Plus ça change....

A look backwards took place in my mind on returning from a recent trip to India – a country undeniably on the edge of great things, with a prosperous new middle class (300 million + ?) fueling rapid urban development. Lurking among all the buoyant statistics though is another which says that 300 million people live below the official poverty line and another 300 million or so inhabit the shadowy world between the very poor and the middle class ranks. These 600 million are now faced with the phenomenon of rising food costs worldwide. A recent New York Times report stated that working class families in New Delhi were having to do without milk or meat in order to buy rice. One wonders what else they are forced to give up.

Trying to explain all this to myself took me back again to India – this time in memory, to a hot summer day in 1967, when four of us sat for hours in a suffocating, dark room - air conditioning and lights turned off by an angry mob of striking workers. We were in a factory, 40 miles from Calcutta in the town of Kalyani. As I sat there, sweating, there was ample time to think back on the events which had landed me in this situation.

At that time I was the head of Finance and Administration of a British engineering company.

Business organisations all over the post-war world were embracing new developments in automation, computerisation and modern management techniques to survive. Calcutta too and the rest of West Bengal, traditionally the center of India's engineering sector began to take steps in that direction. India's first school for graduate business studies had been established in Calcutta in 1961 with MIT collaboration, funding from the Ford Foundation and with a young eager faculty, some of whom were my friends. Companies such as IBM set up operations in Calcutta. Professionals like myself now had access to courses and seminars that put us in touch with the latest developments in management thinking and technology of the '60s. There had been very little fresh investment in India's manufacturing sector since World War II and we were all excited by the prospect of being able to participate in the transformation of West Bengal's Rust Belt into a modern industrial environment.

Unfortunately, the modernisation of businesses in the 1960's invariably involved downsizing through automation and outsourcing (not unlike developments today). And also not unlike today, it was a difficult social argument to promote a degree of immediate unemployment in return for future growth. It was an even more difficult argument in Calcutta and West Bengal generally, which in the '60s was the nerve center of the Communists and Leftist movements of India. In 1967 they had come to power in the State Government and were not about to acquiesce in the loss of jobs. Closures or downsizing provided an obvious target as another example of capitalist exploitation. In the case of a British-owned business, the imperialist bogey could also be trotted out for good measure.

While all this was taking place our company had drawn up plans for modernization that would involve closing some processes. Approximately 75 of a total force of 500 would be made redundant through a Voluntary Retirement Scheme.

With the intention of finalizing these plans, a meeting was arranged with workers' representatives in the factory. The company was represented by our British Managing Director, myself, the Works Manager and a personnel executive. We soon found out that there was no negotiating intended on the other side. The Trade Union officials were under political instructions. We were summarily asked to withdraw all proposals for staff reduction. When we refused, we were advised that we would not be permitted to leave. The doors were locked, the power turned off, the phones disconnected and we realised that we were now being "Gheraoed" – i.e., subjected to a compulsory sit-in. We sat listening to the workers chanting slogans - inspiring ones at first such as "Long live the Revolution" - but as time wore on, more personal and offensive sentiments began to be expressed. I envied our British Managing Director, who couldn't understand a word of what was being shouted.

There had been instances of Gheraos continuing for 12 hours or more, until exhaustion or threats had forced the employers' representatives to capitulate or be carried out in ill health. We wondered how long our ordeal would last. Initially we did not really feel physically threatened. As the hours wore on though we all remembered with discomfort the infamous Jessop Steel Plant incident in 1949, two years after Independence, when a labor dispute turned murderous and a British engineer and his Indian colleague were pushed into a blast furnace. We had no blast furnaces in our factory, but there was no shortage of iron rods in an engineering establishment. We loosened our shirts in the heat and reconciled ourselves to waiting things out, since we did not really have a choice. There was an air of unreality about the whole proceedings.

