Did you get a cat? Whose cat is that?

Wow, so you’re a cat person huh?

Um, you’re going to become a cat lady like this.

I’ve been presented with the above - two questions, one conclusion - over the past couple of months by my friends. When I sent them WhatsApp stickers of Tom and me, and when I changed my IG display picture to one with Tom.

Tom is K’s cat. You might remember K from my CJP protest essay here. And no, the name is not inspired by Tom & Jerry.

I visit K quite often. And while she’s been kind enough to let me be however I want to be around Tom, I’m pretty sure he did not consent to any of it.

Once you enter her house, you’ll spot Tom in one of three places. On the moora (the cane stool), drifting between sleeping and staring at the wall, deep in thought about…well, who knows? Under the dining table, which I assume is to escape humans. Or, out in the balcony, looking at squirrels like a Delhi aunty surveying the neighbours for her evening gossip material.

I announce my arrival by touching Tom’s feet, his paws. His blessings matter much more than those of any god for me.

Paeri pauna Tomji, kya haal chaal?

K and her mom giggle when I do this. Tom finds it beneath him. Initially, he used to withdraw his paw; now he lets me touch it, looks at my hand for a second, and then looks away.

Tom is handsome. Yes, an animal can be handsome. He’s like this warm white loaf with patches of light brown-gold. And fur so soft that it can put any ‘high thread count’ bedsheet to shame. The fur is never too short, never too long, just perfect for a palm to rest on. In my case, my entire face.

He has deep yellow-mustard eyes, and to this day I can’t tell whether he’s looking at me or through me.

While K talks to him like he’s a baby, I talk to him like he’s a bro. Many nights, well past a reasonable hour, K and I chill with Tom, which mostly means annoying him with too much affection and squishes.

Phirse aagayi yeh auntiyan yaar, what all do I have to tolerate for food, we imagine him saying.

My favourite thing to do is to smother him with kisses and rest my cheek on his head. No reaction from him. Fine, use me as a pillow, I don’t care, just let me sleep.

Some days I block his way when he’s trying to go somewhere. He pauses, as if trying to think of a comeback, then turns around and walks off. Not worth my time.

One day, I tried to pick him up, and he slipped right through my hands like slime. I was struggling to hold him, he was struggling to escape, and K was struggling to control her laughter. “How will you ever hold a baby?” K asked me. Duh, a baby is not slime (at least when more than 6 months old).

In between all this, here’s what Tom does - nothing. Nada. He wouldn’t notice if I didn’t show up on a weekend, or if I stopped petting him. It took me two visits to receive his ‘style’ of approval - him brushing his body against my ankle before taking half a circle around my feet. I have to admit, I get stupidly happy every time he does it now.

So, I started wondering why I like him so much. A cat who barely meows back, who leaves the room mid-sentence when I’m talking to him. Is it patience he’s teaching me? Is it the entire “single-woman-in-her-thirties-and-her-cat” bit?

I now have a theory about this, which I found so silly and weirdly profound that I decided to write an essay about it. Sigh, the things cute cats make you do.

Everywhere else in life, a part of me is always trying to read the room or the person. Not in an obsessive, overthinking loop kind of way. I think it’s just one of those things that happens because you’re a person among people. A human characteristic (or flaw).

A not-so-close friend once complimented me over text. Clueless about how to respond, I sent a ‘thanks.’ And then wondered if it was too cold.

In conversations, I sometimes think - was that reply too cold? Too short? Did I overshare? Did that comment sit wrong, is the person enjoying this as much as I am? Not so much a need to be liked as a need to not offend, and to always know.

Then comes work. An assessment of whether you deserve that Outlook email ID and the dreadful Teams ping. And a job like mine, built on networking, is basically full-time scanning for whether the person has figured out that my ‘insights on the startup ecosystem’ are total BS.

Long ago, I stopped fighting it and accepted it as the texture of caring about people, or maybe yourself. It’s faint, like a low hum, and you don’t notice it until it’s gone. Which is what I think happens when I’m with Tom.

Really, Arushi from Side B? Trying to arrive at some life philosophy on account of your interactions with a… cat?

I think so. Maybe. Even I’m not sure how I feel about this entire bit. But I do know that with Tom, there is no tone to decode, no replies to analyze. No read I’m failing to get.

