Grateful for a life in full bloom

Like the colours of Basant Panchami everywhere spring seems to have arrived in life as well with love and friendship blossoming all around

This morning the clouds hovering over the New Delhi sky rumbled cantankerously, as if a thousand airplanes were searing into the horizon all at once. It produced a series of long-drawn sonic rants that were syncopated by the thud of raindrops.

It felt monsoonal, almost, which was unexpected considering this northern region of the country had celebrated Basant last Saturday. I know for certain because that afternoon, as I entered the lobby of the Lodhi Hotel, I saw one section of the silk cotton tree resplendently in bloom. I remember sinking into a space of profound happiness. There was sunlight everywhere, peering through foliage, lighting up details on faces, gleaming upon Mughal-era domes.

I had been subject to a transformative seven-course meal at Indian Accent, courtesy the generosity of my friend Natasha and her husband, Rohan, who were visiting from Mumbai. Since we were so close by, Mona and I thought it fitting to take them for a stroll to Humayun's Tomb. It was meant to be a digestive walk. When it became obvious that we'd be passing the hallowed grounds of the Nizamuddin dargah, we decided to make a pit stop. We serendipitously entered through the restored bauli (step-well) route and stumbled upon the yellow-turbaned qawwali troupe that announced, through their rendition of an Amir Khusro couplet, that it was now Sufi Basant.

All over the dargah were devotees holding stalks of yellow mustard flowers. Around midnight, a group of us went to Pianoman Jazz Bar to listen to a quartet perform. We got front row seats on the mezzanine and were able to enjoy our drink and the music. When the quartet was done, Arjun, the owner, announced that there were three Argentinian Tango players in the house. He invited them for an impromptu performance. I think I felt my body melt with the heat of their beat. It was exhilarating, to have the music course through my blood as if I was also an instrument.

It was possibly one of the best Delhi weekends. On Friday night, for instance, my co-inhabitant, Parni, and I finally threw the party we'd been meaning to throw for the last ten months. We were both in a buoyant emotional space and felt confident about our ability to gracefully host over 60 people in the apartment. Because I had my phone interview with the PhD research director and my potential advisor just an hour before, I felt too nervous to cook a spread, so I settled instead for roasting a two-kilo pork shoulder which I marinated with leftover masala made by my father, to which I added many secret ingredients. Many friends who had accepted our invitation had offered to bring something, and we ended up with a veritable feast.

There was a moment when half the party shifted to our red-walled kitchen and everyone hovered around Supreet, who was presiding over the spread. Later, sated, a portion of the party shifted to my bedroom, where we had the privilege of experiencing a Mrs Maisel moment… literally, a friend's plus one, a woman, occupied centre stage as she regaled us with her humour and her charm. By the end of what we're calling her 'bit', we found ourselves unanimously girl-crushing on her.

I danced till three in the morning, and when I went to sleep, decided to remember forever or for as long as my brain permits that, irrespective of whether I get accepted or not, the instant my phone interview was done, I stepped out into the living room and had a shot of Polish vodka with Parni and her visiting friend, Silvia. It didn't matter to me anymore whether I got into the programme or not. I realised I no longer needed the validation. Of course, I'd be elated to have the opportunity to pursue a fully funded research degree, but not having it didn't mean I wouldn't continue with my research anyway.

My therapist was right. My life is crowded, and yet, rarely feels claustrophobic. Sometimes I don't know what to make of all the generosities that are extended to me. My friends tell me it is because I make a virtue of generosity, but when you get so much from people, it gets easier and easier to give. There is an over-abundance of love in my life in a way I never anticipated. When I think of the adolescent girl I was when I befriended Natasha, for instance, I'm amazed at how much I've grown.

It occurred to me after she and Rohan left that she was one of the first feminists I'd ever encountered. Without even knowing it I must have been inspired by her ideology, which was so rebellious for where we grew up. My life is crowded, but today I'm convinced I can tell exactly what and how each person in it contributes to my well-being. I've never felt this lucky.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx Send your feedback to [email protected]

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