forward to the time when winter would finally come to Delhi. There was a special pleasure in melting some white butter on the first sarson da saag of the season, and scooping up all that creamy loveliness with a makki di roti. There was something magical about lighting a tiny little bonfire on the terrace and gathering around with friends and family. Or even just going for a long walk in Lodi Gardens, secure in the knowledge that you would not return home soggy with sweat.

Those days are long gone. Now the moment the mornings begin to get a little cool and the sun sets a little earlier, I begin to worry about just how bad the pollution will be this winter. Will the air purifiers, sprinkled liberally all through the house, be enough to ward off those almost-inevitable asthma attacks? Will I make it through the season without having to invest in another N99 mask, to slip on every time I step out of the house? And how many years will this particular winter take off my life?

Which is why the moment the weather starts to turn I begin to think of winter getaways that will whisk me away to healthier, less polluted climes. I dream of destinations where I can breathe in fresh air, where I can put my inhaler away and forget about it, and where my wheezing becomes a distant memory. 

If you are beginning to feel the same way, and can think of nothing better than to escape the gas chamber that is this city – and most others; Kolkata is just as polluted, and Mumbai only marginally less so – then here are a few suggestions to start you off on your winter destination hunt.

• If you are heading for the mountains then steer clear of overdeveloped and busy hill stations like Shimla and Nainital. You will be much better off going to smaller, less crowded places like Sattal, Bhimtal or even Ranikhet. What you lose in terms of quality of the accommodation, you will more than make up in the quality of the experience. You will finally be able to fill up your lungs with sweet mountain air, breathe in the freshness that blooms all around you, and exhale with relief.

• If you don’t mind travelling further, then the south has some stupendous hill stations that are worth exploring. Ooty is a perennial favourite with honeymooners, but my personal favourite is Munnar, with its verdant green and almost toy-town like beauty, though some of my friends are big fans of Coorg and Kodaikanal. 

• If beaches are your thing, then I would steer clear of Goa. This gets awfully overcrowded at this time of year and is horribly overpriced as well. You would be better served heading to the south. Your best bet would be Kerala, where you could squeeze in some Ayurvedic treatments as well as walks on the beach (though I myself am partial to the backwaters). Or you could head to Tamil Nadu, where the entire shoreline is dotted with lovely beach resorts where you can revive your tired lungs with those moisture-laden breezes from the Bay of Bengal. If you are willing to look beyond domestic beach destinations, then you can have your pick of Thai beach resorts, some of which may actually be cheaper than those in our own country. (If money is no object, then head to the Maldives.)

• If you prefer the buzz of city life to communing with nature, then there are several options in our immediate neighbourhood that won’t break the bank. Head out to Singapore, where you can shop to your heart’s content, eat the most marvelous food, and then dip your toes in the sand at Sentosa. If your budget stretches further afield, then this would be a good time to visit Portugal, which is warmer than the rest of Europe. Base yourself in Lisbon and then make day trips to explore Sintra, Cascais and other smaller towns. (If you’re a creature of habit who would rather head back to London or New York, then you can do that too; though, really, wouldn’t you want to expand your horizons?)

• If you’re a nature lover, then this is best time to head for the wild life reserves in India. Go in for a spot of tiger-watching in Ranthambore or Corbett National Park, try your luck at sighting the one-horned rhino in Kaziranga in Assam. The Bandipur National Park in Karnataka is a good place for elephant watching. And if birds are your thing then head to the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary in Rajasthan. December is also a good time to hit Tanzania’s northern circuit where the Serengeti’s Great Migration is in full swing. Or you could head to Kenya, where the rains are just over and the scenery looks lush and green. 

To be honest, it doesn’t really matter which destination you pick. The important thing is to get away from Delhi and its awful air at this time of the year. 

I know, I know, you’ll have to come back soon and breathe in those noxious fumes all over again. But at least the worst will be over (we hope!) and your lungs will have had a bit of a respite. And you will have had a reminder of what clean air looks and feels like.

Winter is coming

But this time around, I’m not among those celebrating its arrival

Winter has always been my favourite time of year. The moment the temperatures begin to dip in the early morning and the darkness sets in early, my heart starts to soar. Winter is coming, I tell myself excitedly. Though not in a George RR Martin way, thank God!

