I write this in my hotel room, swathed in a thick, rust-colored blanket. It's 3 a.m. and my finger tips are cold. The coffee I'd ordered a while ago is now tepid and a thick layer of cream has formed on top. I look back at the day I spent, at the sun I chased, and the misty, foggy night I sliced through in an auto-rickshaw.
Delhi is breathtaking.
To live in Delhi must be like being the mind that takes in wafts of art and shapes its muse. It must be to fall like the soft ash of an incense stick, happy in the knowledge that one burnt for beauty. It must be to live nestled in calligraphic verses, in the delicate cursiveness of leisure and longing. It must be like being an absurdly yellow stray petal that flounces about on a window ledge. It must to be the nuance of a poem, the delicate timbre of a song. It must be about being under a spell that compels one to write odes and rhapsodies by the hour. To live in Delhi must be difficult.
Because Delhi is breathtaking.
Delhi is breathtaking.
To live in Delhi must be like being the mind that takes in wafts of art and shapes its muse. It must be to fall like the soft ash of an incense stick, happy in the knowledge that one burnt for beauty. It must be to live nestled in calligraphic verses, in the delicate cursiveness of leisure and longing. It must be like being an absurdly yellow stray petal that flounces about on a window ledge. It must to be the nuance of a poem, the delicate timbre of a song. It must be about being under a spell that compels one to write odes and rhapsodies by the hour. To live in Delhi must be difficult.
Because Delhi is breathtaking.
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