It’s rather easy to forget how glorious Delhi can be in the winters. I had begun to believe that the remembered wonderfulness was mostly a kink of imagination. But yesterday morning, Sunday was sprawled across the lap of Delhi. The sun was out today, burning holes into the smog. I am aware that when I talk of Delhi, I must yap constantly. These million stories. When will there be enough time to tell them all.
In Hauz Khas today, I felt the years laugh in the background. All those years in the vicinity of such history, such magnificence. It took me years to realize that not every city had 800 year old structures serving as jogging tracks. The cities and villages within Delhi – they’re not for everyone. You have to love history to love Delhi I think. If history means nothing to you, perhaps then Delhi holds less secrets.
When I talk of Delhi, I reveal so much of myself. My sensibilities and my lullabies. All of them are hidden in the ruins. Fat dogs, with half-bitten off ears and wet noses were sleeping in the sun. Not willing to budge an inch. The mongrels of Delhi. Delhi as a mongrel.
In the green lawns all over the city, lunch hour spills over and people sit to gossip and munch warm peanuts. The ruins are lit with the spark of djinns playing hide and seek. Ugly buildings appear over the compound walls of ruins. Everything however seems congruous under the winter sun. In this sunny stupor, you can forgive the city almost anything.