Delhi’s Green Surprises

by Vani Viswanathan

Vani describes her journey tracking greenery in Delhi, something that had never caught her eye or crossed her mind before.

The last of the Amaltas stick resolutely to the trees; in most places across my locality in Delhi, they are already wilted – I can no longer tell which are the Amaltas trees anymore, because the yellows are missing and I only see a sea of green. If I’m lucky, I can see a small carpet of yellow blooms on the road as a reminder of the beautiful few days that marked the settling in of summer in the city.

The going of the Amaltas is the sign that peak summer is here. Temperatures are soaring as I type; I sit in the living room without the AC on in an act of defiance, managing with the cooler that blasts warm (thankfully not hot) air. Plants in the balcony of my house are surviving thanks to devoted care and prayers that they don’t wilt in the heat that crosses 40 degrees every day. But that’s the strange thing about Delhi – the greenery defies the unbelievable dry heat of summer and the hazy, still winter.

For a city that’s one of the world’s most polluted, Delhi is surprisingly green. It’s also the first time in my life that I’ve observed the greenery around me. Granted, I’ve hardly spent time in parts of Delhi other than in the centre or south, so I don’t know what it’s like in other parts of the city, but the effort that goes into maintaining greenery here is stunning. Greenery is present at every level, be it in individual houses, in community gardens and lanes, in beautiful wide roads or sprawling gardens.

Large gardens are a luxury that Delhi offers to its citizens. Most are open to public without a fee, giving us the privilege of playing a game of frisbee or going for a long run or making a picnic on lush green grass, often with a monument from the fourteenth century solemnly presiding over the scene. For a few weeks every year, we are invited to the President’s garden, to see bonsai and stunning blooms of every shade possible, sprawled over a few acres. There are forests within the city – the Jahanpanah forest and the Sanjay Van, for instance – in which, if you cared to walk a few hundred metres from the entrance, you could get lost in greenery. An occasional truck horn or a roaring motorcycle might break your reverie, but for the most part, you could go for a good few minutes without running into another person, with only birds and insects for company.

Areas of Delhi I have lived in have lovely little community gardens that span every two or three lanes, which are, for the most part, maintained with care. Most have beautiful patches of grass and walking or jogging tracks between three hundred and eight hundred metres long, flanked by plants of all kinds. The bigger ones have swings and slides for children, an ‘open’ gym and figurines of animals shaped in hedges or made of wires. These provide a respite in the otherwise crowded and noisy city; I swear that when I enter a park, the outside noise melts away, the air becomes cooler and I can hear birds chirp. People of all ages make use of these spaces; it’s lovely to see how gardens are an inherent feature in many kids’ growing up years, something that I know isn’t available to kids in other cities.

Thanks to Delhi’s proclivity to retain individual houses – apartments or complexes are not common – inhabitants go to great lengths to maintain greenery around their living spaces. Walk through a quiet lane in the neighbourhood, and you will find balconies with pots of all shapes and sizes, filled with plants that are tended with love and in line with the season. Occasionally, creepers drape a beautiful canopy over the gate. Spurred on by my partner’s interest in plants and flowers, I began to notice greenery in the houses in my neighbourhood and the affection that’s poured into these.

And some of this has seeped into me too; pots and plants slowly started entering home, and I tried my hand at sowing things, the first of which that have survived are the tomato and chilli saplings. I couldn’t contain my joy when the first sprouts of the tomato seeds appeared; ‘it really looks like a tiny white bean sprout!’ I remember trying to explain to someone. There’s a small ritual every morning now: to walk up to the balconies to see how each plant is doing; encouraging the kadi patta, praising the tulsi that’s growing as if on drugs; the bougainvillea and other green plants whose names I don’t know that are showing signs of a bloom, and staring with glee at the new leaves appearing in the still young tomato and chilli. It gives me utmost joy to see how plants thrive even in this immense heat, and I get lessons in patience when the gardener advises that it will be three to four months before a tomato actually appears.

The charm of greenery is only higher in winter. While I have grown to grudgingly appreciate winter, I eagerly wait for spring to see the city erupt in colour. Often, it is this thought that gets me through gloomy winters. Come spring, and roadside shrubs carefully maintained over months bloom; so do the shrubs lining the parks. Walk into any corner and you’ll see a profusion of flowers. I literally stop in my tracks every so often during a walk or a jog in a park, because I’m struck by the uniqueness of a particular flower: a purple one with streaks of white here, or a flower there that I’ve never seen before – Delhi gardens throw up something new every year. The plants at home also go through a change; some quietly wither while others flourish. I remember being angry when the gardener uprooted the tulsi that was nearly dead; but come summer and a new plant arose from the remains.  

That’s the best thing about observing the greenery around me every year. I’ve lived here for six years, but I noticed the Amaltas only three years into living here – perhaps it took me a while to understand seasonality and how flowers don’t bloom all through the year (before you wonder at my naivete, it’s because I had never lived in a city with actual seasons before this). It took me three winters to realise that February is windy and trees shed their leaves, giving me a few days of unbridled joy in walking over them, a crunch accompanying my every step. That spring arrives in February or March. That there’s a smell in the air when winter is about to come in, in November; a sweet smell that reminds me of a permanently lit incense stick. That in April, balls of ‘cotton’ shed from trees and fly around the roads and line the platforms – something that I only noticed this year!

It was also only after a few years of living here that I realised that greenery of this kind was missing in Chennai when I was growing up – and I don’t think it’s changed now, really. I don’t remember too many houses with potted plants maintained well, and didn’t meet people who were so into gardening – at least it wasn’t as common as it is here. Public parks in Chennai were a joke; I remember walking into Panagal Park as a child and being aghast at the dryness all around. Was it the weather – hot and humid throughout the year, and perennial water scarcity – or did we just not realise the beauty that comes with having plants around? I wonder if there is a culture to maintaining greenery that is inherent in Delhi, perhaps due to its position as the country’s capital that sees diplomats and guests of all kinds and therefore has an interest in ‘looking good’ all the time. Or if these are remnants of the Mughals’ love for gardens, something that I learnt was heavily inspired by the Persians, whose style is apparent in many gardens in the city.

Whichever reason it is, I’m glad that Delhi – polluted, unbearable to live in for many months of the year, crowded, with angsty, entitled people – has shown me a positive side to life that was previously relegated to being a background blur. Greenery calms me down and gives me pleasure in a way that earlier only the sea could do. Greenery will also give me immense pride the day I’m able to pluck a tomato from our little balcony garden.

Vani Viswanathan writes fiction and non-fiction, and works on gender, sexuality and development communications in New Delhi. Her first dedicated foray into writing for the world was when she started a blog in 2005. Her writing typically focuses on the marvellous intricacies and laughable ironies in lives around her. She draws inspiration from cities she’s lived in or visited. Her writing can be accessed on www.vaniviswanathan.com.

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