Having a green soul and a grandiose desire for a massive garden is something that few suburban Mumbaikars can afford. Luckily for me, spending seven years in Dehradun in the ’90s allowed me to experience the rare pleasure of basking in the gentle Himalayan sun, reading a Ruskin Bond, Tolkien, Kafka or Marquez. For a nature freak and bibliophile, there is no bigger ethereal pleasure than sprawling in a garden full of larkspurs, gerberas, geraniums or under the shade of a litchi tree, listening to a maroon oriole or Indian treepie cackle in the backdrop. In addition to that, a pot full of lightly flavoured lemon and fresh pudina tea would seem like a burst of colour on a white canvas.

And then you wonder how deathly Mumbai might seem in contrast.