Or take little boys in shiny saffron three-piece suits to Appu Ghar, their shiny tie reaching their little booties. Winter brings out the Punjabi by nature to nature, and the alfresco Delhiite at his best can be seen in large groups living it up on the lawns of Lodhi Gardens or the neighbouring resorts at Suraj Kund and Batkal. They bring their own litter with them, the women show off their paunches through brocaded velvet picked up at the boutiques, which have mushroomed at shopping complexes from Punjabi Bagh to Greater Kailash. Every young girl today is a dress designer, just like every young man one runs into is a garment exporter. Labels are generous and obscure, all you need is to have driven past NIFT a couple of times and a friendly neighbourhood tailor who is willing to improvise on the mail order catalogues shown to him.
Summer means an end to all that.
But I also have seen that for the past couple of years the Delhiwallah is slowly discovering the pleasures of cotton. The chiffon organza brigade is still around, but the polyester princesses are slowly discarding their synthetics for summer frocks and loose shirts. The men are getting to be comfortable in cotton pantaloons and open necked shirts. Bad taste is not exactly the word. It is an uncouth chutzpah, the sheepish defiance of a hockey player on the golf course.