This year, however, the start of winter has begun to feel a little apocalyptic. I came back from a short break to find Delhi engulfed in a smog so polluted that just breathing that air, I was reliably informed, was equivalent to smoking 50 cigarettes a day. For an asthmatic non-smoker like myself, that sounded like the kiss of death (quite literally).

So, suffice it to say, my reaction to the arrival of winter this time around had been a little bit different. Instead of celebrating the season by taking long walks in Lodhi Gardens, I have retreated to the sanctuary of my bedroom with three air-purifiers going at the same time, anxiously checking the counters to see if the PM 2.5 count was going any lower.

The only time I ventured out was to attend the wedding of one of my close friend’s daughter. And after every single function, I staggered back wheezing to my room, puffing away at my Asthalin inhaler as if my life depended on it (spoiler alert: it really does).

The good bit about all this is that I caught up on my reading, devouring Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng and Ties by Domenico Starnone in double quick time (excellent books both, I could not recommend them more highly – but that’s the subject of an entirely different column). I also binge-watched the American TV series, This Is Us, weeping copiously all the way through (don’t let that put you off; it is a fabulous show). And I managed to get in a little exercise as well, working out on my cross-trainer to get my mandatory 30 active minutes every day.

So, compared to those who had to brave the streets and the dust and smoke of Delhi traffic, I didn’t do badly at all. And yet, through it all I was plagued by a vague sense of dissatisfaction, a nagging feeling of missing out on my favourite season of the year, as I sat barricaded in my room, breathing in the best air that money could buy.

My mind went back to winters past, to those halcyon days when Delhi was not a gas chamber, slowly but surely killing us all. I flashed back to my first years in the capital, when I lived in a barsati in Defence Colony, with tiny little rooms but a vast terrace that was transformed into party central the moment the cold set in. My friends and I would sit around a bonfire late into the night, drinking our poison of choice, eating whatever takeaway we had ordered in, talking, laughing, singing, and of course, in due course, dancing, the air crisp against our flushed faces. Good times.

Sunday afternoons were invariably spent in the homes of friends who were prosperous enough to have houses with gardens and backyards. The barbeque would be going, rustling up everything from kebabs to hot dogs, there would be pitchers of beer, sangria and margaritas at the ready (and mulled wine once the cold really set in), someone would be strumming on a guitar while the rest of us drifted along making desultory conversation, as we basked in the balmy sunlight. Soon the drinks would kick in and the lawn would be littered with people in varying degrees of wakefulness, until the soporific effect of the sun made most of us nod off. Siesta after fiesta, we used to call it.

Then, there were the weekend girly lunches my friends and I used to organize around this time of year at some open-air restaurant or the other. Though to be honest, these were less lunches and more gossip sessions, where a hundred reputations died a thousand deaths as we exchanged stories about the worlds of journalism, advertising and PR, which we all belonged to, our tongues suitably lubricated by lashings of Chardonnay. (Now that you mention it, I am beginning to see a pattern here…and yes, it involves alcohol!)

But my best memories are of spending lazy afternoons alone on my terrace, curled up on my wrought-iron sofa with a good book, with just a couple of oranges for company. No matter how carefully I peeled the oranges, a few drops of the juice always spilled on the book I was reading. And now, when I re-read one of them and see that tell-tale stain, it takes me back to that lovely sun-filled terrace where I spent so many happy hours breathing in that cold winter air.

It is these memories that keep me going now, as I huddle inside my air-purified room, fearing that venturing into the open will trigger yet another asthma attack. And with every puff of my inhaler I send up a prayer that one day soon, I will be able to relive these moments for real instead of just in my imagination.

Bright lights, big city

All great cities have one thing in common – a character of their own

Over the last few months, a series of events have taken me back to a place that I last visited in my childhood. As a young girl, I spent many holidays in the city that Le Corbusier built, at my aunt’s house, roughhousing with my cousins, taking scooter rides down the perfectly-perpendicular streets, shopping in the quiet neighbourhood markets, making the obligatory visits to the Rock Garden and Sukhna Lake.

It was a fun time, but we had to make our fun ourselves. Chandigarh contented itself with being its usual quiet, well-behaved, matronly self, allowing us the space to indulge our high-energy selves but offering next to no encouragement to any boisterous behavior.