Looking back on events, it seems incredible to me now that we sat through eight hours of this noisy confinement without food, water or access to bathrooms (Don't ask !). Suddenly the noise subsided, the door opened and we were advised we could go home. The union gave us notice that the workers were now officially on strike, and the management would have no access to the factory until the Company agreed to abandon any thought of labour reduction. We learned later that our workers had refused to be more harsh with us and insisted that we be released without further physical abuse.

We were eventually able to resolve the issue through measures which included protracted negotiation, some legal action and token improvements on our initial offer. The process took several weeks, during which time the striking workers received no wages.

Some time after these events, during one of my factory visits, I was talking to one of the workers and asked him how he had fared through those weeks. He told me that the strike had erupted during a period when he had fallen into debt because of the serious illness of his 2-year old child, who had then died as he could not feed his family and continue all the treatments at the same time. There was no animosity in his attitude - just an air of quiet resignation that I found more wrenching than any demonstration of rage or grief.

Management school theories seemed far away. I felt I was back in the Industrial Revolution, when conditions had prompted Thomas Hood in 1843 to write the lines

“Oh ! God ! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap !”

As the French say “.. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.” ( “The more it changes, the more it's the same thing” ) Read more!

It Is Within Walking Distance

Way back in 1976, my parents along with our good friend Debashis Sengupta, went on a hike from West Bengal's industrial town Durgapur to Tagore's educational hub Santiniketan. Here's an account that my father wrote about the trip in AVB News - the journal for employees of the company where he worked. As I typed this out, time and space were totally muddled in my mind, and I was completely transported back to my childhood long, long ago...
BY R.K. Datta Gupta
From time to time man gets restless to refresh himself in a big way from the monotonous routine of just living, and feel youthful again, never mind the age. With such an urge, when someone suggested one evening at our Club a long walk in the countryside, the idea immediately registered with three of us in a very objective manner.
Although walking is generally associated with the constitution of the stout or the aged, a leisurely trip to the nearest bazaar or the only means of locomotion for the have nots of mechanical transport we decided to give it a try as a source of refreshment. Come winter and we hatched our plan. Be it noted that this season is the finest for long walks in this country, especially in the plains. The air is cleaner, the temperature more bracing and appetites more whetted. We agreed that the walk should not be restricted to the countryside but stretched to cross country. Inhibiting thoughts such as getting waylaid and injured in lonely country or facing hostile villagers were conveniently brushed aside with the motto “No risk, no walk.” A conditioning walk took us sixteen kilometers around Durgapur one night through such ways and byeways which at other times would give one the creep on account of association with danger.

