By Khushi Jain
(Best experienced while listening to DilGiraDafatan from Delhi-6)
Rotten flowers.
Petals sweltering under the scorching sun and leaves drying to flakes. Battered, on the grey concrete, incessantly stomped on by local chappals and tourist Nikes. The scent lingers though, mixing with the smell of petrol and sweat. The Lal Mandir is alive with its most frequent visitors, the birds. Loquacious and energetic, the winged creatures come here to heal. Or maybe the healing is a mere side effect of the divine presence. A little further down the road, to the right, it is still the 1970s, or at least shopkeepers and customers still in the 1970s. They carry pencils behind their ears and Walkmans in their pockets. The left is completely devoted to cycles – both old and new, both taken apart and complete.
It hits suddenly. No. It doesn’t hit, it attacks. That same scent, only richer. Idols of stone, their necks blooming with those that ultimately lie half dead…
