Today the itch to write it out caught my finger. Like an aching song which just wouldn’t let go.. like the urge for gol gappas on a hot summer evening .. or the desire for bhuttas on a monsoon night.. With pakoras.

Those rajnigandha days.. when we were a free country..Huyy
When you could be an Indian and that’s it. When we rode scooters to India gate and ate ice cream in the night.. driving down Delhi’s boulevards.. as free spirits..free citizens of a free country..

Those seventies hairstyles and Amol Palekar songs..Golmaal hai bhai sab golmaal hai..critiquing the system..smile smile.. and the state and whatever you could lay your hands on..all society..dissent.. that magic word.. filled the air..after all we were masters of it. We had created it.. just a few years before.. and shook the foundation of the world.. with our dreamy idealistic crisp cotton clad warriors.. of integrity/ freedom..

When it was enough to be Indian.. and no cars with jai shri ram or saffron stickers ..when it was enough..
To bask in the freedom of democracy.. and slag off the Emergency.. and the state.. when u could sit in press club with beers and talk about revolution and change.. and hear ghazals of faiz and jagjit singh.. mellifluous songs for Deepti (Naval) and Farooq (Shaikh). Their little mobike escapades down nizamuddin .. and India gate..buying 10 rupee Goldflakes from Lallan mian at the pan shop and running off to lodi gardens..

How free we used to be.. study and do something great was the motto.. we could build our India.. a cool ‘secular’ ( which is: a place where all religions are respected.. not lack of religion) place.. where being Indian was enough, and your only identity. Where u could want to let fellow Indians live and not be called pseudo secular..it was the only way to be..

The roads weren’t blocked then.. and neither were hearts..rallies and demonstrations and sounds of freedom struggle,, still faintly echoing.. down our ears..ringing.. Bapu’s voice.. somewhere.. urging us on..like we were meant to be.. young Indians..the thick smell of revolution and change in the air.and girls coming out their homes.. to work the first time..
The smell of those rajnigandhas is still thick and strong in my hair..my mom’s generation.. tall hair bunned women..working for the fist time..in their elegant sarees.. marrying their own choice and being free.. of the purdah system....the Vidya Sinhas. Of the time. Standing by the bus stop.. waiting . for her bus.. in her coiffured hair and rajnigandhas in her hand.. I think of my mother..as she waited for my father to pick her up from her hostel.. where she taught. And bring her home.. before we went out to Ginzas for Chinese and some jasmine tea..

We were free then.. there was no ISI and sangh parivar..no saas bahus.. everyone was talking about studies and changing.. and moving forward..

Ancient temples ..where the old panditji gave us charnamrit.. under the grove.. seeping in the serenity..temples were sanctuaries. unlike the marble and steel palaces mitsubishi lancer drivers drive to..

Then driving past Nizamuddin’s sacred doors.. and feeling Hazrat Amir Khusro’s.. singing in the spring.. phool khile bagaiyan mein( the flowers bloom in the gardens ).. the patron saints of Delhi.. its keepers.. for Delhi may rise and fall.. but His door is always open..from the Tughlaqs to the Cannings to the Gandhis..He’s seen them all.. and driving past sabz burz( the green dome) you feel the strength of the Sufis in the air.. like a palpable presence.. they seem to call out.. to us all..

Watching the news on DD but knowing that no one ruled us.. we elected them and watched their every move..we were wise.. and our own people..nobody owned us.. and could tell us what to do..we were our own masters..they coudnt make laws to imprison us without thousands of us coming out on the streets..if u imprisoned us, we were heroes. Like the martyrs of the freedom struggle..the only war was the war against injustice.. tyranny was the terrorist.. and not the common man.

How young we were..the first breath of freedom .. for our country.. and working class struggles.. in BEST buses.. freedom and democracy were sacred words.. like the Quran and the Book..mantras to be martyred for..

Those AIR seeped mornings..where we walked to the bus stop.. singing Mukesh and Mohammed Rafi songs.. and the buses, clean and empty and spacious.. like the boulevards of Delhi ..

Driving past the colonial bungalows of lutyens Delhi.. how those Brits loved India..despite it all..and seeing their verandahs through the window.. and the roshan daans.( literally: windows of light) .before. alighting at Cp.. its parks and going for a coffee to Volga.. buying daals in super bazaar..and sitting with mama in the bus and driving home,, to my nice long chhat.. before the stars came out..

we floated .. free in our freedom. Little knowing.. that freedom would soon.. start to slip..babri mosque was still intact.. and so was our fabric.. a nice cotton crisp one it was.. like the thandi chadars/ cool sheets on the chhats/ rooftops..
lying on charpoys .. on cool rooftops.. counting stars..the saptrisihi ( the seven sages).. milky way.. we could still see..