I’ve never wondered whether Tom likes my feet-touching joke or my affection-led harassment. Scratching his head with my fingertips, pressing my cheek against his soft fur while he stares into nothingness - all the wondering goes silent. No meows to decipher, no ‘thanks’ to second guess. I never realized how tiring it was until I felt what it was like to shut it off, right there, sitting next to Tom.

I give a nonchalant animal a great deal of love and trouble he didn’t order, and I leave having received nothing. There’s a strange calm in loving like this; giving without needing anything back.

Of course, cat owners will tell you that cats do love you. The way they meow at you, the way they sit close to you. Maybe. Maybe not. The best part is that I don’t need him to. My willingness to give is not connected to what I get back from him. I don’t think I can say this about anyone else alive (except the close circle I’ve let in).

Of late, I’ve caught some of his indifference and nonchalance. Just a bit. I ask less of people now (yes, even less than before). Less reassurance, less proof that I landed, less of the reciprocity I used to like. But not in a ‘she’s-so-cold’ or ‘she-is-too-giving’ kind of way. More in a ‘she-prefers-peace’ kind of way.

A while back, I was talking about wealth tech with a seasoned VC guy. I told him that the market to chase might be B2B instead of B2C, to which he responded with data on market size, growth, and all that jazz. “I don’t know about these numbers, my read is based on the data I’ve seen,” I said.

A year ago, I’d have replayed how silly I sounded. This time I easily owned it as my blind spot and forgot about it after the conversation.

Maybe it’s not indifference, more of… a steadiness? Equanimity? (I had to look up this word!)

I’m not sure if this is some part of the wisdom that people say comes with age. Or if it’s just me building a protective fence around myself. But one thing is sure - when I stop auditing what the other person is thinking, I’m able to be myself more. I’m free to just like them (or at times, dislike them).

Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron - the title of an all time classic has somewhat become my life philosophy…for now.

Anyway, with Tom, I’ll keep finding new ways to trouble him. Keep giving affection, without expecting anything in return (mostly). This is either the most trivial love I’ve ever had, or the most peaceful one.

Now, thanks to my attempt to hold him, I need to figure out how to get his white fur off my black Fleetwood Mac T-shirt.

Hello! Since you’ve made it this far, check out Fleetwood Mac, one of my favourite bands. In case it wasn’t obvious from the T-shirt. :) You can start here: Greatest Hits

An attempt to make sense of what Song for Guy by Elton John leaves one with. Read it with the song playing, if you can.

11.20 pm on a weekday, and I’ve chosen to break my ‘sleep by 11 pm’ rule. There are multiple Chrome tabs open on my laptop, simply because one song refuses to leave my head (and my Spotify mix): Song for Guy by Elton John.

I love Elton John, though I've probably heard only ten-fifteen of his songs. But the list is growing.

His songs are the kind that you’d sing along to (in my case, strictly when alone), regardless of how terrible you sound. The lyrics have a way of making you feel like the song was written about you. I’d sing the chorus of I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues with a type of confidence that would make Anu Malik walk off the set. Another one - Rocketman - used to frequently play late night during my MBA; an attempt to give my homesickness a background score and motivate myself for the 8 am class.

So it's a bit strange that the one Elton song I can't stop playing is the one with nothing to actually sing.

The song begins with the piano, and slowly builds layers around it - drums, chimes, shakers, and more piano. Each one arriving quietly. Towards the end, Elton sings 'life isn't everything' in a faint voice. If you’re the type who doesn’t play a song till the end, consider this your case for always letting a song finish.

The song makes you stop and notice things. It slows you down in an odd way. So much so that one morning I almost missed the green light on my way to work. For a few seconds I’d forgotten that I was late for work; the man in the car behind me made sure to remind me, quite expressively.

Now, I usually don’t go searching the story behind every song (as proved by my misinterpretation of Hey Jude here), but with the number of repeats for this one, I just had to know what was in Elton’s mind when he wrote it.

Elton mentions in his sleeve notes:

I don’t think I was expecting this story. At the same time, I don’t think anything else would have made better sense.

Elton was fond of Guy, and thus dedicated the song to him. He thought it was all connected. Perhaps we don’t always know what we are making while we are making it. The meaning just catches up later.

