Despite the humidity in the evenings in Delhi, there's a cold despair that lurks in its shadow. The city has grown older. The street beggars are poisoned and are lying wasted on pavements. The traffic is loud, unclear and angry. There are angry dreams that covers the city's moist crimson sky like a shredded shawl. A group of people are sitting in corners but haven't exchanged a word. There are countless beds where love is being made, and promises are being burnt.
A murder is being committed in a street behind temple. A young naked girl has hung herself in a park with her hair neatly combed. The police are drinking and looking for balls to burn with electricity.
A prostitue is travelling in a rickshaw around a colony. An auto driver is being stabbed by three men. A Russian woman lights a smoke in a bar -- someone's eye begings twitch. A group of 14 year old girls disappear inside a smoky blue lit club. A young boy is puking in his car while his friends are glugging warm beer.
There's a hint of opium in the weed distributed underneath the flyover. The smack heads are tearing the metal bits of buses to get a fix.
Three dogs are feeding on garbage while cloumns of mosquitoes settle on a ditch. There are cafes where writers are writing novels and drinking overexpensive coffees, while an old excited gentleman is playing chess with his son. There are theatre halls where people go to hide in the darkness. There're bookshops where people hide from the sun and break the spine of books they never read.
There's a crooner at a restaurant whose singing to no one listening. There's lady who's been selling chicken tikkas for the last 30 years to feed a group of drunk teenagers who are as old as her children when she lost them.
There's political activism with suitcases and and broken promises. There's death in the house there was birth. There's emptiness, there's marriage and there are Sundays.