Delhi

If Delhi was seen through the intoxicated eyes of Safdarjung then all the fancy buildings, the neon lights, the wide roads, the food chains, the supermarkets would collapse into a harem lit by dim candle light; guarded by eunuchs, filled with women and intoxicated men; bounded and shackled by glorified power of money and wisdom; bounded by wrong notions and fear and death; fear of deception and rape; fear of gluttony and hunger; fear of losing power; the terrible nightmares and death in the dark alleyway. The revelry would go on past midnight and with the passing hours and increasing intoxication they would lose all fear. Their eyes would slowly close and the sun would rise over the high watchtowers, shining light over the dwellers of the city.


If it was seen through the eyes of the last Viceroy; it was a loss; it was the end of an era; it was a goodbye to his kingdom; last sigh, last look, and then gone.

If it was seen in 1984, it was burning.

But when I see it now, it is like sand which shifts and slips off from your hand. Everchanging and evermoving. A maze too hard to find your way out. A heart which beats fast. A heart which you cannot resist. An eye which draws you closer. A salesman who tries to sell you everything and anything you want. A burger store with trans-fat special burgers. A caution which says “ Please check under your seat, shout and win reward.” A glance of a woman. A wait at the bus stop. A walk in the park. A man with a begging bowl. Men with power. A chinese calligraphy. A rain that would wash away the ink. A cold that would freeze the night and stop the ink from flowing away. A summer to flow the ink; an autumn to recreate the calligraphy and life would circle around the circling roads of Delhi.

Delhi has life. No human is perfect. No living being is perfect. No cells are perfect. No mind is perfect. Sometimes your heart conflicts. Sometimes your mind conflicts. Sometimes we go the wrong way. Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we win. Sometimes we talk with surity. Sometimes we fail to live up to our words. Sometimes we love. Sometimes we hate. And everytime we do that in mass, her heart sways with our mood. Her body speaks our language. Her mind speaks our mind. If we don't love ourselves maybe we don’t love Delhi because she is us and us is she. She carries her memory in a little diary. She sees the present changing into future. She sees dreams. She sees our nightmare. Sometimes she plunges into darkness and sometimes she walks the garden path, down the palace road, up the stairs into a room.

Everything in the room has turned into dust. Everything except memories and the smell of freshly baked chapatis waiting to be served at home; hot for the hungry and tired soul to eat. A bed to rest the tired souls and to dream with her.

On a bright sunny day when the cloud blocks its ray, the leaves look dull. But when the wind whispers and tells the cloud to drift aimlessly, the most wonderful thing happens. The leaves come back to life and the dull moment passes away. My mind shrouded by the clouds look dull. A sudden gust of wind would clear the murkiness.aaah! There it is. It bathes my face and reminds me of my rusted memories, sitting on my dads lap in the verandah when I was five. I remember the moon would very often be masked by a thick blanket of clouds. He would smoke and I would ask him where the moon is. He would say it has gone to answer natures call. Then it would rain. My dad must be right.

I always thought that the moon, stars and the sun were some living creature. How else could you answer their disappearance and their movement in the sky. They walk the sky but I had never seen them together till I was little grown up and more observant. But by then they were dead to me. Ignorance can be fun. Truth can be disheartening. How stupid of me!

I am a film-maker.



In daylight. End of winter. At least in calcutta were I started it. Leaves scattered and devoid of chloroplast. Red with chlorocyanin. Twisting and sliding down the air. The lake shimmers with diffused sunlight. Not everything is lost. How can you focus on something for too long? I am an audience.

I have obligations. I have a home. My parents want me to shoot our house everyday. Oneday I will be free of those obligations. Then I will shoot new scenes everysecond. I will see change, so will you.
Maybe like the sleepers in Vikram Seth's poem, I will be lonely. Maybe then I will crave them more. Then I will come back and shoot them again.

Roads twist and turn. Roads give direction. Concrete jungle gives you satisfaction. Electric highways gives you future. I want to shoot warmth. Some old architecture. Poitrik bari. High ceilings and cold ground and warm bed.




In night. The earth is lit up by artificial lights. The stars are too far. Moon is not so bright, sometimes covered under the dark clouds and sometimes under the white ones. Most brains are tired. Most neurons are firing. Most muscles are aching. Some are returning home. Some are returning to work. Some of them have gone to sleep.




