Frame it in your own words? Preparations for the picnic would begin early in the morning. Potatoes in a hot tomato sauce, golden pooris, warm moist meatballs and jars of pickles would be packed, along with fruit, in large baskets. Two cars would stand ready, gleaming in the sun. The art of getting thirty people into two cars had long been mastered. The first layer consisted of short ladies and teenagers. On their laps went the second layer consisting of ten to twelve-year-olds. The third layer consisted of all those below the age of ten. The tall men sat in the front seat. On their laps sat the ten to twelve-year-olds holding the baskets and pots that could not be stuffed into the trunk.

Once we reached the gardens of the Qutb Minar, the children would rush to climb the sandstone tower while the picnic was laid out on a large cotton sheet. Once we saw all the food laid out, we would thunder down the hundreds of steps, jostling and competing to get there first.

The foods and places of my childhood can still be found in Delhi. Mornings still start in a haze of familiar smoke sent skyward by millions of stoves and cookers. In those early hours, potatoes and peas are combined with ginger, turmeric and green chillies. Chapatis are cooked over hot fires, buttered and stacked with the vegetables and a piece of mango pickle in a tiffin carrier to be carried by many people on their way to schools and offices, just as I did on my way to school in Delhi.

Arrangements for the cookout would start promptly toward the beginning of the day. Potatoes in a hot pureed tomatoes, brilliant pooris, warm sodden meatballs and containers of pickles would be stuffed, alongside organic product, in enormous crates. Two vehicles would stand prepared, shining in the sun. The specialty of getting thirty individuals into two vehicles had for some time been dominated. The main layer comprised of short women and young people. On their laps went the subsequent layer comprising of ten to twelve-year-olds. The third layer comprised of every one of those underneath the age of ten. The tall men sat in the front seat. On their laps sat the ten to twelve-year-olds holding the crates and pots that couldn't be full into the storage compartment.

When we arrived at the nurseries of the Qutb Minar, the youngsters would hurry to climb the sandstone tower while the cookout was spread out on an enormous cotton sheet. When we saw all the food spread out, we would roar down the many advances, shaking and contending to arrive first.

The nourishments and spots of my adolescence can in any case be found in Delhi. Mornings actually start in a murkiness of natural smoke sent heavenward by a large number of ovens and cookers. In those early hours, potatoes and peas are joined with ginger, turmeric and green chillies. Chapatis are cooked over hot flames, buttered and stacked with the vegetables and a bit of mango pickle in a tiffin transporter to be conveyed by numerous individuals on their approach to schools and workplaces, similarly as I did as I would prefer to class in Delhi.

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