But that sleepy, laidback Chandigarh now lives only in my childhood memories. The Chandigarh of today, as I discovered recently, has thrown off that slumber and reticence and emerged as a sleek, sophisticated city that offers everything from trendy restaurants to shopping malls to swanky five-star hotels that would do any metropolis proud. And, more to the point, the once-silent city has found its voice. It still has the quiet, tree-lined streets with the most polite traffic I have encountered in India. But now, it also speaks of prosperity, energy, and a certain can-do spirit at every turn.

The best parallel I can think of is former Test cricketer-turned-TV performer, and now Punjab minister, Navjot Singh Sidhu, who – by all accounts – was a nice quiet chap who barely spoke two words during his cricketing days, but is now impossible to shut up. (Though, to be fair, Chandigarh is a tad more restrained.)

As I drove down its impeccably-clean roads, I started to think about how all great cities have a personality of their own – which may or may not change over the years – an identity that belongs to them alone and which makes it impossible to mistake them for another.

I grew up in Calcutta, feasting on its faded glory of crumbling colonial buildings, run-down infrastructure, over-crowded streets and dilapidated markets. But for all its decrepitude, there was a certain grandeur to the Calcutta of my childhood and youth: the vast expanse of the Maidan, the looming visage of Victoria Memorial, the shabby but beautiful Strand where we went for boat rides down the Hooghly, with the magnificent Howrah Bridge providing the most spectacular of backdrops.

Just like Chandigarh, the Calcutta of my childhood no longer exists. Now, when I go back to the city, I am overwhelmed by the new construction, the bustling malls, the endless network of flyovers (not to mention the one-way system that I have yet to master). Even the colonial structures I grew up with no longer look the same, now that they have been blue-washed by Mamata Banerjee’s government.

But strangely enough, the spirit of the city survives. Once I look past the gleaming skyscrapers and the sprawling hypermarkets, I can see that Calcutta (sorry folks, it is always going to be Calcutta to me; Kolkata is for when I speak Bangla) is still the same City of Joy, one of those rare places where a live culture can survive outside of a bowl of mishti doi.

Most people who move from Calcutta to Delhi seem to spend their days bemoaning their loss. They miss the easy charm of Cal; they hate the hard-headed, cold-eyed indifference of Delhi. Well, I am an exception to that rule.

From the moment I moved to my tiny little barsati in Defence Colony, I fell in love with the city. I loved its changing moods through the seasons: the flowering roundabouts heralding spring; the blooming laburnum announcing the arrival of summer; the parks bursting with green as the monsoon hit; the trees shedding their leaves in preparation of winter.

I also loved the fact that Delhi allowed me to be. This was the big tent I had been looking for all my life. This was where I could be whatever I wanted to be. If I wanted to immerse myself in theatre, art and culture, there were enough museums, galleries and artistic hubs to do so. If history and antiquity was my thing, then I could spend every weekend exploring historical monuments dating back to medieval and Moghul times. If I just wanted to let my lungs expand in some green spaces, then they too were available to me.

The space granted to me in Delhi was not just literal but metaphorical as well. And it allowed me to grow in ways that I could not even have imagined when I first moved here.

Yes, I know what all you folks in Bombay (oops, sorry, Mumbai; though like Calcutta, this will always be Bombay to me) are thinking right about now. Delhi? Really? You love Delhi? But surely, you know that Mumbai is much better? This is the city of dreams, the city of endless possibilities, the city that never sleeps, the city that, oh well, never mind!

Well, you know what, guys? It is possible to love both. I can enjoy the beautiful, tree-lined boulevards of Delhi just as much as I cherish the sea views along Marine Drive. I can embrace the Staid Dowager that is Delhi just as fondly as I hug the Brash Bruiser that is Mumbai.

Because while cities have personalities of their own, identities that are theirs alone, people like us have the luxury of embracing them all and making them our own. And why settle for less, when so much more is on offer?

Blooming glory

The Japanese make such a fuss about their Sakura; why don't we do the same with our Chinar, Laburnum and Shiuli?