Knapsacks and rucksacks were taken down from storage, dusted and repaired, lists were drawn for minimum personal requirements of food, clothing, blankets, shoes and medicine were procured. Maps were obtained from the Town Planners and others, to collect maximum information of the proposed route. It may seem pretentious, but a two-day walk took about a fortnight’s planning and preparations.
Santiniketan on the opening day of the annual Paus Mela was unanimously selected as the destination which meant a two-day walk with a night’s rest. Starting at 6:30 a.m. on 21st December, Debashis, my wife and I walked into the orange hued sunrise along an unfinished road behind the FCI Colony due east, till we came to Arra village. Here we swung NNE and kept moving at a jolly pace of 5.6 kph. The surface was hard earth and was comfortable for our feet. The way weaved through the villages of Rupganj and Kuldiha, around ponds and harvested paddy fields. Each of these villages boasted of a primary school. Beyond Kuldiha we struck across paddy fields but found it rough going through the stubs. We passed a colonnade of stately palms on the left, across the river Kunur with its sluggish green water to the mouza of Malandighi. Sri Sarkar a veterinary, who runs a dispensary for sick animals, got off his bicycle to walk with us for about a mile, taking a healthy interest in our mode of travel and commenting when one of us said that he must be taking us for mad to go walking like this, that, what was not madness anyway! Some people were mad about eating, others for drinking, some for reading and many for talking, so what was wrong with our walking! We took leave of this friendly soul just outside Malandighi and made for an Acacia and Sal grove for a breakfast stop. It was 9:10 a.m. and we had walked about 11.3 kms. Breakfast was a picnic of bread, butter, eggs and cheese. Through Malandighi haat we plodded, making a five minute stop to find out the best route Ilambazar. A young resident of the village who is a trainee with AVB exclaimed to his friend, an employee of a neighbouring organization, when he saw a female among us, “see, see could your chaps do such a bold thing? You are always bragging of your organization outdoing ours, you bighead!” This spontaneous outburst gave us a cheer and a hearty laugh and many of the villagers joined us.
Taking the route to SHibpur we entered a forest and walked for an hour and a quarter, finding the going very drab and monotonous. The road was a surface of churned dust and even the Sal trees on either side wore a browned off look under the midday sun. Our feet were pinching as blisters were in the making. We rested somewhere between Jamban and Jatgaria villages (on the left beyond the thick screen of Sal). On the right we had left behind Saraswatiganja and entered the large mauza of Bistupur. It is a great pity we could not go through these villages and meet some more people in their habitat. A man in his village feels like a knight in his castle or a lord in his manor. He is not subdued by affected inhibitions, but feels free to talk with confidence, and it is an exhilarating experience to meet him there.
Just after midday, we walked out of the forest and arrived at Sibpur medical centre. A long and cool drink from the local well refreshed us, and we plodded on through Sibpur village(the bus terminus on the south bank of Ajay) past three waiting buses with their conductors gaping at us in anticipation. Arriving at the sand bank of the river, we met an old woman who had just crossed it. My wife struck a dialogue with granny and I invited the two to pose for a photograph. Our blistered feet were amply soothed, wading through knee-deep water of the Ajay. Clambering up the north bank of the river we stepped on Joydeb Kenduli at a distance of about 21 km from Durgapur at about 1:30 p.m. Loads were unhitched at a tea stall by the terracotta temple, and we stretched our legs to rest and consume tea by the litre. There was some excitement about the forthcoming Baul mela, an annual event during Paus Sankranti. AT 2:50 p.m. we set out again by the shorter route to Ilambazar, through the villages of Janubazar, Sugor, Nohona to the right, Kanur to the left, Bharatpur and Gangapur. The road lay due east parallel to the river bank and was more of a bullock cart track; we frequently got into a rut in the true sense of the word to the utter distress of our feet. Munching chocolate bars as we walked did for lunch.
