Her.

I am still bothering myself with a simple query. Did I have to do this Delhi trip? Was it really that consequential? Nothing really materialized out of it. But then, I would not have achieved value addition in Mumbai either. Trying to construe what all of this could have really blended well into, there is but a little apprehension at going back. Sitting here staring out the aircraft window with Beck entertaining me, this happiness is hard to find. Music, which is so subtle in all means in which it is consumed, is what eventually makes the difference. Yesterday was more than typical depression. I do not know till when this would last. We will meet up once in six months and those two hours will be etched till I meet her again. One good thing out of this whole process is the fact that I can now afford to delete all her saved messages since the last time. As another new process of text has been validated and shall hopefully, be a certain means of getting up to each new dawn. Every time I meet her, it reconciles with me as to how much I still have to read in life. I stopped short of the Kafka collection; I am yet to complete so many classics, which stay rotting. Her chant of Virginia Woolf echoes through this whole grace, magnitude surpassing the want to pick up ‘to the lighthouse’ and get over with it. The best part about her is that I don’t feel like I have much to prove to her. She is happy narrating how her life has been (nothing new) but inculcates some sort of insanity in talk, as if it is yet exciting. She goes off on her old self, as our intelligent souls become fickle minded as we try to rate every mutual friend and every other idiot who chanced a meet with either. This time was slightly better off. We actually went off on a whole trail of India China discussion and eventually, settled the conclusion in sand. She does not know how much I love her.

Another question. What exactly in Love? I used to ask myself and knew for a surety that we love only once and I had been through the whole ordeal and the rest of my life and females I would end interacting with were mere reflections of a good time happening. But maybe it was not love the first time around. I cannot recall the last time I felt so depressed as soon as I left the company of anyone. Each time, well dressed she did come, I did drop her home, she still looked as radiant as she did when I had picked her up. I then changed the angle of the rear view mirror too look at myself out of curiosity and found a forlorn smile, emptied due to worn out eyes.

New Delhi. However much I might have mentioned it previously and compared it to Mumbai has that permanent authority. Ever calm without movement, it is the perfect embodiment of what not to do when peeved. It keeps away the grains that start me to feel wholesome. In a nutshell, the wide roads and empty skies, the daytime haze and nighttime shimmer, the whole not happening city. There is a stark difference yet. Delhi changes as people change, we actually hold power to look at it in our own way. The city adapts. Mumbai, on the other hand, makes a person change. It makes the whole public re think and dilute every notion of doing it ‘on their own’. Street spirit is emancipating and people have the ability to think different from day to day, all the while getting engulfed in their ability to make something new happen.

I wish I were an authority on some subject in life. I am but I do not know on what.
Like me always told her, a la radiohead, “she goes backward, I go forward, somewhere we shall meet”.

Night Delhi. Maybe it is life that beckons. Beck.