It has been on my bucket list for the longest time ever: visiting Japan during the Sakura season. It is trickier than it sounds. There is never any guarantee when the Sakura will bloom, though forecasters try their best to nail a period down. And once the Sakura does flower, the cherry blossoms have a very short life expectancy: a week if you are lucky. And the Sakura season itself lasts about a fortnight or so. So, unless you time your visit just right -- and have the luck of the Devil -- it is hard to be sure that you will catch the cherry blossoms at their finest.

Well, I am happy to report that even though I planned my trip last year, I was lucky enough to arrive in Tokyo and Kyoto at peak viewing time. And what a view it was! Sprawling trees of all shape and size overladen with blossoms that went all the way from pristine white to cherry pink, taking in every shade in between for good measure. The Sakura proliferated in the parks, it blossomed on every street corner, it lined the roads in its majestic glory, it even popped up along the rails of the bullet train from Tokyo to Kyoto and back. It was a sight that will live with me forever.

But what I found even more amazing was how Sakura viewing was a family activity for the Japanese. They even have a name for it: Hanami, which literally means 'flower watching'. And when you do your flower watching at night, it is called Yozakura, which literally translates as 'night Sakura'.

So, as the trees in all the parks in Tokyo and Kyoto bloom, entire families set out with a picnic basket to spend the day under the shade of the cherry blossoms. They lay down their plastic sheets on the green, and settle down to eat, drink and yes (this is Japan after all), use those ubiquitous selfie sticks to take selfies against the backdrop of the blooming Sakura. Not that I can afford to act all superior; I was doing just that as well (though without the obligatory selfie stick).

But as I clicked what turned out to be hundreds of pictures of the cherry blossoms, I couldn't help but wonder why we in India don't celebrate our seasonal marvels with quite the same passion, panache and elegance. It's not as if we don't have the same kind of natural beauty that flashes forth for brief periods to dazzle us before disappearing all too soon. And while we do appreciate it as we go about our everyday life, we don't treat these interludes like an 'event' to be savoured and enjoyed.

Take Kashmir's Chinar, for instance, which changes color to a spectacular russet and then a brilliant crimson in the autumn. The spectacle lasts only for a few weeks before the tree sheds its leaves and shuts down for the winter. This should be as special for us as the Sakura is for the Japanese. And yet, we don't see people from the rest of India descending on Kashmir to view this superb sight. Indeed, it barely registers with most of us, as we wait for the snowfall to descend so that we can plan a winter vacation.

Closer home, in Delhi, the roads and parks come alive in spring with the yellow gleam of the Laburnum (you may also know this as Amaltas) and the bright red of the Semal tree. The flowering period lasts only a few weeks but while it is on it turns the city into a vision of natural beauty. But we hardly spare the blooms a glance before going on about our day. At the most, we click a couple of pictures to upload on social media, but there is none of the overwhelming wonder that the Japanese experience with Sakura.

Sad, isn't it? Wouldn't it be wonderful if we too could engage in a spot of Hanami, taking our kids, our parents, our friends for a day out in the park, to just sit in the shade of a Laburnum or Semal tree and take in their beauty? If we could just lay down a blanket on the grass and bring out a picnic basket, and spend the day marveling at the beauty of nature? (Of course, it would be even better if we could emulate the Japanese in yet another way: in clearing up and carrying back our own garbage, leaving the area as pristine as ever.)

Growing up in Calcutta, I was as excited as the next child about the advent of Puja. But in all that excitement about shopping for new clothes and making plans for pandal-hopping, none of us paid much attention to the flowering Shiuli (it is called Harshringar in north India) which heralds the arrival of the Goddess every year.

The white blooms with a peach/pink centre carpet the floor every morning, spreading their sweet scent through the neighborhood. And then even before you had fully registered their beauty, the Shiuli flowers would vanish, reappearing only the following year as Durga Puja drew near.

The flowering of the Shiuli should have been as special to Bengalis as the flowering of the Sakura is to the Japanese. But I have zero memories of anyone making an almighty fuss about it. Everyone just took its beauty for granted and went on with the festivities. And I can't help but think that we missed a trick there.

Well, the spring is almost gone but how about this Puja, we have a special week of just celebrating the Shiuli in all its colorful and fragrant glory as a precursor to the main festivities. I am pretty sure that Ma Durga would approve.