Whenever we asked anyone, if we were on the right track, back came the tirade of cross questions, “where are you coming from, where are you going, why did you not take the bus from such and such a place?” We answered back in crisp but polite comments, sometimes spinning a yarn and sometimes telling the truth. About a mile away from Dumrud village an inspector of police, driving along on his Enfield ‘Bullet’, stopped to advise us that his odometer showed 10 kms from Ilambazar. This came as a slap on our weary spirits, as we had obviously covered only 6.4 kms from Joydeb, and still had a long way to go. We called a halt in a mango grove by a sparkling pond, to collect our wits together and muster confidence anew. The time was past 4 p.m. and we started having misgivings of reaching Ilambazar before dark. A rustic passer-by advised that we should cover the distance between Dumrud and Paer villages as it was not safe otherwise, while another one rubbed it in that it would get dark long before we reached our destination. By 4:30 p.m. with our shadows now stretching ahead to infinity, we continued our perambulation, but fortunately under the guidance of a helpful kisan, who recommended a more direct route by-passing Dumrud and Paer. After a mile, he left us, and we came to a roofless school building right plump at a cross road. Some villagers from adjoining Nohona came out to have a look at the strangers and one named Chand was good enough to put us on the right track. Another one cordially invited us to take shelter in the school house for the night, offering to take good care of us till the morning. The offer was no doubt tempting as the sun had just set.
We walked along past Kanur and approached Bharatpur. Hunger pangs were now telling, and the chill of the winter dusk was biting; so we sat down by a paddy field and ate cold meat parathas which tasted delicious. One Sri Bagdi tarried to have a chat with us and though hungry, shared our parathas only after ascertaining that we were of a caste acceptable to him! He pleased my wife by stating that the parathas were tasty, and offered to accompany us to the next village, Gangapur. Pulling on extra pullovers, we now picked our way in the dark with the help of a flashlight. We parted from Bagdi in Gangapur and walked half a mile to a cross road, where we got confused in the dark and lost our way. Seeing a light in the near distance we made for it and came to a cluster of huts where we asked for direction. In the lantern light our packs and my wife’s staff must have looked forbidding, and the worthy sons of the soil, mistaking us for Martians, were reluctant to leave their thresholds; the irony of it was that we should have been the frightened ones! After much cajoling a couple of fellows followed us at a safe distance to put us on our track again. And at last, we arrived at the outskirts of Ilambazar at 6:45 p.m. having lumbered in the dark for over an hour. We made for the post office where the post master, a kindly person, received us cordially at 7 p.m. and handed over our reservation slips for the inspection bungalow. Soaking our aching feet in scalding hot salt water, we ate more parathas for dinner and chatted over the highlights of the long days’ tramp late into the night till sweet slumber took over.
The second day’s journey started at about 10:15 a.m. after a heavy breakfast. We followed the motor road from Ilambazar to Santiniketan via Surul and Sreeniketan, a distance just over 19.3 kms. Though footsore, the going was at a steady pace and we covered the 5.6 kms. Stretch through Sal forest beyond Ilambazar in about 2 hours with a half hour’s rest. The loads on our backs had been reduced by taking out the blankets and wrapping these around abdomens or shoulders to cushion the strain of the rucksack straps, a brainwave of Debashis, the youngest in our group, but the one most concerned about the general welfare of all. Outside the forest at Ramnagar, during a 40 minute tea halt, we had a friendly argument with a couple of cowherds, who insisted they could walk 72.4 kms in a day, herding cattle too. About 4 kms out of Sreeniketan we dumped our sacks on an empty bullock cart to refrain from the temptation of dumping ourselves instead. We arrived at Surul at 2:45 p.m. and were overtaken on the way by friends driving up from Calcutta, who waved but glanced back in amazement, as they sped away. Our arrival at Surul was marred by a little accident; an urban youth rode his bicycle at speed into our group as we were lifting our sacks back from the cart, hurting my wife in her shin. After rendering first aid to her and another tea break we left for the last lap of the hike, and at 3:47 p.m. plodded past the last milestone arriving at our destination at about 4:30 p.m. An elderly gentleman, out for his constitutional stroll, walked a while with us enquiring about our purpose, and wished he was younger. Read more!

