On Saturday, when I heard about the bomb blasts in Delhi, memories of 1997 ran crazy in my head. Looking under the bus seats became a habit. The collective memory of Delhi includes accounts of violence, terrorism and accidental fires.
But what do you expect of a city that has its lanes filled with political refugees, invaders, run-away criminals and witty alcoholic poets? The amnesia of the city is apparent even now. The city goes on – in love with anything that shines and glitters. And the djinns must wonder if the city is crumbling after all.
To remember my city I must then turn to black and white, for no memory can capture the colours enough.