« The song, not the singer | Main
November 11, 2009 | 06:34 PM
The sweet acrid nostalgic smell of Delhi winter
Walking the streets of Delhi just as dusk has set in. The slight smell from the fog mixed with the smell of traffic fumes on Janpath. Memories. Of my mother, always in her colorful saris, red shawl, her carefully bobbed hair just down to her neck. And laughing, always laughing as if she did not, somehow the demons of unfulfilled child hood dreams would get to her. As they ultimately did.
But God, I loved that laughter - and the streets and smells of Delhi were filled with her laughter this evening. And my father, quite and often brooding, a compassionate smile on his face as he watched his life partner laugh, hiding his pleasure at it, but feeling it's warmth just as me and my sisters did.
And when my mother passed away he missed it so much that he gradually too let go. The laughter that filled our lives had gone - but we the kids were off on our own adventures - our own dreams, heartbreaks, ambitions - the family house empty of laughter and hope - still lies their languishing - waiting for someone to fill it with the bubbling excitement - so it's walls can lose the forlorn dampness that is spreading everywhere.
And this evening as I walk through Janpath to my hotel - the restored and magnificent Imperial Hotel - the sweet acrid nostalgic smell of Delhi winter - brought tears to my eyes - as passerby's saw me and stopped "wasn't that Shekhar Kapur who also cried on TV" ?
