twelve: wildcard entry

Given as much to eagerly looking forward to the unpredictable as to researching things beforehand - just to be sure - one, one must admit, was prepared for anything but surrendering heart. Irate landlords, notorious heat, relentless schedule, dietary compromises, even - shudder - the prospect of a limited wardrobe. All of this was anticipated and either overcome or managed with sufficient fortitude. But, this, this complete dissolution of self, who less than a Tiresias could predict?

To meet some one who could, with such precise and brisk steps, scale every treacherous peak that has formed without plan in secret places, and make triumphant camp there. To hold in view such radiance as to wonder if true; and rejoice at how indeed true, whole and nothing but. To feel lighter and surer and more joyous and grateful than one had hoped possible. List of caveats, cautious tread, nervous laugh notwithstanding, to have fallen so undeniably in love.

This, Dilli,was a surprise. =)

eleven: bill-y

For sporadic nightly visitor who froze near fridge or turned stone near feet whenever caught and sometimes, lovingly left gifts on the mats.

And for the gushing, cold cash that has sadly flown only downstream while here; and left even this sadly thriftless in mild shock. One realises that one of the reasons things have gone so happily here has been the constant generosity, materially and otherwise, of sponsors - aka progenitors.

Oh well. Console self with taaka-maati-maati-taaka and all that jazz (so much easier when it's not own sweatblood that's in question). Feline visits however, shall never be met without the humble gratitude of a bowl of milk.

ten: fixity

Despite all denial, time here has essentially been a test of conviction. Purpose; and the fortitude with which one is prepared to first find, and finally follow it. This long drawn out question: a persistent mark that hangs over head and looks vaguely like ?

Patience being only the natural ally of such doggedness, the answer to how one has fared, alas, will not be hurried.

nine: rheumy city

Something incredibly serendipitous about finding this here and now. And because sharing a thing of beauty surpasses all other concerns.

---

In The Arc Of Your Mallet

Don't go anywhere without me.
Let nothing happen in the sky apart from me,
or on the ground, in this world or that world,
without my being in its happening.
Vision, see nothing I don't see.
Language, say nothing.
The way the night knows itself with the moon,
be that with me. Be the rose
nearest to the thorn that I am.

I want to feel myself in you when you taste food,
in the arc of your mallet when you work,
when you visit friends, when you go
up on the roof by yourself at night.

There's nothing worse than to walk out along the street
without you. I don't know where I'm going.
You're the road, and the knower of roads,
more than maps, more than love.

- Rumi (Trans. Coleman Barks)

eight: eyecandy city

Sight for sore eyes, this town. From in between rickshaw hinges, eyes spy countless gabru jawans, beautifully unselfconscious, marching their way to the bazaar, pumping up the volume on their alloy wheels, stammering shyly, doing nothing and looking pretty still. The females also - subhan'allah - impossibly smooth hair, malaai skin, eyes ringed with kohl.

Not one's Type, no. The heart's been trapped by a very different sort of bird. =] But such nayan chayn, such dilkhush for the closet chauvinist, Haay!

seven: mausim

The wind here is every bit as refractory as infamous for. Always taking aback. Whether with the sudden tease of a drizzle that reveals nothing of what is to come. Or the guttural, merciless drone of a morning-long downpour. Here, more than anywhere else, have felt thankful for the respite cloudbursts bring. Here, more than ever before, have found it inevitable to yield to the time and heart stopping radiance of a city in monsoon.

six: den city

Walk down marketplace and try and hold breath. Way too many sharing what is surely in limited supply. Forget leaping, look before you step. Everything, everything, including allotted pavement space is an impossible fraction. Jostled, jousted, jimmied till blue - oh, jocund company all right. How to but be gay?

If there was any thing to take from this city, any one thing, it would be remembering - heart willing and  god, of course - Never is there no more room. Dilwalon ki Dilli, after all. =)

five: city as old blanket

Something comforting about this town. The way everyone's Aunty and Uncle again. The way you're Beta, nevermind how old, Beta.

Something snug in the way you can wake up every morning and it's the same Punjabi lady sitting in the middle of the street daring anyone to pick up their vegetables anywhere else, I'd like to see them try. How everything seems to revolve around the monsoon. Will it, will it never stop, won't it today, not again, haai raam.

Something familiar, even in the never been part of town. Skulk only to be spotted by friendly fruit vendor aka secret keeper of cats. Stop wherever, conversation flows free.

Smacks of old, know-it-all, cynical glee, this city of friendly ghosts. Look around every now and then and quickly check for threats. No, no, still one of us. If I thought I knew it, this ripe monkey town's returning me the favour.

four: kabutar city

Relic of the kings, these, one likes to smile and convince oneself. Rendered prosaic, repulsive now - what with the pungency of droppings, clumps of feathers, general grey tinge that has come to be of all cities, that make it hard to separate bird from backdrop - even, even now these flocks still heart.

Nowhere else of late have eyes seen such huge crowds of these creatures with the green necks and white hearts. These birds that seem to not tire of each other, not tire of breaking into sudden flight with a sound that hushes even midst the wildest of traffic.

Glance at phone in hand and try and imagine that these were what once - Impossible. =)

three: city of old new lingo

Return to primer. Gender wars again. This time around coffee, books, auto route home. Bada Wala Coke ya Badi Wali? Whichever you assume to be it, it is not. I vote for the neuter. Napunsak, haan wahi wala.

Reactions range from hostile to bored. Teenage store clerks smirk. Bemused old ladies wonder if they've gone harder of hearing. Kindly autowallahs nod and make conversation unnecessary.

Kuchh bi ho, lage raho.

two: city televised

Dilli as Breaking News. Not avoidable off screen either, as it turns out.

Three thrillingly loud shots, ambulance sirens, dubious smoke and one hastily imagined last testament and will later, one discovers what was passing of as NDE, is merely a drill. New Citizen #1 waving from buggy on the news channel, and thought fleets: Hey, same weather as hanging overhead, man. Powercut that keeps one awake through night is turned surprisingly painless the next morning, knowing the entire capital's out cold.

Dilli not of Meri Jaan fame. Dilli of hard, sunbaked concrete. Dilli of flared nostril; of simmering, subcutaneous power. Dilli of Gaurment. Haanji, yahaan, har koi koi hai. =)

one: city as landscape

Dilli as background overwhelms. Walking down nervecentre Barakhamba Road, there's something about these looming, halfdone houses that silence and still the fluttering heart. To raise chin and wonder why they've been abandoned. To stare at the sudden flight of pigeons against a grim sky. To catch reflection and marvel at how slickly, how quickly we've fit.