Three is not a crowd

Farah Khan has had triplets. My mother wants to get in touch with her to congratulate her on her babies. And that's not really because she's a fan of Bollywood style dancing or because she turned all nostalgic with OSO. The reason is because mom is one of triplets - and coincidentally my grandmom's combo - two girls and a boy - more than six decades ago, was the same as Farah's. When I told my mother - the big news of the day last week - that Ms Khan had triplets, she immediately wanted her email address or some contact detail to send best wishes.
And was Farah shocked or just surprised, my mother then wanted to know. Nothing of that sort, I said, because she already knew that she was expecting triplets...just a bit disappointed since she had hoped for two boys and a girl. That put mom in a very reflective mood. "When my mother delivered us, there was no way to find out that there were triplets on the way. In fact, when her two doctors, a well-known gynaecologist couple in Kolkata in those days - realised that there was more than one baby on the way - they joked among themselves and said the more the merrier," said mom. Of course, we'd heard that one before - it was part of the family-lore surrounding the triplets - my mom, mashimoni and choto mama.
In fact, there are many more anecdotes surrounding the birth of triplets in the family. My grandmother - didimum - apparently almost passed out when she realised that she had given birth to three babies instead of one - she already had two sons before that - mejo mama & boro mama. In those days, children were born at home and didimum's delivery was at her parents house in Kolkata's Palm Place. Just across the road was the residence of her sister who was married into the Chattopadhyay family. My mejo mama - a five year old at that time - was given the task of running across from his grandparents' house to his aunt's to let her know that his new brother or sister had arrived. So the first time he went and said, "I have a sister, but another one is on the way." But next time when the doctors told him to run across with the news that he'd had another sister but yet another was on the way, he refused to budge. "I'll wait till they all arrive," he said!
Then there was the problem of telling one baby girl from another since they looked like peas in a pod. The doctors wanted to tie a thread round my mother's wrist when they realised that she had a birthmark right there that would help in identification. Of course, my mother and mashi resemble each other so much that even today, people tend to mistake them for each other. Often mom meets people in a bus or at the market, who start talking to her like they've known her for a long time. And when they realise that she can't figure out who they are, they're almost dumbfounded. On such occasions, she comes back home and calls up my mashi to tell her "you've lost a good friend, who'll never talk to you again". Likewise, mashi too, has similar experiences, with mom's friends.
Sometimes I've wondered whether having a twin or triplets causes any loss of identity or not. But when I think of the kind of support that Ma's triplets have given her and continue to give her, the feeling is always of three being better than one. The three of them try to spend their birthday together whenever possible. And sometimes just the three of them have done something together on that special day. After my grandparents had gotten over their initial shock of having been blessed with triplets, they had made the most of bringing up the three together in the best possible way. The bonus was having two elder siblings - that made their childhood even more fun. My mother and hers sister participated in all the rough and tough activities that are usually associated with young boys. Their brothers ensured that they didn't ever turn sissy. From climbing trees to flying kites and even making their own fire-crackers to burst at Diwali - the triplets did it all. And obviously, they were all in it together. Of course, choto mama refused to wear a shirt with flowers printed on it that matched the dresses that his sisters wore. But they usually had common friends - many of whom are in touch even today. Talking about friends, my friends from school days - Rinku, Tinku and Minku - are triplets too. They're all girls but Rinku is very different from the others. So while, Tinku and Minku look alike - like mom & mashi - Rinku looks completely different. And often I've heard my mom praising their mom for her courage and patience!
Read more!

Try Hyderabad, when it gets too cold in Delhi

It's pretty cold across India and that seems to be one of the main topics of conversation when talking to friends and relatives in various cities across the country. And Delhi is rather cold too with wind-chill, low temperatures, fog and rain. So a trip last weekend to Hyderabad turned out to be a pleasant surprise. Not only was it not cold - it wasn't uncomfortably warm either. In fact, there was a pleasant breeze all-day on the first day and the second day was cloudy bright. Evenings were a bit chilly - but very comfortable by Delhi standards.
But besides the weather, the trip had other highlights too. I was at Indian School of Business (ISB) - which has recently become India's first B-school which has got a global ranking. The Financial Times ranked ISB at 20th on a global scale. The seminar was on Asian business families and had very high profile speakers. From members of top Indian business families, to Kellogg professor John Ward, the seminar was very high on top content. The ISB campus is as good as many of the top B-school campus around the world.
Hyderabad had earned the title of Cyberabad under the former chief minister Chadrababu Naidu. It has, in fact, given competition to India's Silicon Valley - Bangalore in many ways. Hyderabad is also an educational hub and provides skilled human resources for the IT and IT-enabled services industry. With a large number of its residents going overseas, Hyderabad attracts a large part of the foreign remittances from NRIs and it is one of the Indian cities with high spending power among its consumers. A reason perhaps for the growing number of malls around town.
But there for no time to go mall hopping for me. However, I did go to Golconda Fort in the evening for a SOund & Light show. WIth Amitabh Bachchan as the 'voice', the show turned out to be awesome. The history of Golconda has tragic undertones and the sprawling fort is largely in ruins today. But the sound and light show amidst the darkness all around, brings it alive to the audience. And then there's the enjoyble experience of shopping for pearls. The beautiful strings of pearls - in colours ranging from grey to purple, pink and of course pearly white - are available in shops around the Charminar or at the more upmarket Punjagutta Road. There are big names such as Mangatrai Jewellers and Mamanram Srikishan. Besides pearsl, coral jewellery too is a specialty of Hyderabad. And finally, what's Hyderabad without its Biryani or the paans? Read more!

