It has been a March from memories this year. Climatically, a pleasant concoction of cool breeze and sunshine - the way Delhi used to drink it in from picnic hampers. Driving through Lutyen's Delhi is always pleasant, but this month has been special, especially this week...this month. Outside the Gymkhana, hollow "plocks" of thumped tennis balls can be heard from behind the tall walls, cushioned atop feminine titterings intertwined with sound of falling neem leaves churning up the breeze like little rotors. Traffic is resting...the avenues appear broader, cleaner...leisure appears to have returned to Delhi.
There seems no urgency to consume miles even though workplace beckons as usual. There appears to be adequate time, to allow experience and recall together.
Along the broad arc of Mother Teresa Crescent, a riot of bougainvilleas flow down sculped shapes on either side of the boundary of President's Estate. They are swathed in all the glorious colours -red, pink, yellow-gold, white - that the cavalry of President's Bodyguards trotting single-file on stately horses towards practice at their parade ground, wear on their uniforms.
Further down the arc, a vivid shade of green strikes the eye - the grass at Talkatora Grounds is busy hosting a cricket match. The innings, in pristine sparkling whites, appears to be well under way. There is intense concentration and purpose writ in the body language of boundary fielders closest to the boundary towards this side. The wiry bowler is single-minded; ball in his grip oscillating up and down with each step of his sprint in from the other boundary. It appears a champion is batting in the middle and scoring at will and this lad has a notion about it. But the breeze slants his purpose and angles it down. The batsman, with a timed twist of his wrists tucks it further down, and this act brings on a reason to celebrate. Which he does with a raising of his bat and showing its face all around. The scoreboard is hidden from sight by the overhanging boughs of trees, hence the reason for celebration is unknown. But it must be a good one, for the taut body language of fielders has relaxed to applaud the batsman. Only a week ago, such a scene was witnessed on television. Half a dozen years ago, an almost identical scene was witnessed at Ferozeshah Kotla that December evening.
There is no incentive to drive on from here, Delhi is flaunting a rare forgotten innocence ostentatiously, yet we must, to address those corners of Delhi where innocence has no role to play.
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