The Misleading Love for Delhi

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Delhi.

It’s funny.

The story of how I grew fond of a place I hadn’t even visited.

While newspapers and news channels kept screeching about how unsafe the city was turning into,

I was still coming to love our vulnerable capital.

 

I reflected.

Reflected hard on what was attracting me to Delhi.

 

The first time I stood on Delhi land,

It was at the New Delhi railway station.

My girlfriends and I were on our way to Manali

And when our train halted at the Capital,

We stepped out.

I looked around like I was taken to a park for the first time.

My eyes soaked with chaos.

My mind drowning in thoughts.

 

Within a month, I was back in Delhi.

This time, I stayed longer than the last 15 minutes.

I was there for two days.

I felt the winters.

Smiled at the peeping sun.

Got stuck in traffic. Quite like Bombay.

Sometimes it reminded me of Goa as well.

And then it reminded me of a person.

The person who spent some time in this city, and loved it too.

 

And on my way to the airport, I realized why I started liking Delhi.

I was actually in love with the storyteller and not the story.

Every lonely moment I had was filled in by thoughts of this secret love.

I began missing this almost-something-person.

Only then did it dawn upon me that I was in love with someone,

Even I didn’t know.

And since these stories were narrated,

I gradually started falling in love.

Falling in love with someone.

Falling in love with the city,

Because he was in love with it too.

 

A month later, an opportunity knocked at my door.

A new job, but it required me to relocate.

Relocate to Delhi.

I was still in love.

So I jumped and grabbed it.

I confessed my love.

No, it didn’t reciprocate.

 

Weeks later, I decided.

I decided to bid adieu to Bombay and go to Delhi.

I took up the job.

I was ready to set out on a new journey.

I was ready to write a new chapter.

And I started writing-off.

Writing-off people.

Writing-off stories.

Writing-off memories.

Writing-off the chapter where I risked falling in love.

Writing-off my orphan confession.

 

Maybe this time,

When I step on Delhi ground,

I will fall in love with the city.

And not with a person.

Not yet.

I will love the capital for its richness.

For the history.

For the heritage.

For something that can erase the last memory.

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Categories: Poetry, Scribbles | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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