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A hug to Delhi

June 20, 2010

Delhi. Imagine cities as people. Delhi, then, would be a twenty-five year young woman who is super hot, mean at times, bitchy when not required and just when you think you are too hippie to continue being friends with her, she will do something that tugs at your heart, like maybe hug a street urchin. And most of the times, that street urchin is me.

I always feel underdressed in Delhi. On a normal Delhi day, when city gals tote their branded wares, I feel like I have covered myself in tiger skins. Oh how they scrutinize me! Up to down and down to up and then nod their heads disapprovingly. And when I go to a Delhi wedding, I might as well as not bothered putting clothes on. I am as good as that fabled naked emperor. Only that I know I am.

Mostly, I borrow clothes to attend weddings. I know… the horror! I invested in a set of wedding-y clothes but turns out you can’t repeat them when the gathering is the repeat too. Now, I loathe spending on clothes that one will wear say, twice a year. I have my tie-dyes, two pairs of jeans, some formal wear, a few tees and basic Indian wear. I feel I am set for a lifetime. Who needs more clothes? Not me. What I need more of is original DVDs of cinema and music and books please. Lots of books.

I crib lovingly. I love these city girls who are my friends and I love attending such weddings. There are sangeets and cocktail parties, dance and music, drinks and food, friends and fun. Actual wedding day might be boring and formal, but the paranphelia it comes with is worth the cause. And that is why I keep going back to Delhi and will keep doing so.

 But Delhi isn’t my city to settle down. It is too big and myriad, it just demands too much. It is good to meet her once in six months, blow kisses on her cheeks, give her a squeezy hug and then part ways… like two people who are connected deep down but will end up fighting if made to share the same house.

 

 

 

 

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