The weekend was upon us, with light showers, the kind of weather that makes you want to step outside for a drive.
Driving around in the snobbish Lutyens’ Delhi is different. This part of the city is cleaner and greener, and the roads are wider. The traffic was never bad enough to trigger terrible moods. It is a neighbourhood with a character like that of Gatsby. If you inhale the surroundings, rich is the air, and you almost feel the power the people inside the majestic buildings all around must hold.
I meet a friend for brunch at a small café across the street from the Taj Palace, a street full of big and fancy cars, and often on lock-down for VVIP movement. We discuss the week’s hot news over ham sandwiches. “It’s the 21st century and we need a new law to regulate mob lynching?” “They are trying to discreetly bring in amendments to wane the RTI!” “Traditions and faith can’t take away the fundamental rights of women!” A cat tries obstinately to steal a bite.
Well past noon, we stop by the Lodi Gardens. “It is just unfortunate that, as a nation, we have not been faithful to our Constitution and its spirit.” My friend is trying to convince me of the advantages of a short, concise constitution. “Not to mention, the common man might actually attempt to read it fully.” “Let me Google it. Here, 448 articles!” “Brevity guarantees durability.” I tell him we are not the U.S. of America.
It is now too humid to stay outdoors. It is also stifling to discuss the sobering realities of our country in a neighbourhood that seems to exist in parallel. We stop by the office of the Worldwide Fund for Nature and pick up some free saplings to plant around our homes. “This is good work. Why are not people and organisations with access to all kinds of resources doing more good work?”
I read somewhere on the Internet how saying “billionaire” should be a slur, as if it is a shameful thing to be. “Capitalism is a cancer on society.” New statistics are out. “The world’s richest 0.7% now own 46% of the world’s wealth.” It is immoral.
A small girl taps on our window at the red light asking for money. My friend promises to get back to her with food. “I will find her and give her the food.” “How do politicians make false promises, lie and deceive endlessly?”
The sun comes down; we head back to our homes. My locality, separated by the Ridge from Lutyens’, is cramped, expensive, filthy and for students. Problems of our democracy are sundry. Around me are thousands of civil services aspirants who one day will be a part of our bureaucracy.
“Will things get better?” “We can be idealistic, but power corrupts.” I fall asleep, reading The Communist Manifesto, my heart full of the confusion that is Delhi.
There are a lot many things to dislike about the city. Unruly people hurling abuses on roads, the pollution, lack of respect for personal space on the Metro, the crime rate. But spending a day driving around in all directions from Windsor Place, with the crescent along the President’s Estate holding you in, I see the heart of my country.
It is big money, careful planning, an architectural prize, a cité. It is elitist but I cannot hate. I drive around here to feel hopeful about our future, our politics. It is because the pillars of Parliament House radiate inspiration for all of India to be just as glorious one day. And so, the conversations must never end.
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