1940 HRS. The 37 degrees that the pilot promised prompted me to lose the jacketlike Provogue I wore over a thin, white cotton t-shirt. A hint of perspiration as I step out, for the first time in sixteen years, to meet the sultry capital. A huge airport, with lovely conveyor belts, excellent displays, and announcements going off in Hindi and English as opposed to the Kannada I am accustomed to. The baggage arrives on time, the support staff smiles, and even before you leave the airport, the city’s already invited you.

We drive out of the airport right into the road to Gurgaon and then to the central part of town. The roads are well lit, and I’m surprised at the lane-discipline being observed. Even more surprised to note that each and every driver out there has strapped his seat-belt. The traffic crawls like it does in the city I belong to, but it’s organized. Civilized. Back home in Bangalore, a four-wheeler will manufacture space meant for a two-wheeler in the midst of the winding snake of vehicles, and even as that happens, a rickshaw quietly sneaks in that one moment of driving genius or bastardisation, depending on which vehicle you’re sitting in. None of it here.

We’re now driving to the center, or should I say, The Center. Soon, buildings that otherwise seduced me in Bollywood reruns start to appear. Rashtrapathi Bhavan. The Parliament. Buildings I can’t put a name to. And then, finally, there it stands. India Gate, lit at night, rekindling memories of a certain Rakeysh Mehra movie that changed the way I think forever. And as the national strength of the nation carved into the structure looks at me, the goose bumps arrive. But the lights go out before I can click a snap, and though the gate now lurks in the dark concealing the pride in the night, the goose bumps refuse to leave.

Where the patriot met his nation. And when she smiled back at him, flaunting her grace, her might, and her beauty. And when he fell in love with her. Again.

Delhi, tonight.