India's big woman investor? Or just big hype!

If there's anything that's bigger in India than the cricket Twenty-Twenty win or SRK starrer Chak De! it's probably the Reliance Power initial public offering that closes today. As I write this, the issue is around 50 times oversubscribed and the feeling that one gets is that riding the sensex boom every single Indian has become a savvy investor on the stockmarket. However, this belief for me now seems to be a hype, after the harassment that my mother suffered in trying to apply for a very few shares in this GREAT Reliance IPO. She's a retired school teacher who lives alone in Kolkata - the first hassle for her was trying to open a demat account. Apparently the Reliance IPO has caused a huge demand for opening the demat accounts and banks are working overtime to meet the rush.
In my mother's case, an agent from a prominent private bank who she had contacted came to her home and made her fill up the requisite form. Only when my mom went to the stockbroker's office to submit the application for the issue, she discovered he had opened a savings bank account for her and given her its number! Needless to say that she had no need for a svaings account.
Meanwhile, it was too late to apply for the IPO of the decade - no guarantee that she would have been allotted any shares even if her application went through. Further, mom who could have become a first time investor on the stockmarket failed to get the services of any stockbroker at her home. Surely, such services are available for people who are 65 and above. Well as far as India's great stockmarket boom is concerned - I think it's only for the net savvy, young people who open a demat account and start trading online. As for senior citizens, even if they are well educated and not computer illiterate, they remain at the mercy of idiots and unscrupulous agents. My mother has reiterated her faith in small postal savings - she walks down to the post office every month and chats up other retirees who are waiting in the queue. Even if the wait is long, no one's taking her for a ride after all. Read more!

Here to Eternity

Here's an article that I wrote in The Economic Times on Sunday


In a fitting tribute to Hillary, Sherpas are praying for his reincarnation. Along with Norgay, he will probably live on forever to inspire the spirit of adventure


THE SUMMER of 1987. For me, it was the most extreme training that I have ever taken in my life, at Himalayan Mountaineering Institute in Darjeeling. Looking back there are intense images of trekking up to Tiger Hill with a fully loaded rucksack - starting at midnight and getting there in time for the sunrise, only to be greeted by a thick blanket of clouds and a drizzle. And there were the PT sessions even before the crack of dawn and the jog down to the Mall from Jawahar Parbat where HMI is perched. A week on, we trekked up through lush green valleys and rhododendron forests to the glacier - Rathong - surrounded by 6500 m + peaks of Frey’s, Kabru Dome, Sinolchu and many others. High altitude acclimatisation, training on snow and ice, trekking with snowboots and crampons and above all coping with the subzero temperatures - those were a couple of weeks that I will never forget.