But this is just the factual stuff, Arushi from Side B. What are you trying to get to here?

This is where my brain gave in to the ‘everything has some meaning’ philosophy.

There is something telling about the fact that a man, most known for his flamboyance and soaring vocals, created one of his most moving songs by stripping away almost everything. No elaborate lyrics, no chorus to sing. Nearly wordless, built around a simple piano progression.

Also, A Single Man was Elton’s first album without Bernie Taupin, his long-time songwriting partner. A temporary break. Maybe that's a part of what I hear in it too? Not some life-changing discovery that he didn't need anyone else, but just the realisation that even the things that define us can change without things falling apart dramatically. Elton wrote this song alone - maybe this is why the song feels so solitary.

I think what stayed with me the most was the line - life isn’t everything.

For a generation that might live till 65-70 at best, we spend an awful amount of time deciding that one particular thing is everything. The college. The promotion. The person. The life you’re supposed to have. We give it our entire attention and then wonder where the time went. We call this thing the whole point of life, until the next whole point comes along.

Perhaps, this is why the line doesn’t sound sad or gloomy to me. It sounds like permission. Or a conclusion, that life can be much more than the thing currently consuming it.

Anyway, that’s what the song does, I think. A strange mix of happy and sad, but the kind you don’t mind.

Like putting down something heavy you’d stopped noticing you were carrying.

I guess one can use the song to get through life (and the ridiculous things it comes with), use it as a reminder to not lose your mind for the next big thing, or just enjoy it on a quiet night. Elton wouldn’t mind any of it.

On a side note, I’ve decided that this song will be played at my funeral. And yes, there’ll be music, of course. The playlist is longer than it should be, but currently this song is the only one on it that I can explain.

If you’ve made it this far - thank you for reading; you’re either a fellow Elton John fan or are about to become one soon! Sharing some more Elton John:

1. Trailers for Rocketman and Elton John: Never Too Late

2. Carpool Karaoke | Elton John & James Corden: Link

3. Some other favourite Elton songs - Part Time Love, Tiny Dancer, Did Anybody Sleep With Joan of Arc

This one’s more heart-on-sleeve than usual (and emo); kind of a sequel to Bombay, Almost, if you look at it a certain way.

Humans often hold grudges against other humans. Part of life. But have you heard of someone doing the same for a city? That’s me.

I’ve spent close to two years carrying a list of complaints about Bombay. Always ready to be shared with whoever questioned my decision to stay there for only nine months before moving back to NCR.

I visited the city for a few days about a month back. After spending a few weeks revisiting my mental notes from that trip, I realised that I had Bombay all wrong.

Back in 2023 when I lived there, I had the entire case built. The traffic that turned six kilometres into a one-hour commute with the blare of horns that’d get through noise cancelling earpods. Autos that refused me at BKC like I'd asked for their vehicle, not a ride. The humidity that always had me concerned about my curly hair.

The list could go on.

I visited this July. The city was exactly the same. The same non-stop downpour, the same blue-grey July sky, the same humidity. The need to always carry an umbrella. The commotion of shoppers bargaining on Hill Road. The traffic at Khar subway, delivery riders zipping through the narrow gaps between vehicles.

Nothing about Bombay had changed at all.

Which is how I understood, a little embarrassingly, that the problem had never really been Bombay.

That year was the year when I was in the middle of everything at once. Fresh out of business school, still figuring out what life outside campus is even supposed to feel like. Keeping track of whose turn it was to open the door for the cook, deciding the food menu for the week, and finding courage to stand up to an interfering landlord. Managing relationships across cities that magnified the feeling of being in the wrong place. And remembering to say kaanda, not pyaaz.

So of course, I blamed the traffic, the weather, the infrastructure. It’s easier to be angry at a city than to sit with the fact that you’re twenty-something, far from the things, places, and people you love, no matter how much you pride yourself as someone who doesn’t need people, who is an introvert.

Bombay was carrying the weight of all of it, and well, it never once complained about the misattribution.

I’m at the same job now, just a different city. Closer to home, to my people. Though most of them will complain about how I don’t meet often, and affectionately (I’d like to think so) call me the ‘OG Plan Canceller.’

