Delhi Read Free

she has done while I have been away. She likes to tell me of her exploits because she knows it rouses my desire for her. I sit in the dark many hours. I am angry, I am wanton. Then less angry, more wanton. A pale, old moon wanders into the sky. A light goes up in the temple behind my apartment. The electricity is back when it is not needed. I get up and drag my feet into the sitting-room.
    I switch on the table-lamp. 5.15 a.m. I throw open the window. The curtains flutter. A cool breeze fragrant with the
madhumalati
which covers the outside wall drives away the dank fuzz of yesterday’s dead air. I sink into my armchair and gaze out of the window. Streetlights go off with a silent bang. Through the foliage of the mulberry tree appears the grey dawn.
    Flying foxes wing their soundless way back to perch on massive
arjun
trees. The old lady who lives in the apartment above mine slish-sloshes along the road. She stops by my hibiscus hedge, looks around to see if anyone is looking, quickly plucks some flowers, thrusts them in her
dupatta
and slish-sloshes on towards the temple. Her old man follows her. He also stops by my hedge, looks around to see if anyone is listening, presses his paunch, and lets out a long, painful fart. He walks on with a lighter step and a ‘who did that?’ look on his face. A light goes on in the opposite block. A woman draws the curtains, ties her untidy hair into a bun and stretches her arms towards me. More lights are switched on and off. The morning star is barely visible in the pink sky. Crows begin cawing to each other. Sparrows start quarrelling in the mulberry tree. The muezzin’s voice rises to the heavens. Temple bells peal to awaken the gods from their slumbers. The milkman cycles round the block with a noisy clanging of milkcans. Another cyclist follows tinkling his bell and shouting
‘Paperwalla! Ishtaitman, Taim of India, Hindustan Taim,

Express, Herald, paperwalla!’
I hear the shush of papers being pushed under my door. I stay in my armchair. The morning breeze wafts the light of dawn into the room. It is cool, fragrant, pregnant with sadness and longing; it is the
bad-i

-saba
–the morning breeze–sacred to lovers. And I am back in my beloved city.
    *
    I settle down to the
Hindustan Times.
The front page has a picture of the white woman who came off the plane last night. ‘Lady Hoity-Toity says it’s great to be back home in Delhi.’ So that’s who she is! She has come to collect material for a book on archaeology. She is staying with the President at Rashtrapati Bhavan.
    I glance over the headlines and look at the pictures.
    My cook-bearer enters with a welcoming grin. I give him the Japanese watch I bought for him. His grin changes into a smile. He gives me a mug of black coffee and asks me if I will be in for lunch. No. Dinner? Yes, but I may be late, so leave it on the table. What would I like? I know he’s thinking of Bhagmati because she eats only Indian food and I eat Anglo-Indian
ishtoo
or
sawset
with
kashtar
for a
putteen
. I do not know how, when or where I will find Bhagmati. But I am not going to tell him, so I reply ‘Anything.’ He goes away constipated with curiosity.
    It is time to catch up with Delhi. A quick shower and I am off in my Hindustan Ambassador. More roads and roundabouts have had their names changed. The Windsors, Yorks, Cannings and Hardinges have been replaced by the Tilaks, Patels, Azads and Nehrus. There are red flags outside a petrol station with three men chanting ‘Death to petrol-stationwalla.’ Red flags outside Dr Sen’s nursing home. Six men yelling, ‘Death to Doctors.’ Red flags outside Food and Agriculture Ministry building. Four men in garlands sit cross-legged on the lawn. A placard in front of them says
Third Day of Relay
Hunger Strike.
A procession with saffron flags goes along Parliament Street chanting ‘Our religion and our country are one. The cow is our mother. Death to cow-eaters.’ On the lawns of Connaught