From a Delhite- as received

From a Delhite Landed back in Delhi. And within five minutes, someone pushed me without reason, someone cursed at a red light, and someone offered me unsolicited advice before I’d even unlocked my phone. I was home. This city does not ease you in. It grabs you by the collar and says, Bhai tu kidhar tha? If Bombay is cinema, Delhi is theatre. Loud, unpredictable, absurd, violent, poetic. You don’t glide here. You survive. You argue. You eat. You remember why your voice is always just a little louder than required. Representing this theatre are Dilli ki shaan and my jaan: SRK & Kohli. SRK may have conquered Bombay, but he was made in Delhi. In the lanes of Rajendra Nagar. On stages where he mouthed dialogues before the world knew his name. You can see Delhi in the way he spreads his arms: shameless, open, stubborn. And ofcourse, Kohli. Born from the same madness. The same anger. The same need to prove himself not just right but better. RCB finally won the IPL this year and Virat lifted that trophy like he was lifting every broken dream he ever carried through the streets of West Delhi. I’m from Patal Lok of Delhi. Jamna Paar. The part of Delhi no one wants to be associated with. The part the metro line reaches like a jar of sardines. Where everything is louder. Sweets are sweeter. Tempers are shorter. And affection sounds like abuse. But there’s heart here. Real, unfiltered, unbranded heart. You walk around Lutyens and you feel history breathing through every crack. The ghosts of Nehru and Patel still float near India Gate, judging us silently. And then you walk into Karol Bagh or Sarojini and get elbowed so hard by aunties that history feels very far away. That’s Delhi. Two moods in one breath. Where Parliament and paan shop share a road. Where the same man who scams you in the morning might help you fix your tyre by evening. Where winters are nostalgic, summers are violent, and food is religion. And what food. Not curated, not overpriced, not found in minimalist cafés. I’m talking about Dal Makhani that drips down your fingers. Spices that make your ears itch. Aloo Parathas at 2am. Chole Bhature that can change your existence. Golgappas that could end wars. Kathi rolls that feel like therapy. Even our insults have flavor. Delhi doesn’t pretend to be perfect. It doesn’t try to impress you. It just exists, unapologetically. Scratched, scarred, stitched together by generations of migrants, poets, fighters, traders, survivors. I’ve travelled to other places. I’ve fallen for their charm. But this madness? This chaos? This is blood memory. Delhi raise you and hardens you. Softly. Silently. Like a mother who never says I love you, but makes sure your plate is full. And no matter where I go. What I become. Who I meet. The moment I land here and hear that first Bhaiya, Dilli mein aapka swagat hai. Something in me exhales. Bhaiyon kya sheher hai. Isko sirf mehsoos kiya ja sakta hai.