But here’s the part that undoes my old theory - it’s not just the shorter commute or the nicer building. I think it’s that I’m no longer the person who walked into that BKC building, convinced that she knew nothing, braced to be found out. Three years later, I think I know the work, I somewhat know how to navigate life, and I’m not scared of the room (well, most of the time).

Turns out a good part of what I’d pinned on Bombay was just the most common terror of being new.

This trip undid the rest of the case slowly.

I went to a neighbourhood bar, one of the many that had always been on my list. I never bothered to visit it when I lived there. I don't have the time or the company, I'd tell myself. It was playing 90s music - the kind I love to escape to in the age of Ariana Grande and Fred again. I enjoyed it with no agenda. And I realised I'd spent almost a year in this city too busy proving something to ever just sit in a bar and let it be nice.

I went out with friends, old and new, without the pressure of trying to fit into a specific idea of Bombay. I walked the streets of Bandra at night in a light drizzle with someone I’d just met, and didn’t mind whatever the humidity was doing to my hair. I gulped down three beers and sang Boulevard of Broken Dreams with my close friends from Delhi during karaoke night at Road House Bluez. I was more myself than I used to be able to be, and was pleasantly surprised at the ease of it all.

On an auto ride that night, a car emptied half of a puddle into the auto. The driver shouted at the car; I simply smiled.

I walked around Hill Road at night; this time I wasn’t rushing home to wrap up work. It was drizzling on and off. And the same chaos I used to resent - the shops spilling onto the road, the noise, the wet roads, the sheer density of it - read completely differently. It wasn’t chaos; it was a city being alive.

I enjoyed the rains from my Airbnb. The brown-grey glistening roads, sounds of vehicles cutting through the water, a horn somewhere far off, and the short gaps of quiet in between. The trees, a rich glossy green with the rain. The city carrying on as usual, despite an orange alert by the weather department.

I spent a day switching between coffee, reading, and staring out the window. I noticed a man in blue, in the building across the road, come out to his balcony to smoke at least five times between 10 am and 1 pm. A reminder of how there’s no privacy in Bombay, and yet people barely meddle in your business. When I went out, I revisited the typical Bombay lift - the one with the iron grill that you pull shut with a clang.

At night, I indulged in my all-time favourite dessert in Bandra - caramel custard from Dale’s Eden. Two servings to make up for my absence all these years.

That was the forgiveness, I think. Not some grand, cinematic reconciliation. Just the slow realisation that Bombay had been exactly what it always was, and I’d just been too preoccupied surviving my own life to meet it properly.

Towards the end of the trip, I apologised to the city. Not out loud, that'd be straight up weird... I said it in the auto on my way to the bar, on the walk back from where I used to live, in the cab ride to T1, looking out the blurry window.

I went back to Delhi after a short stay in Bangalore. Delhi is home; that part didn’t change. But Bombay stopped being the city I resented and became the city I can return to… when life gets too much and anonymity in a city of millions is the only fix.

Turns out that you can forgive a place too, despite how ridiculous it sounds.

Till the next time, Bombay. And the one after that.

DP resigns.

Underneath the triumph was something bigger - a realisation that we can actually do something.

It’s strange how a comment made in court resulted in a kind of unity that we hadn’t seen in a long time. The youth took the insult and named a movement after it. They distributed water, cleared trash, and made the wittiest posters while they were at it.

And they did it under fire. Authorities charged with lathis. Metro stations shut. The internet blocked. And still, they didn't move.

It wasn’t only the ones holding placards. Instagram accounts told us which station was open, which helplines to call, and what to do in case of tear gas. Cafes offered free WiFi. Gurudwaras opened their doors. Influencers - musicians, content creators, comedians - spoke up. Independent journalists provided 24x7 coverage.

Everyone showed up in whatever way they could, and every one of those ways mattered.

I always thought our problem was the lack of unity. That we’re too divided, by political beliefs, by religion, by privilege; too busy attacking each other. I used that as permission to expect nothing. I was wrong, and I’m glad to be wrong. Unity was never impossible. It was waiting for enough of us to reach the breaking point together.

I hope this is not just a moment we look back on. Let this be the thing that makes us pay attention. Makes us think before voting, pushes us to learn about the state machinery. Read, listen, discuss. CJP and Sonam Wangchuk got us here; understanding and speaking up are what will keep us from needing a protest again.

