Yeh Dilli hai mere yaar ; bas ishq mohabbat pyaar

Delhi. The city is embedded in my DNA. My family has been here for generations and generations. Delhi is Home. 

Growing up, friends used to pack up every summer to visit their 'home town'. My dad used to get a hometown visit allowance which would go waste since we stayed in Delhi and Delhi was Home. 

Every morning my school bus drove me through the now fabled  'South Delhi' roads, through 'Lutyen's Delhi' to my school nestled right in the heart of the city. Those roads saw me swinging to 90's bollywood songs with my friends , cheering young soldiers practicing for the Republic Day parade at Rajpath in the chilled January mornings. Those roads saw me anxiously discuss friendships and new loves with friends over hot chocolate at Nirulas , while diplomats ran world politics behind embassy doors of Shanti Path. Shanti Path, Neeti marg, Ashoka hotel, Chanakya Puri, Race course, Jor Bagh, Lodhi Road, Prithviraj Road, Tughlak road, Ashoka road, the Claridges, the Taj Mansingh, India Gate, Rajpath, Le meridian, Janpath, Feroz Shah road.... Day after day, year after year, every morning , every afternoon, I travelled these roads. Never did they inspire awe or wonderment. 110001 was school, 110021 was home. Delhi was Home.

Evenings and weekends were casually spent at Chanakya theatre, Vasant Vihar, Connaught Place, South extension.... Nehru park in Chanakya puri was the weekend picnic destination. Holidays meant Qutub Minar , Red fort, Dolls museum and Nehru planetarium at Teen Murti. 'Cultural stuff' with parents meant theatres and performances at Mandi house, Sri fort auditorium, India habitat centre. Book fairs and trade fairs at Pragati Maidan with the adjoining Appu ghar were biannual affairs.  India gate was the late night ice cream outing. Driving down Raisinha hill with the Rashtapati Bhavan at the back , looking towards India gate lit by the Amar Jawan jyoti, was routine. Delhi was Home. 

Youth brought more travel, to the south and north campuses of Delhi University. To the mazes of roads in Old Delhi. Darya Ganj, Jama Masjid, Nai Sadak, Balli maran, chawri bazaar....what charm, what fun, the young heart experienced. New found independence and unsupervised discovery of the city deepened the roots Delhi had in me. Delhi was Home

I wore the 'born and brought up in Delhi' badge with honour. The city is the Capital of the country. It is known all over the world. It is the seat of political power, it is the home of bureaucracy. Delhi was pride. Delhi was home.

It's been many years since I have moved to the suburbs. I no longer need to visit Delhi, unless I am meeting a relative or driving through for official work. Reduced wants has killed the need to visit the markets of my childhood. Delhi is changing, constantly.  The empty lanes around Talkatora stadium which my father walked in his childhood for playing cricket and football are now high security zones with police patrolling. My mom's college outings to Paras cinema, no longer looks the same. Now my parents and I settle to dine closer home rather than driving hours in traffic to our favourite Pandara road eateries. Delhi is the wonder and awe of people who have travelled cities to finally come and settle down here. It's funny now to hear about new places, new experiences in a city which I could navigate with my eyes closed. 

The city is lost to me, no longer mine. I am also no longer the person who I was. Yet, Delhi is the city of my heart. Like I said, it is in my genes, my DNA. I will happily stay within touching distance forever. 

Delhi is comfort. Delhi is Home.

Resting Place

I saw you then, through the eyehole.

Purple jacket flung over a white night suit.

Hair messy, stubble on your cheek

Your eyes a mirror of your burning soul

I saw you then , the colour red

Passionate, urgent, anxious hands

Teeth biting down the lips to shreds

Brows furrowed with open dread

I saw you then, through the eyehole

Your worry a sign of love

Your eyes of passion

A gentle balm on my tortured soul

I saw you then, as I left my breath

Drifting away in time

My anguish, My pain, My love, My dread

Finally finding my peace in death.

