Delhi

If Delhi was seen through the intoxicated eyes of Safdarjung then all the fancy buildings, the neon lights, the wide roads, the food chains, the supermarkets would collapse into a harem lit by dim candle light; guarded by eunuchs, filled with women and intoxicated men; bounded and shackled by glorified power of money and wisdom; bounded by wrong notions and fear and death; fear of deception and rape; fear of gluttony and hunger; fear of losing power; the terrible nightmares and death in the dark alleyway. The revelry would go on past midnight and with the passing hours and increasing intoxication they would lose all fear. Their eyes would slowly close and the sun would rise over the high watchtowers, shining light over the dwellers of the city.

If it was seen through the eyes of the last Viceroy; it was a loss; it was the end of an era; it was a goodbye to his kingdom; last sigh, last look, and then gone.

If it was seen in 1984, it was burning.

But when I see it now, it is like sand which shifts and slips off from your hand. Everchanging and evermoving. A maze too hard to find your way out. A heart which beats fast. A heart which you cannot resist. An eye which draws you closer. A salesman who tries to sell you everything and anything you want. A burger store with trans-fat special burgers. A caution which says “ Please check under your seat, shout and win reward.” A glance of a woman. A wait at the bus stop. A walk in the park. A man with a begging bowl. Men with power. A chinese calligraphy. A rain that would wash away the ink. A cold that would freeze the night and stop the ink from flowing away. A summer to flow the ink; an autumn to recreate the calligraphy and life would circle around the circling roads of Delhi.

Delhi has life. No human is perfect. No living being is perfect. No cells are perfect. No mind is perfect. Sometimes your heart conflicts. Sometimes your mind conflicts. Sometimes we go the wrong way. Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we win. Sometimes we talk with surity. Sometimes we fail to live up to our words. Sometimes we love. Sometimes we hate. And everytime we do that in mass, her heart sways with our mood. Her body speaks our language. Her mind speaks our mind. If we don't love ourselves maybe we don’t love Delhi because she is us and us is she. She carries her memory in a little diary. She sees the present changing into future. She sees dreams. She sees our nightmare. Sometimes she plunges into darkness and sometimes she walks the garden path, down the palace road, up the stairs into a room.

Everything in the room has turned into dust. Everything except memories and the smell of freshly baked chapatis waiting to be served at home; hot for the hungry and tired soul to eat. A bed to rest the tired souls and to dream with her.