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As you walk into Shanti Van, the fragrance of flowers fills the air, lifting your mood almost instantly. The gardeners are nowhere to be seen; even the peacocks, usually visible across the lawns, have taken shelter from the thin November chill. Only the sound of your footsteps breaks the silence — along with the faint hum of Ring Road traffic beyond a low stone wall that separates two worlds, divided by time and sixty years of history.

The marble feels cold as winter settles over the Capital. Someone has left a small string of marigolds along the edge, already browning at the tips. Another visitor has placed a single rose, its petals the colour of old blood. There is no nameplate, no grand inscription — only the words: Jawaharlal Nehru, 1889–1964.

Among the reg

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