The few minutes of hating Delhi

 are usually at 2 am in the morning wondering how the hell one must get back home. 

chatting with people from other jobs

 Sachida:  that's alright

so you come (home, sic) this evening with Miss Chauhan?

 Sent at 15:16 on Wednesday

 me:  I am unaware of the circumstances that will lead to dusk

But if they are favourable, yes

in terms of bomb blasts and journalism I mean

Mere anarchy may be loosed upon the world by then,

by dawn

 Sachida:  aren't blasts a journalist's thali?

 me:  You mean sensous scrumptous

wholesome

satisfying

productive

 Sachida:  yep

scams and some mistreated woman are his/her bread and butter

but a bomb blast? My god it's a feast

You may say I am a dreamer

We are the romantics. We put up pictures on our tumblr blogs of pretty wooden swings that fly above wet green grass in a village in Italy. We snatch beautiful words and place them for posterity. We gang up together in our little parties making the best drinks we can with the little money we have and get overwhelmed at the intensities that life throws at us. We make sudden travel plans that are hopelessly impractical and utterly exhausting because we like the practical people have jobs. When reality is gray and so so, we turn up the volume in our heads and our eyes and live in our imagination. We waste money on buying pretty clothes.

We fall bang into the dangerous space of love and do it again and again and again till it seems like we can endure better than the others but we can't. Not really. It's still Delhi here, and tepid fart like weather and a nice-ish day has ended. It's still Delhi and I am in a quiet restrained room, all alone, listening to music.