It was also just an year after the legendary Tenzing Norgay had passed away - but his inspiration and spirit lived on at HMI. Norgay was the first director of field training when HMI was set up in 1954 and had been associated with the institute all his life. Many of our trainers were sherpas who knew him very well and had been mentored by him. So when we climbed down to the institute after training sessions, past Norgay’s home in the late afternoons - many of us trainees stopped for a while and looked up at the prayer flags fluttering in the lawns with awe and respect. It was just an year since he had passed away and almost everyone remembered him and spoke about his achievements. We were told how every year he graced the graduation ceremony as chief guest - and our graduation from HMI was a very low key affair as a mark of respect for the man who had conquered the world’s tallest peak with Edmund Hillary in 1953. So when I read that the Sherpas in Nepal and Darjeeling had prayed for the reincarnation of Hillary, who died on Thursday at 88, it seemed to me a very fitting tribute.
Sir Hillary - after all - was not just a skilled mountaineer who pushed the envelop of physical and mental endurance to climb Mt Everest. He has climbed ten more tough peaks in the Himalayas between 1956 and 1965. He has also gone to the South Pole with a Trans-Antarctic Expedition and led a jetboat expedition - Ocean to Sky - from the mouth of the Ganges River to its source. In 1985, he accompanied Neil Armstrong in a small twin-engined ski plane over the Arctic Ocean and landed at the North Pole. It was not just his intense spirit of adventure - the New Zealander has left his footprint in Nepal through his philanthropic activities. He founded the Himalayan trust through which schools and hospitals have been built in remote villages in the mountains.
Mt Everest to most skilled mountaineers today is not really the most difficult climb and the alpine style expedition in 1953 - through the South Col - was not the toughest route either. However, there’s no way that anyone can play down the sheer achievement of the two men who were the first ever to set foot on the summit of Everest at 8848 metres. They had forged a route through the treacherous Khumbu Icefall. The last bit of that historic expedition was the ascent of a 40-feet sheer rock face which Hillary found a way up through a crack in the face, between the rock wall and ice. This has since been called the “Hillary Step”. Obviously their pioneering spirit will live on and continue to inspire mountaineers and sportspeople down the ages. As it did their sons, Peter Hillary and Jamling Tenzing Norgay, who are both well-known mountaineers and together climbed Everest in 2003 as part of the 50th anniversary celebrations of the first conquest by their fathers. Read more!

Hazy Shades of Winter

It’s winter again in Delhi. Time for gajjar halwa, peanuts and chikkis. Lots of Dilliwallahs just love winter – probably because they have some cause celebre, such as weddings and season-end parties. People also love to bring out their winter clothes from mothballs and flaunt them. It’s time for the silks, black suits, thermals and lehngas, shawls, mufflers and even overcoats.
There’s something very ceremonious about the season. People have to pull out their winter clothes, get the blankets back from the dry cleaners and silks and woollens out of the mothballs. It’s time for the morning fogs that disrupts flights and trains and chilly winds in the evening. But also time for weddings, parties and concerts. There are outdoor parties too where people huddle near charcoal stoves that are provided. Fresh colourful veggy salads, and kebabs are the favourite snacks that are circulated at the parties. It’s time for the hot chicken soup too and basking out in the golden afternoon sun. All of Delhi’s parks and even little islands of greenery have people sitting out, taking breaks from office or homes to just sit out in the sun and perhaps peel and eat oranges. For kids there are the picnics at Delhi’s sprawling gardens. At home, its time to roll-out the carpets and turn on the heaters.
I find that every year for the last three years, winter has brought a death – of a near and dear one. Many years ago, back in college, reading the Romantic poets had been about the symbolism of seasons where winter was symbolic of death and destruction. But when one has to grapple with reality, dealing with death is far more painful than accepting the change of seasons where winter will be followed by spring – the season for regeneration and rebirth. Again in Delhi, winter is also a time to plan trips to the monuments that surround us – Red Fort, Qutub Minar, Purana Qila and Humayun’s Tomb. It’s the season when the ruins almost come alive in the background of the mellow sun and chilly mornings. TV, meanwhile, has visuals of Srinagar and Manali where snowfall is attracting hordes of holidaymakers from Delhi. There’s big time Christmas shopping too for cakes, candy and decorations – Khan Market is crowded with expats, well-heeled Delhiites, diplomats and even young college students – everyone’s looking for cakes, fruits, exotic veggies and fruits and even smart clothes – the new Autumn-Winter selections! The Kebab corners, not surprisingly, are drawing the largest crowds. Everyone’s packing their shopping bags with dry fruits too – Delhiites cant imagine their winter evenings without the kajus, kishmish, almonds, pistachios and walnuts conveniently served in tiny bowls probably with the sundowners. There are the very delicious and exotic chilgoza or pine-nuts too. And then there are the foggy mornings which are braved by walkers encompassed by their shawls and overcoats – wearing caps, socks and even gloves. This season there was the Italian Opera in the backdrop of the awesome Purana Qila – an awesome performance! Vacation time for kids is also time for parents to plan vacations – overall winter in Delhi is a season that’s a feast for the senses. Read more!