Let this be proof. Our proof. We can question those in power, name what they did, and refuse to look away. Do it with humour if you want. It unsettles authorities far more than seriousness ever will.

If someone calls you anti-national, remember Amartya Sen’s The Argumentative Indian. Questioning power isn’t foreign to our culture, it’s one of the oldest things about it. Arjun and Krishna from Mahabharat. Gandhi and Tagore. This generation isn’t betraying that tradition, it’s continuing it.

Remember this feeling. The hope. Write it down, record a voice note, store it somewhere you can find it. Because we’ll all need it when we feel too small to change the thing in front of us, whether that thing is a person, a job, or the state. Let it remind us that we’re more capable than our inner cynic would have us believe. Keep the proof close.

This might sound corny, but we now know something we didn’t last week - that we can. There’s no unlearning that.

It’s done bro. And we’re keeping the spirit. :)

Thank you - CJP, for turning an insult into a widespread movement and not backing down; Sonam Wangchuk, for standing with the youth at the risk of your health; Gen Z, for the reels, the refusal to be intimidated. And thank you to everyone showed up in whichever way possible.

Before you read: with everything going on in Delhi, it’s tough to think or write about anything else. This isn’t a report, or a piece to convince you of anything. It’s what I saw and felt. Took some time to hit publish, worrying about the consequences, while also trying to put it into words (still not done). If you were there, you’ll recognise some of this. If you weren’t, here’s a glimpse.

Sansad March, Chalo Dilli, CJP protest, NEET protest, Jantar Mantar protest. Multiple names, same sentiment.

K (my friend) and I took a half day from work and went. We signed up for the possibility of violence. But this one hit close to home for us, more on this in another post.

Before leaving, I wrote my name, my blood group, and emergency contacts on a piece of paper. Bandaids, masks, Dettol. This is what I packed to attend a peaceful protest in my own country.

On our way to the site, we asked our auto driver how the mahaul had been. Aaj sab theek hai, lekin kal tabahi thi, ekdum undekha. Yesterday was July 20. People running and escaping the lathi charge, the tear gas, the brutality. He had pulled some students into his auto to save them and drove them to the metro station at full speed. He got hit by a lathi in the process. He’s willing to do it again.

Janpath is where I went as a nineteen year old for the oxidised jewellery, kolhapuris, and McDonald’s. It’s the Delhi we show people, a reminder of why we love Delhi the way we do. Had I been there yesterday, I don’t think I could have looked at it the same way again.

K and I walked past the yellow barricades, the RAF vans with tear gas guns, security personnel in their uniforms. Five minutes in, the crowd started running in the opposite direction. Sounded like tear gas guns, but no confirmation. K and I ran, not letting go of each other’s hand. Then it stopped. Some protestors had provoked the police and were scared off with lathis. Panic travels fast.

A middle-aged man came up to tell us to leave. They will barricade the exit and use tear gas, leave while you can, he said. Another uncle heard him and chided him. Faaltu ki afwaah mat faelao, he said. It’s a peaceful protest, you continue beta.

The road leading to the parliament was blocked; you could see the RAF with their big, spherical helmets that looked like grey bubbles. We walked more. Tolstoy Road. Sansad Marg. Jai Singh Marg. Overflowing with people.

Everyone showed up, and how.

Senior citizens. Kids with their parents. Aunties in their fifties. Students, so many students, more of them arriving the longer we stayed.

People asked for consent before taking photographs of posters. Nobody pushed. Nobody stared. A man bumped into me and apologised. A woman I had never met gave me her spot on the roundabout for a better view of the spokesperson. K and I ranted with a group of boys about anti-social elements causing chaos.

Detained protestors had just been released. Ashutosh (CJP representative) announced this, made his peace offering to Delhi Police, and urged all protestors to keep it peaceful. The clapping came up like a roar. Whistles, shouting, people who did not know each other turning to each other. Mr. Wangchuk had been moved to a private hospital. That was the second thing we clapped for.

As I walked through the crowd, still holding K’s hand, I saw a different Delhi. The version of it I had seen in movies from the mid-2000s. The version of it I had read about in our NCERT political science books.

Every two minutes someone came up and offered us something. A Bisleri bottle. A McPuff. A McDonald’s burger. A Domino’s slice. ORS packets. Samosas. Bandaids.

