Of Parks and Tombs

I am reeling from a week-long orgy of books, history, friends and food coma in Delhi. I have been in bibliophile heaven, browsing book stores like they are going out of fashion ( hardly any good ones in Pune, for sure). When I wasn’t eating or gazing at the old trees, or sipping mint lassi in yet another quaint cafe, I was cross-eyed from browsing.

This trip we stayed at the old-fashioned and cosy Claridges Hotel in the heart of Lutyen’s New Delhi, because charm and character wins any day over shiny, impersonal spaces. And the Claridges is just right. I soon felt at home, more so because every staff member was warm and helpful and so polite. What an absolutely amazing vibe permeated the old stairs, the long corridors and the cool lawns. Also, I have never received so many compliments for my freckles in one place!

Lucky for me, I didn’t venture out of Lutyen’s too much and my days were a glorious haze of Uber auto ( most excellent service), the cool wind blowing in my hair while I peeped at every grand bungalow and goggled at high gates and armed security guards when I wasn’t gaping at the wide avenues shaded by magnificent old trees. So many superlatives in one sentence? Because, well, Lutyen’s is superlative! It seems to have set an almost unattainable standard for how we ought to live, among trees and shady roads, flowers blooming everywhere and tooting traffic horns long faded into silence.

Let me talk more about beautiful Delhi, let me wax eloquent about this jewel that is our capital city.

There are gardens and parks everywhere.

Acres and acres of large, rambling parks, some manicured like the mughal gardens of old, some just artfully scattered with piles of stone from decaying tombs, and all of them home to many old trees. Acres and acres to walk and breathe in. To sit and lie in, read, do yoga. To listen birds and watch spring flowers nod gently, their petals heavy with diamonds made of dew. There is no litter anywhere. There are no loudspeakers. The parks are clean, green and serene. Boys hang out in little groups, jamming and playing the guitar. Soulful singing fills the twilight.

For this alone, I want to live in Delhi.

With our very dear friends Tusshar and Isha, we spent a whole morning at the beautiful Sundar Nursery Park.

Tushar is a coffee lover and photographer. Isha makes films. Their lovely friend, Kelsang Dolma, dressed in flowing white, posed among the flowers for photos, while we stepped around fat, sleeping stray dogs and a gaggle of Sunday club matrons, chattering under a grove a trees. It was already getting warm and the slight morning nip had evaporated by 9 am. But we continued to amble around the old tombs now lovingly restored, the cool fountains and riotous flower beds.

Magnificent roses, as large as tea cups, fragrant and splendid, grew in almost casual indifference. Bees and butterflies and birds feasted on acres of flora nodding in the sun. There were phlox and zinnias, petunias, gazzinias, pansies, larkspur and hollyhocks, old trees and shrubs. There was colour and life and Spring everywhere. Colours, so many, many hues and shades of red and purple and pink, ushering in the season of sour fruit and succulent juices.

Sundar Nursery is such a great place for a picnic, all 30 acres of it. Soon, families were flocking around with picnic baskets and rugs, searching for their own patch of heaven. Open from sunrise to sunset every day, people throng the park, but it is still serene. There was no litter anywhere and nobody plucked the flowers like rabid locusts. An owl lurked up on a beam in a tomb, where the ceiling was exquisitely patterned and the jaali windows threw little dancing squares of light on the ancient stone floor. Through the large arched doorway, a bare tree stood against the bright blue sky, it’s waxy red blossoms gleaming like jewels. Fat, fiery blooms spilled below on the dry red earth, more gems scattered carelessly for us to tread carefully around.

We walked, we meandered, posing for pictures and really, stopping to smell the flowers. Strategically places tyre swings dangled from trees and children swung with abandon.

We finally drifted towards the Sunday Farmer’s Market, so quaint but uber-snob, hipster and fun. No loud music spilled from giant speakers. No MC droned about the marvels on display. This market buzzed with the hum of real conversation, birdsong and dappled sunlight. Real farmers selling fresh greens rubbed elbows with proud artisan bread and cheese-mongers. Single origin coffee and home-made pickles and a lot of artisan ghee vied for our wallets. The air was cool in the shade as we sipped hipster charcoal lemonade from clay tumblers and sprawled in the grass. Conversation ebbed and flowed as Society matrons in hand-block printed silks and distinguished old men with silver hair watched squealing toddlers on tricycles and hip, linen-clad couples loll in the shade, nibbling on Nizamuddin kababs and strangely, idlis. Nearby, an enthusiastic ex-pat led walking tours around the Park pointing out the botanicals and sights.

The other stunning park was the Lodhi Gardens. We made it there at sunset, as hundreds of birds returned home to their nests. The evening echoed with their song, a veritable cacophony of parrots, mynahs, sparrows and bulbuls. Ibrahim Lodhi’s tomb stood proudly, it’s pink stones agleam bright gold in the neon sunlight. Somewhere in the distance we heard the strains of qawaali, the old stone acoustics perfectly amplifying the poignant lyrics.

Manicured paths and lawns and beds bursting with more spring flowers provided a riot of colour to the rambling, ancient sandstone walls and tombs.The boy band jamming inside one of the lesser tombs made the most of the acoustics and serenaded us for a good while, as we whipped out our cameras to capture their shadows and song against windows of fading light. Figures danced in stark relief on ancient stone and for a moment I could have travelled in time to when this place was a thriving Mughal city.

The park itself is huge and sprawling, with fine old trees that cast ominous shadows in the now lamp lit night. A delicate wrought iron gazebo graced a tiny hillock, certainly a remnant of the Raj. There were flowers everywhere and trees and shrubs grew wild and happy, nothing overly- manicured beyond the jogging path. People sat around, some practising yoga, while others jogged. Couples wandered hand in hand. A one-armed chaatwala made us bhel from his little stand. His paraphernalia was adorned with pictures of every Hindu Deity in the pantheon. Bright, arty stickers of Sita-Ram, Vishnu, Shiva, Hanuman and more jostled for space as he expertly whipped up a tart dilli-chaat. Dogs ambled peacefully. A lotus pond bubbled gently.

The sun set against all the old stone was breathtaking. The ‘Wanted’ sign for terrorists on a gatepost as we waited for our rode home was *whoa*!!

I went to one more tomb on a hot, sunny morning as I waited to meet Tushar and Isha ( for some of that coffee and food I spent a lot of time all week on).

Safdarjung’s Tomb was close enough for a quick peek. Large and grand but sadly forgotten and forlorn, it is one of the last tombs built at the end of the Mughal dynasty. It is blazing hot and there are a few white tourists, happy girls taking selfies as an Indian woman tries to con them into parting with their money. Luckily, they are too savvy for her. I am stopped by the security who immediately waves me inside when I respond in Hindi. I’m assuming mistook me for a firang on an Indian ticket ( which costs ¼ the price ). Maybe I don’t fit his vision of desi in my sunglasses and block print dress, maybe it is the short hair ( famously called ‘urban hair’ at a shoot once). But hum bhi desi hain and I guess my irritated retort about the ticket convinced him I wasn’t faking it!!

The gardens are large, sprawling and walled, and happy tourists strike dramatic poses against the tall bottle palms and spring flowers, large families in bright coloured clothing with no thought to palette or pattern, dressed in their psychedelic best

The sarcophagus of itself lies at the centre of the tomb and sits even more forlorn and reduced to a mute witness to the ages. All the walls are gloriously etched with loving graffiti, names scratched into the red sandstone and bright walls. The inlay work on the dome is encrusted with grime. A good scrub and restoration would do wonders for poor Safdarjung.And then it was time for lunch.

Continued in Part 2……