"years later. And not merely images. I can recall the intense pleasure of the closeness and warmth of my mother's body when she sat me down near the fireplace and fed me puri gobi with green peas and my favourite bread pudding when I could not have been more than three or four years old. Even now, when I open an old book, I search for the familiar smell of my father's library where stale cigarette smoke and the emanations from the yellow leaves of old books mingled into a delectable masculine scent."
And what a beautiful city the Lucknow of my childhood was! Chattar Manzil on the banks of the Gomti river, the old Imambara, the Roomi Darwaza, they all looked so tall and majestic. The zoological gardens in Benarsi Bagh were full of blossoming seasonal flowers, the guavas plucked from the trees in Secunderabagh were pink inside and tasted so sweet. The Urdu they spoke in Lucknow had an exclusive accent and even ordinary people like the tongawallas and the men who came every morning to sell fish or vegetables in pushcarts were ever so courteous, their words redolent of the traditional sophistication of the city—these are not memories which grew exaggerated through a distance in time. I know because I went back to spend my college and university days in Lucknow after schooling in Calcutta. When I visited Lucknow for the last time in 1978 1 swore not to return. I was horrified to see the rapidity and thoroughness with which they were destroying the serene beauty bestowed on this city by the Nawabs of Oudh and the British. It is the same with Calcutta, and with Darjeeling, once upon a time the queen of hill stations. Henry Clemenceau, when he was no longer the Prime Minister of France, once came to Delhi, mercifully long before the Birla Temple was built, and spent the day looking at the ancient monuments and tombs. When he returned to the Viceregal Lodge, through the spacious highway between the North and South block, he laughed and said, 'What wonderful ruins these will make!' Today the same buildings appear dignified and noble compared to the PWD architecture of the post-independence era.
And what a beautiful city the Lucknow of my childhood was! Chattar Manzil on the banks of the Gomti river, the old Imambara, the Roomi Darwaza, they all looked so tall and majestic. The zoological gardens in Benarsi Bagh were full of blossoming seasonal flowers, the guavas plucked from the trees in Secunderabagh were pink inside and tasted so sweet. The Urdu they spoke in Lucknow had an exclusive accent and even ordinary people like the tongawallas and the men who came every morning to sell fish or vegetables in pushcarts were ever so courteous, their words redolent of the traditional sophistication of the city—these are not memories which grew exaggerated through a distance in time. I know because I went back to spend my college and university days in Lucknow after schooling in Calcutta. When I visited Lucknow for the last time in 1978 1 swore not to return. I was horrified to see the rapidity and thoroughness with which they were destroying the serene beauty bestowed on this city by the Nawabs of Oudh and the British. It is the same with Calcutta, and with Darjeeling, once upon a time the queen of hill stations. Henry Clemenceau, when he was no longer the Prime Minister of France, once came to Delhi, mercifully long before the Birla Temple was built, and spent the day looking at the ancient monuments and tombs. When he returned to the Viceregal Lodge, through the spacious highway between the North and South block, he laughed and said, 'What wonderful ruins these will make!' Today the same buildings appear dignified and noble compared to the PWD architecture of the post-independence era.
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