In dreams. It is colours that comes to you . Different shades. I see the one I love. I see the two I love. And the third one. And I see you trapped inside the subway waiting for the inevitable to happen. I see saviour. I see my reflection, standing beside you to change the past, present and future. choose the color you like. I have died many a time. I needed to. I am the saviour. I have been ressurected. I have been woken up.



I have obligations.

Home is where you are.

In streets. People stare at you because you got yourself tonsured. You stare at them because you find them interesting. You move your body. You spend money. You use your brain. You catch a bus. You see them spit on the road and kick street dogs. You get agitated. In daylight you feel safe. Guarded by the men in armour plated suites and ties. At night you feel lost. So you illuminate the earth. And then, like a blind man, you collide with the next person you see.

In war-fields. You hide from the bullets whizzing all around you while your loved ones wait for your return. You are too scared to use your gun. So you use your conscience. While the president sits in his home sipping wine, you collide with a bullet.

On a train. The landscape outside changes while the future becomes past. Your co-passenger changes as the train moves from station to station. The summer breeze bathes your face. And different voices, different languages surround you. And then you hear your train scream. The trains collide.

In space. You turn your telescope towards the sky to look back at time. And maybe somebody two million light years away is looking at an earth inhabited by the Neanderthals. Two million light years later when you are turned into dust and maybe the earth is also gone with you, they will stare in awe through their telescope at the third planet from the sun. Beaming with life and colliding against each other.

In a discotheque. The guitar sound fades in while the masses flow in. Voice booms out while the light flickers with the drum beat. Electronic sound fills up the room. You have left your telescope back at the work-place along with your brain. And then you reach out to grab it, control it, direct it and connect it. But you cannot. You get confused. You get yourself a drink. Then you move your body on the floor. So does everybody. The light goes off. Masses collide.

At some distance the empty space lights up. And then came the delicate sound of thunder. And we are all one again. Tightly packed in a nucleus. Heavier than you and me and everybody and anybody.

This is home.

We will all explode again. To separate. Fight. Mark territory. And build walls.

A cat meowed. A dog barked. A plane flew overhead. I lost my mind.

I am truly insane wasting time with you, scribbling lines on you, but it’s time we meet and I tell you my ordeal without you adding your valuable suggestions.

Its evening and I look at my watch but time doesn’t register anymore. Time it seems has blurred. Every minute is a cigarrette. Every second is an apple. Every hour is a blink. Every day is a cup of tea. Every month is yet to passby. I have missed my plane out of Delhi. I missed it intentionally. I realised staying grounded is the best way to fly.

She slipped and slithered and her fur rubbed my skin. Love shone like a burning star. Her eyes blinked. The cigarrette burned in the ashtray. My fingers ran over her skin. Her claws went down my back. She slipped and slid. She moved in mysterious ways. I moved in without a question overlooking her motive,if she had any. She had one.Love. Every second seemed like an apple. Everyday a smoke and a cup of tea and a discussion on how world is sinking under a bed of harmony. The clock ticked and time flew. Outside, the temperature dropped and inside it rose. Planes flew overhead but my mind stayed grounded.


I had a lot of time to give her. I am an undergraduate student of math in my final year. I would come back home tired with her always waiting for me.We would talk about the world and how days go by. We would grow closer everyday. We walked with each other for long hours. We would never get bored. We decided never to get bored. Boredom in each others company was impossible. Everyday we had something to do. Everynight we had to talk. Everytime love was confessed. Everysecond skin was carressed. Every minute a kiss exchanged. Everyhour love was made. I believed what I saw. I believed what I heard.

Night changed into day and day into night and love into a glass of wine. Flowing east and west. Flowing north and south. Flowing everydirection. Every sip was cherished. Every moment enjoyed. Every hour intoxicated. I became blind.

The parked car stands alone in the dead of night. Moisture trickles down the windhield. A dog shivers and crawls under the car to keep himself warm.A cat, she sleeps on a warm bed. A bed for two lies empty. The warmth has left the room and the coldness has crept through the window. Colour has frozen in the Delhi winter. Colour has lost its smell warmth and touch. It’s a different type of conversation now. Its all white and blue. We were perfect together.