In delhi one in five children are born at home. Tearing of the news typed paper wrapping in it a sanitary napkin. Delhi wat’s the colour- buff- bare- too many coulurs white light colour- no translusence. this city dwells in it’s onw all-encompasing symphony.
Delhi- when I walk on the zebra crossings on cp, I cpant- c-p-c-p-cp- as my feet go one by one- from the alternate stripes. Delhi some languid and agile heartbeat- I don’t have a chocie to be fragile. When I amble even if I have a mother by my side I feel that i’d trip- the laces ODF my shoes are twined-knotted- that’s too hard to loosen- no residual time left just chipped of shiny surfaces. Delhi there are too many sound- that there is no sound- the celing fan’s swish and woosh are more of skin sensation. The girlboy college kids who do who do theatre in kmc- in the ground are practicing in thick voices. The shower wateer trickled through the crevices left and right of my neck and what was it if it wasnt’ a warm water cascade. Yes here I cant feel this without overlalppong- it has to be this and that and that also- feeeling in delhi are like it’s masala chaats. Delhi beds become streets- yes open windows if not air condietioners are on bring eveyr odor- here I am learning how to love the disgusting. How to hold them in me- without that shudder- to feel about it like I feel about regular happiness. I am always braiding the trininty of this cities parted hair- up down middle. Old me new. The morphology f this city can’t be anything- it has to be nothing. It is nothing. I’ve been to maws of this city and known the smells- peppermint, leaf lkind cigarettes, urine. Here people like to drawl and the movements are slow- laid bACK AND some one day they are told to hurry up. Now eveyone is telling each other to acceletate their human eingnes and no one wats to . Last evenijg I asked this girl the time- she looked ath her wathc and replied- but nonw of us smiled. This city is in the fucking strange palce- it is more like a rebellious fpourteen year old kin who wears all black and drinks even if it burns their throat. If I am a thing made of hardendd and baked potter’s clay- then this city drops me- and mends me. Always mends me. In delhi there is a lil’ girlboy who’s glass eyes rflect clouds and rush. I don’t allow myself tosay a thing about this city- ive learnt everything about this place from hearsay now- hold back, sit on the bus that plys ont he longest rout- the cogested ones and the freeways- tilt your head a liitle form the window ( not too much- kids get hurt by signal boards) and let delhi dry the damp it spilled on your skinh. i was a four- in a hospital somehwere when i first saw this city afterward to forget that a flute played and and the rythm said let me love you let me hurt you, my dear kid.