So there are a few bent paws in the cookie jar,” said my wife, “but it’s all for a good cause.” The newspapers had been having a field day with corruption scandals and financial jiggery-pokery surrounding the Commonwealth Games, but my wife wasn’t perturbed. “Delhi,” she sighed, “is going to look beautiful.” “Delhi,” I pointed out, “is a dump, with potholed roads, dug-up pavements and incomplete facilities.” “Sweetie,” she said annoyingly, “can you tell me how our house looks just before a party?” “It’s always a mess,” I conceded. “Voila!” said my wife, providing me an inventory of how many things were going right, after all.
For starters, the rubble lying around the old and new flyovers had been concealed under fresh layers of earth. “It’s how you sweep the dustballs under the carpet,” giggled my wife. “But nothing can be planted there,” I objected, only to be proved wrong when, over the next few days, trucks carried half-grown trees and full-grown palms, saplings and shrubs and border hedges, that were unloaded and dug into the ground, to create instant, if slightly weedy, gardens. They might have been anaemic but, hey, you could no longer argue that Auntie Sheila wasn’t taking care of the Capital’s housekeeping. Besides, the horticulturists promised that potted flowers would follow soon. “They’ll be used to conceal the flaws in the stadia,” I griped. “Just the way you place vases to hide the cracks in the plaster at home,” pointed out my wife smugly.
All along the route leading up to the Commonwealth Games Village, and therefore gratifyingly all the way to our neighbouring apartments, roads have been widened (okay, they’re still being widened), pierced screen dividers have been placed (all right, they’ve only just started placing them, so what?), new cycling lanes have been provided (though they sometimes mysteriously disappear when there’s no more place for them, but hey, it’s only for cyclists, they should be grateful for any space at all), there are new signage boards, sleek lamp posts, and something we’ve never had before: strange installations at road crossings that are, well, just that: strange.
“We can go for walks, and sit on the parapets,” said my wife, looking at labourers hastily plastering red sandstone on to a thin brick wall. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” I pointed to the loose tiles used in the pavements, since in their haste someone seemed to have neglected the use of cement to lay them. “As for those parapets,” I pointed to the steep drops behind the precariously assembled walls, “I would recommend discretion rather than valour.” “You were always a sissy,” hissed my wife, skidding down a mound of rubble and ending up in a cesspool of muck.
“Just like home,” I couldn’t resist the dig. Up to an hour before guests are expected, you might find it difficult to find the kitchen counter for all the peels and packets, the debris of cooking and the result of cleaning that overflows in the bins and chokes the sinks. “Absolutely,” echoed my wife. “You go around whining that everything will be a shame and an embarrassment when,” she laughed triumphantly, “everything is in order if,” she conceded, “a trifle late.”
“I think you’ll find there’s a little difference between a world city and our home,” I attempted logic. “But the Games are just a large party,” insisted my wife, “and you’ll soon see the proof of the pudding.” “You mean,” I said cynically, “when someone’s managed to hide the leaks and splinters behind flower pots and paint.” “Silly,” she chided, “when all the visitors have gone home after the party, who’ll care whether or not someone pilfered a little money as long as everyone had a good time?”
