The Delhi Chapter : Page 57

Famished.

After half a day of hyperactive, productive spending.

We reached the file of food-stations.

Sprinkled around the Haat.

The place was peppered with stalls from every possible state of the country.

So we slung ourselves over at the open Sikkim stall.
[ Purnima's recommendation, of course ]

And ordered platefuls of meat.
Neatly tacked up in flour.

[ Hers steamed.

Mine, pan-fried. ]

And as it so happens when two chatty girls sit down for heart-to-heart, we spoke of every possible thing there was to speak about.

Books and films and food and art.

Theatre and Ad and photography and dance.

And a zillion and one other things.  

Pieces of our past were traded in clean.

[ And by the end of the day, she nearly knew everything about me ]

Once, she asked me about my back-story.

Tightening her molten, kohl-smudged eyes:

“So tell me.. How many boyfriends have you had?”

She also confessed that she'd 'stalked’ me on facebook.

Seen pictures and thought I looked like an updated version of my mother.

[ A thing I'm oft told ]

****

Anyhow.

For someone like me, who tends to monopolise conversations, Purnima was quite a participant to contend with.

So after a soothing parley post a hard, long week.

A beer-drenched lunch with delicious conversation.

[ And even more delicious momos ]

We started making for the road.

In the gloaming.

The sky looked like one of those charcoal oil paintings.

As though the dying day was trying hard to preserve itself.

In the magical glow of wet, shimmering smudges...

The Delhi Chapter : Page 56

As I walked in, trying to soak in every detail my eyes could drink up.

I knew, in my heart, this day would be remembered.

And come together for a memory.

Someday, when I looked back.

****

Seemed like the vaporous scent of Delhi had come.

To visit, with me.

A mild, ochre sun kept dropping in and out of sight.

And cresting over the colourful canopies.

In the name of shops.

[ Reds, blues, oranges, greens.

And splashes of every other colour you could think of. ]

And the last dry leaves, napping out on the trees, seemed like they were still holding their own.
Against a slowly encroaching winter.

I felt like capturing the spirit of the place, on a wet plate Hasselblad camera, as it were, mounting it on a tripod with rollers.

Following it wherever it would go.

****

Purnima and I scampered around, from one shop to another.

Purchasing. Bargaining. Pushing. Plugging.

Some shop-keepers (who relented) were sweet.

Others were just plain vinegar.

[ Resembling grumpy fathers of would-be grooms.

Whose eyes tumbled out of their sockets at the slightest whisper of negotiation.

Lest someone dared to give them a totally insufficient dowry. ]