I am sitting comfortably in Delhi, inside this room with a false ceiling and two humans who are of my age who do not give me any false hope, even when I need it the most. They too are outsiders and neither do they find a home in that room or in me.The only thing common between the 3 of us is not the fact that we live in the same room but it’s us being unable to find home in the same room .
The ceiling is made of wood and PVC sheets, it only creates noise on days it rains cats and dogs but it never feels solid from inside maybe because it isn’t. Just like this metropolitan mirage. This ceiling is descending towards me so I hide myself in a blanket my mom gave me even when I resisted it, saying , “Mumma , Delhi isn’t that cold” while hiding deeper in the same blanket.
“Ma , Delhi isn’t that warm either” .
Instead of reading the subtle art of not giving a fuck and attending the local train concert for the sixth time, I am siting here drawing parallelisms between me and refugees, both of whom ventured upon a town for city lights, love, success and peace. Both bargained for amounting electricity bill, unreturned love, rejected cvs and internal chaos in the promised peace muttering , Delhi isn’t that warm either .
Are we not malleable metal structures of debaters, poets, NGO workers and interns walking on the road and slowly melting into a viscous liquids of salaries and certificates craving for some holy water to help us spread because most of the PG beds aren’t queen sized.
And when we don’t spread we satisfy ourselves by reminding ourselves there are people living in conditions worse than us, looking back towards the sun which is as unapproachable as this town. This time I put a hand in front of my eyes, refusing to face this sun and its town because both are too bright but unapproachable. And sometimes I see this city as a tourist trying to capture the reflection of humayun’s tomb trying to make it look beautiful forgetting that it doesn’t need anybody to look beautiful. Then I see myself as millennial small town topper who thought to have been invited to the city for a change but wasn’t.
The city promised to make this poet productive so it did add the genre of
“Real life”, to the poem of “The life” . Under the similar sun and the same ceiling I see strangers turning into my friends and simultaneously into apes at the call of ghar ka khana.
Now I think I can make things better by shifting into a flat. If not peace, I’ll be shouting out my chaos at a local train concert because both arrive regularly during festive season.
So the conclusion is that I will be fine, Delhi. As long as there are strikes which don’t force me to wake up to you, because 8:30 was never my time, it was your forced deal .
Delhi, you with your select city, cyber hub, Humayun’s tomb, Hudson lane and wall of democracy are beautiful but the only beauty affordable and affectionate to me is sudama ki Chai and the blanket my mom gave me to hide from you because maybe in her teenage she too knew that, Delhi isn’t that warm too .
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