Fun free

Top ten ways to enjoy Delhi, without paying a paisa

It struck me first when I spent a week in London late last year: there were so many fun things you could do in that city without spending a penny. There were all those amazing parks you could walk or jog through, or simply picnic in. And if you chose St James Park for your constitutional and timed your visit well, you could take in the colourful spectacle of the Changing of the Guard in Buckingham Palace. If you felt like watching a bit of performance art, you could stroll through Covent Garden.

I guess that's the thing about the great cities of the world. There is so much on offer that you can enjoy without spending any money at all. Which is why, this year, I have decided to start an occasional series: the top ten fun things you can do for free in the great cities of the world. And where better to begin than in the national capital.

So, here's my list of fun, free things to do in Delhi. Do feel free to write in with your own suggestions:

* Take a walk through Lodi Gardens. You could always power your way through on the jogging track that runs along the periphery, but I recommend a leisurely stroll through the 90-acre park. Take in the glories of the trees, foliage and flowers. And stop to explore some stunning monuments which date back to the 15th century. There are tombs of the rulers of Lodi dynasty, an old mosque, and two domes that are perfect examples of the architecture of the period.

* Pay homage to Gandhiji at Rajghat: This is a mandatory stop for every dignitary visiting India. But there's no reason why ordinary mortals like you and me can't enjoy the serenity of the samadhi of the Mahatma. If you have the time you can stop by at the memorials to Pandit Nehru (Shanti Van), Indira Gandhi (Shakti Sthal) and Rajiv Gandhi (Veer Bhumi) as well.

* Marvel at the Jama Masjid: Built by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan between 1644 and 1656, this adjoins that other great Mughal wonder, the Red Fort, in old Delhi. But you don't have to pay an entry fee to gaze on the splendid mosque, with its three domes and two towering minarets, but it will cost you if you want to climb one of the minarets and enjoy the breathtaking view below. And yes, photography costs extra, so if you don't want to stump up, leave your camera and smartphone behind.

* Sample the delights of Chandni Chowk: A short walk from Jama Masjid is this bustling market that epitomises the best of old Delhi. This has the best of street food, old-style perfumeries, textile shops, silversmiths, jewellers and more. So long as you exercise self-control and restrain yourself to window-shopping, this jaunt won't cost you a rupee.

* Feast your eyes on Akshardham: Built on a grand scale with intricately-carved sandstone and marble, this temple of the Swaminarayan sect is both a visual delight and an oasis of peace in the middle of a bustling metropolis. There is no charge for visiting the temple or enjoying the grounds, but there is a fee should you want to catch one of the exhibitions or perform a special puja.

* Wander through the Huaz Khas Complex: You can start off at Deer Park, a wild expanse of greenery that is named after the deers that frequent it. Then, walk through the newly-gentrified Hauz Khas Village, with its plethora of designer shops and quirky restaurants, until you reach the historical tank (hauz) for which the area is named. Its banks are dotted with historical monuments dating back to the 13th century Delhi Sultanate (Khiljis) period, which are an absolute joy to explore.

* Breathe in the wonder that is the Baha'i temple: Shaped like a lotus (a flower that has holy connotations in many religions), this is one of the seven major Baha'i temples in the world. An architectural triumph, this is open to people of all religious denominations, who are free to worship here in their own way (but no musical instruments can be played on the premises).

* Soak in the history of the Sikh faith: You could start with Sis Ganj Sahib in old Delhi, a historical Sikh temple, marking the place where the ninth Guru, Tegh Bahadur, was beheaded in 1675 on the orders of the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb because he refused to embrace Islam. Also worth exploring is Gurudwara Bangla Sahib, near Connaught Place, which is associated with the eighth guru, Har Krishan, whose central lake (Sarovar) is credited with having healing properties.

* Make a tryst with history at Teen Murti Bhavan: This used to be Pandit Nehru's residence when he was Prime Minister of India and his private quarters have been preserved just as they were while he was alive. You can see his book-lined study where he would spend his evenings, his spartan bedroom with the single bed on which he breathed his last, and then go through the rest of the museum dedicated to his life and work.

* Hang out at the capital's favourite hangout: If you want the quintessential Delhi experience, you can't do better than Khan Market. Set up by refugees who came to Delhi after the Partition, this has effortlessly transitioned from a typical neighbourhood market to a trendy shopping area, teeming with restaurants, cafés, designer boutiques and the odd store selling fruit and veg. Explore for free, but be prepared to spend big if something takes your fancy.

