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.
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. ]
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