The Delhi Chapter : Page 1

On a drugged autumn evening, a slight nip in the air, I decided to take a little walk around my neighbourhood. Bought some milk and wafers and things from the grocers around the bend, and landed in the park close by (about a five minute march from my apartment).

I sat on a freshly painted green bench, with my stuff and old hand-made diary in my bag. My pen was securely nestled inside one of its pages (where I'd left it last), tucked in warm and snug.

The burnt orange sun kept sinking lower in the sky. The clouds came out to watch her. Light drained out from another dying day, like a drowsy roman candle just about to sleep.

I watched. And I watched some more. And then, I imagined my pen (mostly, a creature of the night) coming alive. Again. Making words, like birds; skittish and impulsive, flutter and fly off my fingers.

I have always wanted to make portraits of nature. But just wasn’t ever blessed with much luck with the brush. So always picked up my pen. And tried painting with my words.

Mostly in vain. But then.

On this particular day, sitting under this giant invasive mushroom of trees peering over my head, I plucked my diary out and opened it to write. Thought I’d scribble some like one of those carefree tinkerers; head lightly fringed with airborne thoughts.

But bizarrely (very unlike myself), without putting a drop of ink on the paper, and making a single word appear; I decided to shut it, and just close my eyes. And try and recap the last one year of my life.

My life, here in this city.

Something, a part of me knew I’d end up writing about.
One day or another.

And strangely, very strangely, even perhaps for th­­­e first time, it’s a beautiful Delhi I saw.

A place someone like me was bound to love.       

And even want to write about in long form.

So I closed my eyes, and tilted my head.
Very slowly, backwards...