Delhi-26
Somewhere between ishq, mohabbat, & pyaar, Delhi became home
At the beginning and end of a Bharatanatyam practice session or performance, we seek blessings/forgiveness from the ground on which we dance. The namaskaram is our way of apologising for stomping the earth. This reminds me of a line from Ponnin Oli (from the Kamba Ramayanam), where the grass beneath young Sita’s feet promises to remain soft so that her feet may not suffer.1 Everything I’ve witnessed, felt, borne, and breathed in these last (nearly) two and a half years are things that remain between me and Delhi, and Delhi alone. All the walls that have held me—including small toilet cubicles in speakeasies—and places I’ve walked unencumbered know. This is a tryst between me and a city that infuriates me, overstimulates me, hurts me, and, despite it all, has given everything and more to me.
I hadn’t planned on writing something to this effect. What could I even say? My mind has been racing lately. I think about how I will be leaving Delhi soon, and about all that she’s given (and taken from) me. There are still foods to try and places to explore, and still other experiences that I can never have for the first time. A friend recently remarked that this is a good thing, because I’ll always have something to come back for.
I thought I had to express these feelings somehow, but feel a bit lost in terms of the medium of expression I need to adopt, or how much I can say—if saying is the right form of expression at all. How can I adequately express how much I’ve come to love this city? Moreover, who could I even tell? I thought about telling my friends and family, but they would be quick to remind me of all that is wrong with Delhi (and there’s plenty). The bigger question is who and what I need to thank for all of this. The two homes I’ve lived in with their unique spaces of light and darkness; others’ homes that granted me the space to remain still or to move; every blue couch that somehow seems to finds its way into a living room of mine; kitchens that have fuelled and fed me; and the mattresses that have held the weight of un-lived (this was corrected to ‘unloved’ at first, and I thought I could include that, too, because the mattress has held that, too) rumination. Perhaps even the streets and sequestered pockets of green that I’ve mapped, run through, and sat in. The only thing I could do is grab a fistful of the soil and hold on to it before she slips right through my fingers.
Indeed, kabhi gaali mein pyar bhi hota hai. For toughening my spirit and resolve, and most definitely weakening my composition, Dilli, there will be none other like you.
