Meanwhile, in the suburbs of Delhi, dwell 14 million humans of the same colour and features. They work hard, they sleep less, they travel on buses, they disappear down manholes, they die in road accidents, they pay bribes to the power and the water people, they wake up every morning with a tin bucket in hand and rush to the only tap in their crumbling tenements, they survive another day, another week. Then, exhausted, they come on the weekends to the heart of the city with their children and their parents and lie on the cool green grass by India Gate. They remove their socks and dip their two feet in the boat club pool and wiggle their toes. They look around and see roads that are protected from the sun’s fury by hundred year old jamun tress, neem trees, imli trees. They see the roads merging at roundabouts as big as the parks where they live. They see in those roundabouts the seasonal flowers in full bloom, the art deco fountains bursting with energy, they see that no one can get in the roundabout gardens as they are cordoned with spiked chains and iron railings. Then they get a bit adventurous and start to stroll about one of the tree-lined avenues. “Look, that must be the Home Minister’s house”, they point to their kids. “And look there! That is 7, Race Course Road, the Prime Minister’s residence!” But their sightseeing is interrupted rudely by a lathi-wielding constable who looks up and down them and asks them to get lost.