I went to my usual haunts in Bombay (or Mumbai – I really don’t give a damn what it is called anymore), and realized that most of them were actually rather close to the shore. Like this one small cafe near Bandra, where you nearly feel the dirty sea spray on your face. And when you lick your lips, you’re no longer sure if it’s the salt of the sea, the piss of a million people drained into the sea or your own sweat.

Is it something in your blood that craves the salty smell of sea soaked air? In Madras, the salt mingles with stale jasmine and fish. In Mumbai, it’s fish and stale shit. Either way, salt conquers all and invades your clothes and the crevices under your nails.

In strange ways, the seaside is democratic. Which is why perhaps I do find Madras and Bombay rather similar. You sit by the beach, all of you equals in some respect. Some driven off the sand more willingly by the cops than others. Some more respectable. But in the end, it costs very little to sit by the sea. Usually the mild cost of a pack of peanuts or something equally trivial.

Perhaps some places are better if they don’t move with time. UCH is a bit timeless that way. On an average you will struggle to see anyone under the age of 35 there. (Yes, I am 28, but I possibly look 35 anyway – and plus have always had a mildly ancient soul). The trendy crowd doesn’t really stick around in Connaught Place these days, having migrated en masse to the glitzy malls.

It’s the kind of place that works exceptionally well in the hot summers. The insides are a few shades darker and the air conditioner appears to provide that slightly sleep hum. The chaos of CP, right outside appears to melt into little puddles at the door.

I am still in awe of this place. The innocence of it so appealing that the kitsch stops being kitschy. It’s for these mildly unapparent reasons I love Delhi. In the winters, it alternates between being a moody cat that finds the insides of your bag appealing, and a bored dog – only interested in getting some sun. Either way, you need to flirt with the city to get it to like you. And we Delhi women like to flirt. It all works out.

PS – The food is not amazing. Just about above-average. But that never seems to matter.

In Istanbul, I’ve become the tourist that I usually love to make a mockery of. My mouth is constantly open, my jaw perpetually falling, my desire to buy souvenirs and junk never ending. I am also wedded to my tourist guide book.

It’s a vast city, and the shopkeepers constantly call out to you. They try to make you halt by first asking if you’re Indian. And then rattling Shah Rukh Khan, Salman Khan and Aamir Khan. (Sometimes even Indira Gandhi and Hema Malini).

There’s more to this city than these ancient parts. But for now, I am dazzled by them.

(in a different post I may talk about the dazzlement caused by the amazing visit to a Turkish bath).

Utterly fantastic song. Almost buttery. Slippery. It’s winter, and it figures that I miss the JatLand. Delhi is on my mind. It’s probably cold there. Somehow, this song gets into a certain winter evening mode. Yes, I am going to launch into the numerous tried and tested clichés about hot chai. But clichés have a point. They are typical. And quite often, pretty true.

Remember this post, anyone?

You don’t drink tea by cups in Delhi, you drink them by the conversations. One doesn’t say ‘I have four cups’, instead – the line reads ‘We had tea over two hours of gup-shup (Conversation)’. In the terraces of the buildings built in haste during the Partition, people in colourful shawls and muffs balance hot samosas in their hands.

Far away from here – Winter arrives in Delhi.

Everybody does need a rustic balma though. One gets tired of the assault of the erudite and urbane every once in a while. And so, the mofussil is desired and remembered. The little villages in Delhi. For some reason, just thinking about this, sends an almost curious whiff of cowdung up my nostrils. Like I’ve always said – Delhi is a village in the state of a constant mela.

(And yes, I am not going to apologize about going overboard on posting songs. Why not, I ask. Why not?)

Just shocked really.

In a city like Delhi, the randomness is even more erratic. And yet certain flashes of it exist. Like some guy at the toll booth telling you not to worry, he’ll get you change. You’re like his sister, after all.

You see, the people of this city are never polite. There is a rudeness in everything. In their incessant honking, in their gestures, in their walk. Their elbows forever ready to nudge you, even if painfully. But they are kind, sometimes. Even their kindness is sort of rude. An abrupt gesture that you are meant to forget. To acknowledge it implies that you have seem them vulnerable.

For a city that has been attacked so many times, it needs to build walls around itself. For a city full of sarais, it is strangers who must become family. And with family, you can be rude and thankless. Even if you secretly admire them. Because at some point you find yourselves sitting next to them, and when they fan themselves in the heat, a little cool air grazes you. They look at you rudely. But continue fanning themselves, a bit more than really required. And for that accidental kindness, you are grateful.

We climbed the tower in Jama Masjid to take one amazing look at the crowded lack of a skyline in the city. Old Delhi, unlike Gurgaon and Bombay and other new places in this country sprawls. Not for it anything more than four floors. It lies flat unto itself. Asymmetric rooftops mingled with incoherent lanes. Nothing straight. Nothing wide.

In this crooked city, money is everywhere. I am not complaining. But it’s everywhere. Like dust. Except the dust in this city actually does settle once in a while, but money keeps flying around.

So today on the FM I heard an advert for the Delhi University elections. In our time it was mostly about badly made posters, with candidates opting for soft-focus photographs. Perhaps a rally. And some jeeps with loudspeakers. I heard a suave advert today for a political party on campus. Power here is moving from the street to the FM waves. Somehow, they seem less menacing. But they’re probably even more dangerous in some way. It’s like selling fruit juice to children and telling them it’s healthy.

Then, my sister and I were walking along in Connaught Place and saw Rahul Gandhi walk with a young man – towards Janpath. No security in sight. He was in a carpark and pretty much walking alone. My sister found that a little weird. (some lines deleted here on some sound advice). It’s pretty strange really that a man whose grandmother and father were assassinated manages to walk about pretty freely in such a crowded place. Will someone please get him some security? Like now!