One group was handing out Melody toffees. :)

Posters with the wittiest slogans. Slogans I thought I’d never see in public.

The energy, slogans, mini-concerts. To an outsider, this may seem like chaos and inconvenience. But from the inside, it was a rare coming together of citizens.

A group had a bluetooth speaker playing Azaadi, Maa Tujhe Salaam, Chak De India. I have sat through these songs at the Wagah border and hated every minute of it. But this time, I tapped my foot to them.

We left at ten in the night. Janpath was alive. Sounds of tambourine and collective singing faded slowly as I reached the main road. People were still arriving, pouring out of autos and Ubers. The police were scattered near the metro stations. No clashes today.

On the ride back home, just before Dhaula Kuan, I spotted the high-mast Indian flag. I’ve passed it a hundred times. At the risk of sounding corny, this time it felt different.

I still have the paper with the emergency contacts. To be re-used. :)

We're in the middle of the FIFA World Cup. Naturally, I've decided to write about the one thing I have no business writing about - football.

During my childhood, football and girls maintained a respectful distance. Meanwhile, boys would play all day. Games period. Free periods. After school. Before school.

No, this is not a piece about gender disparity in sports. That piece writes itself.

This annoyed me. Not because I wanted to play. I had no interest in running in the Delhi heat, but I did like the sport, and wanted in on it. Passively. The way you like the idea of being a fit gym person.

I really don’t have a real reason for liking football; only a pile of random instances I’ve arranged to look like one.

When I was two, my parents handed me a football and photographed me doing goofy things with it. Holding it over my head, leaning on it like an old friend. You know that Bengali ritual where the kid picks an object and it decides their future? I’m not even Bengali. But maybe it partially worked.

Or maybe it was this one. We are seven cousins, varying in age but closely knit. My elder cousin was the football fanatic - football jerseys, posters of Beckham and Lampard, the blue Chelsea flag. I would get annoyed when he chose to play football over entertaining me, his clearly more important cousin.

So of course the next step was to like whatever he liked. I became a football fan, and a Chelsea one, without checking the others. Liverpool, Arsenal, whoever - never considered them. He introduced me to the Premier League, David Luiz, John Terry, and Lampard. I backed Mourinho with full dedication and zero knowledge of his background. I had no rationale, only loyalty - the strongest kind, because it can’t be argued with.

Groundwork laid. Then the next thing happened.

We humans are easily moved by cinema. And that’s exactly what Bend It Like Beckham exploited. Jess playing football with the Punju boys in the park and beating their asses at it. How badass. She dribbled the ball with the ease her mother only wished she’d bring to the kitchen. And Joe, the coach! Play football, and the cute firang might fall for you. My favourite scene is the final match free kick, which, I’ve recently been informed, had some questionable goalkeeper positioning. Regardless, I stand by the film. And the B21 songs.

During my late teens, I watched a match once - found a virus-free streaming website, watched Chelsea play a club I couldn't care less about, and conveniently fell asleep before I had a single note for my friends the next day.

In 2021, I decided to watch Ted Lasso to recover from a business school rejection, which was somehow worse than boy problems. I expected an annoyingly positive Kansas man to lift me out of sadness. The show did that, but it also quietly handed back football to me - the Premier League, the drills, the matches, the goals. And the crowd singing ‘He’s here, he’s there, he’s every-fucking-where! Roy Kent! Roy Kent!’ It’s alarming how much a TV show can do to me.

I decided - I’ll learn to play football someday.

My football debut took place in Bombay on our CSR day. The kids were really good, which was great for everyone except my non-existent confidence. The game was mostly me trying to keep up with the ball, while the ball sought me out personally. That day, I retired from my two-hour-old football career and consoled myself with a thick chocolate shake from Bachelorr’s.

A few years later, bang on schedule for a 90s kid in 2026, I slipped into the common loop: must do something with my life, must become a person.

Finally, I signed up for women-only football sessions. Instagram, for once, sold me something useful instead of magnesium. I didn’t book it right away though. It still took me two months of decision paralysis to join. This tells you everything about the urgency of my passion.

The first session - regular players, younger, and very, very fit. The “I don’t belong here” bit of Creep started playing in my head. I started calculating how soon I could leave.

