Delhi

Delhi smells like chlorine and dust. Like summer beside the swimming pool.

It feels ancient, yet childlike. The massive trees lining motorways and roads, the battered auto-rickshaws, the thin stray dogs, street vendors, makeshift huts and women in bright saris. There is a constant fog in the air, not all unpleasant as it makes the city seem suspended in a dreamy, mirage-like state. The tops of skyscrapers dissolve into the air, the sun sifts through a grey cloud and burns orange and hazy. 

Yet, it isn't as chaotic as I expected it to be. It feels hectic, but manageable. When you enter some of the serene, beautiful green areas it seems fake, because if you peek over to the other side of the wall you will see trash and bare earth. Contrasts are vivid and I am yet to make up my mind as to how to take it all.

I know it's over, still I cling

At dinner. We are talking and everything's fine, but then I say something about him being cheap, just a throwaway comment meant as a joke, but he gets angry. That's the thing. When there's something bubbling underneath the surface, something neither one of us wants to discuss, a comment like that is taken seriously and the night is ruined. There is no more food on our plates, in fact the plates are gone. We are waiting for dessert. We sit in silence while others dine and talk and are supposedly having a great time. We sulk, he bites his fingers – a sight I have become slowly disgusted by. It is just like everyone says: the little habits your loved one has, the things you find so endearing at first, become annoying after time. His nail biting. There are other things but I can’t remember them right now, I am too conscious of the oppressing silence. I imagine the waiters watching us, whispering.

‘Well, this is awkward.’ I say.

‘Yup.’ He says and continues to bite down on his nails. They are already short and the ends of his fingers look like swollen cupcakes bursting over the edges.

‘Just hold my hand so we don’t look like we’re on a disastrous first date.’

He looks dubious for a moment but I know he will give in, in situations like these he always does.

He slams his hand over mine on the table. The ends of his fingers are wet. Then we stare out the window and presumably look like two people very much in love who don’t need to say anything to each other, sharing a comfortable silence.