Head out on the highway...

The romance of the road trip is alive and kicking

Yes, I know that everyone who has seen Piku has been giggling about the constipation trope and raving about how wonderful the cast was: Amitabh Bachchan playing the hypochondriac crochety old father to perfection; Deepika Padukone bringing the bad-tempered but essentially tender-hearted and devoted daughter alive on screen; with Irfan Khan bringing up the rear with his customary understated brilliance.

But for me, the most memorable part of the movie was the road trip. As all the lead characters piled into a car, their luggage strapped above (with Bachchan’s ‘toilet chair’ taking pride of place on top), and drove down Grand Trunk Road to make their way from Delhi to Calcutta, the scenes took me right back to my own childhood. Come the summer, and the Goswamis would set off to visit extended family in Agra and Delhi. And that’s exactly the route our two-car convoy always took.

Of course, we had a rather more leisurely approach to the whole road trip thing. We would stop by for lunch at a scenic spot, walking along verdant fields to stretch legs that were getting cramped sitting for long hours in the back seat of an Ambassador. We would halt for evening tea at shacks that sold the most amazing samosas, pakoras, or any other deep-fried delight. Night stays were meticulously planned at the bigger cities along the route so that we could spend the night in a comfortable room, and use a somewhat clean loo before setting out again.

In a way, the journey was almost as important as the destination. I would spend days agonizing on which books to pack, stock up on my Amar Chitra Katha comics, and take a pocket transistor along for the times when it would be too dark to read. But as it turned out, boredom was the last thing I should have feared. Head pillowed on my favourite cushion, I would spend hours just gazing out of the window as the world rushed by in a pleasant whirl of colours, sights, sounds and smells, taking in every detail until it felt that my head would explode with sensory overload.

If we were stuck in traffic we played silly games to while away the time. If nobody had the patience to play with me – and all too often they didn’t – as the youngest in the family I had infinite inner resources to cope with it. I would retreat into my private dream world, spinning tales of castles and princesses and fairies in my own head to entertain myself, inventing tales of derring-do in which I was invariably the heroine who saved the day.

Of course, there were times when tempers frayed, arguments broke out, sharp words were exchanged. Everyone took turns to sulk, to throw the odd tantrum, or even to have a complete meltdown (this was the height of summer after all, and things had a way of getting heated up very fast).

But nobody ever uttered those fateful words: “Are we there yet?” Because we all knew, without anyone saying so expressly, that we were, in fact, already there. The holiday had begun the moment we accelerated down the driveway, where it went from there was only a technicality. And often, after the romance of the road trip – with its unexpected encounters, the occasional breakdown, not to mention family sing-alongs – the actual ‘holiday’ itself felt rather tame and uneventful by comparison.

It makes sense then, that a road trip is often seen as a metaphor for our journey through life itself. We start off as relative innocents, being tutored in life lessons by all that we encounter along the way. And we finish the trip infinitely wiser than when we started out. Perhaps that is why so many coming-of-age movies rely on the road trip as a plot device, a journey in which the central characters confront some central facts of life, and grow up in the process.

Zoya Akhtar, for instance, has made the road trip a sort of leitmotif of her work. In Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, three male friends head out on a road trip, driving through Spain, and rediscovering each other and their friendship. In her new release, Dil Dhadakne Do, a cruise along the Mediterranean takes the place of the road trip. The Mehras from Delhi go on a cruise with family and friends to celebrate their 30^th anniversary, but end up re-examining their lives – and life choices – instead.

I have to admit that none of the road trips I’ve taken have been half as eventful. But nonetheless, I have no hesitation in recommending that you hit the road with your loved ones the next time you have some time off. There’s nothing quite like being stuck in close quarters in a car to stimulate discussion or even spark off meaningful conversations. And there’s nothing like talking to one another to bring a family (and friends) closer together.

Just be sure to lay down one ground rule. No smartphone usage allowed, unless it is to take a picture of a particularly beautiful vista (or a spectacularly silly selfie). No Facebook, no Twitter, no Instagram, no Pinterest; just interest in what the other person is saying or feeling. Remember, it’s only when you take the media out of social media that you can truly be social.