My Red Post Office

Nestled in the heart of a weebit town

She sat smiling, satiated

Aglow with the blush of sundown

My red post office

Lost in an eternity,  of an era bygone

With her wrinkled wood windows

She shone out the soft sunrays of dawn

My red post office

Crowds milled around her, just walking by

With her boxy off-white doors

She waited, lips open with a gentle sigh

My red post office

I kissed the letter I wrote, on paper blue

Four folded in an package pink

And nudged the doors with the hinges askew

Of my red post office

Cause I love through poems, stories and folklore

With a golden nib and blue black ink

So I wrote his name and sighed some more

In my red post office

My love was waiting, wistful, alone

In a bubble of suspended time

For my dried tear drop, hugging the stone

Of my red post office

I stamped my love and kissed my goodbyes

Handed it to the letter man

Now each day I will soak in the waiting eyes

Of my red post office.....

Rhino

Here I was, with my tea, music and poetry,

The morning. Complacent, smiling, satiated 

The day after meeting freinds over cups of tea

And sweets and laughter.

My heart, lazy and full of mush

Like a rhino, immersed in water

Silent, just alive.

A whistle goes off in the kitchen

The oven dings

The cook calls to attention spices gone missing

And just like that real life takes over

Silencing the poetry

Hushing the music

Running on the Escalator

It's a Sunday. I have the luxury of laziness. Today I am not surrounded by people running on an escalator.

Every work day, as I take the metro, I meet these people. It's different faces, different destinations, but the same characters...Heads lowered into mobile screens as they wait for the train, often using this impersonal diffidence to shove themselves ahead of everyone else in the queue when the train arrives. The angst and discomfort of those who get pushed back , goes unrecorded by them , because these cervically challenged people use their mobile screens as an alibi for never having to look up and face the glares of those whom they pushed back to rush into the train and grab a seat.

The scene when we reach our destination is no different. This mob of humanity with their workbags slung on it's shoulders rushes out onto the platform...and thus begins the run. The sarees, trousers, skirts and jeans all become a blur of fabric as everyone begins to rush...brisk walk , marathon walk, light jog or even the agile sprint. They run. They reach the escalator and proceed to run on the escalator... 

Every morning I slow down. Take up the smallest possible space, and allow this Serengeti wild-buffalo like mass of humans to rush past me and run on the escalator. 

Are they late for work ? Everyday ? Or are they so eager to get to work every morning that they feel the compulsion to run on something which is already on a fast track ? 

I wonder at the lack of time in their lives .....or am I the one who is slow ? Or are these people the ones who are on a faster route in life ?

Either way, I don't have too many answers yet... Just the open incredulity of seeing the rhetorical action of people running on the escalator, day after day, stealing those 30 seconds from the hands of time...... 

The lift man

There are 4 elevators in my office building. Two each on either side. Every morning I somehow gravitate to the left side in default mode.
The lift man is standing there , under a terribly slow wall mounted fan, in his faded grey uniform, directing us to queue up.
Every morning I greet him with a smile, and he returns the favour. This has led to his holding the lift door for me at times when I walk in just as it is moving up.

Today morning the left side lift was stuck  at the 12th floor and the right one was just about to reach ground when I entered the building.
As usual, I moved left on default, but my eyes registered the faster arrival of the other lift.

My lift man took immediate offense to this. " Don't even think about it ! You have to travel in my lift only !"

I was amused and touched at the same time. Just 2 minutes of convergence each day has created a new bond. Just a smile and namaste is enough to grant me special access.

At the end of the day, we are all social animals, care and love shall always be treasured :)

The Metro girl

She called her lover at day end
A short girl
Hanging on to the rails
Of the metro train

Effervescent and full of life
She poured all her love
Into as much as the
'Hello!' could sustain

On the other end
A sullen voice spoke
He accused
'you are late, again'

'I was with my friends
Just hanging
After work you see...'
She tried to explain

He raved and ranted
And cut the call
Causing her to pout
Her dissapointment

She frowned a bit
Then tossed her head
Linking her arms
With her metro friend 😊