Somehow, I stayed. I'd like to say it was courage. But I think it was mostly not wanting to walk out in front of everyone.

Let’s not discuss how I played. My stamina resigned pretty early. But kicking the ball, regaining possession, a team mate shouting “nice one.” It felt… for lack of a better word - phenomenal.

It’s been some time now. I’ve not been the most regular, but I still talk myself into some drills at home. I’ve been after my cousin to teach me. I’ve bought a football. And football shoes. There is no going back now, at least financially.

And now, with the World Cup, it was the obvious decision to destroy my sleep for 1:30 am matches. My undereye area is keeping score.

I catch myself shouting “YES” when the country I support scores, or “good save, let’s go” to a player, as if he can hear me. Recently, you would’ve found me with my face buried in my hands because Argentina started scoring against Egypt in the last ten minutes.

By the way, I’m still on Football 101. I ask people to explain offside with no shame. I fangirl over Haaland with less. I had to Google what VAR stands for.

So, when someone recently asked me whether I’m following the World Cup just because it’s the World Cup, I was offended. There is no greater insult than being mistaken for the target audience of Zee5's “Poora India Watchega” campaign.

Offended, only for a second. Because I would’ve side-eyed me too.

“No ya, I like football. I play sometimes,” I said casually, fully knowing that I’d already half-written this essay. Not a big deal.

The only big deal now is the upcoming England vs. Norway match. And the Norway jersey I have to buy before it. With Braut Haaland on the back, obviously.

There’s a bookshop I go to very often, and perhaps the only one. I go on the days that go well, and the days that don’t. I go when a deal I’ve pursued for months finally closes, and when it falls through at the last moment. I go to celebrate. I go to recover.

It’s Bahrisons Booksellers, in the top corner of Galleria Market in Gurgaon.

To get to the store, I wade through everyone else’s food first. I pass through the chaat place, which always has a crowd devouring the golgappas, the aloo tikki, and the juicy rolls. The air smells like tandoor. The sheer determination of people… standing in the heat, eating grilled food, while getting grilled. Pass through this section, and one will always emerge smelling like a grilled chicken tikka.

I walk up the staircase. These stairs have lived a long life. I’ve seen them turn from a bright pink to dusty pink over the twenty five years I’ve lived in Gurgaon. Some corners have faded stains. There will always be a dog, either lying down on one of the steps or walking down the stairs. We move around each other like flatmates who’ve learned each other’s timing.

I pass by shops selling mobile covers, most of which are bright coloured ones with diamonds studded on the back. These are clearly made for someone who wants their phone to enter the room before they do. I’ve never seen a customer here, and I completely understand why. I’ve considered buying a pink one for my friend as a joke, and never have - which makes me exactly the customer I claim not to see.

I go up the stairs leading to Bahrisons. On the side, I see a coffee shop. I have decided that this cafe is too Gen-Z for me. They have coffee raves, which I fail to understand. They always have people seated outside, even in the forty degree heat, which I also fail to understand.

The door of the bookstore resists whenever someone tries to open it, as if testing whether you are a regular. I always power through it.

There are people who have seen me at my highest, my lowest, and can tell which one it is. This place has seen both and never noticed. The door is the only thing here that checks.

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The chime of the bell announces my entrance, and the shop is exactly as I left it - the middle area with new releases in tidy stacks, each top book stood up to show its face. Cookbooks to my left, followed by bestsellers, and then history on another shelf. I could find any of it with my eyes shut. Nothing here has moved to accommodate the day I have had.

Books and a faint coffee fragrance, together. It’s the first thing that reaches me. My shoulders drop a half-inch, and whatever I have carried up the stairs quietly puts itself down.

I have a fixed path here, the same every time. My feet know it before I do. The bookshelf to the right first, then the stacks in the middle, waiting for something to catch my eye.

Earlier, I used to walk straight past all this to the non-fiction and management section - behavioural economics, technology, startups, etc. For years, fiction was a minority in my book collection at home.

This has changed in the last year or two. Now I reach for fiction first, Indian ones especially, and best of all the ones set in Delhi, Bombay, or Calcutta. I’ve lived in Bombay, and Delhi is where I live; reading these novels is just recognising my own streets. Calcutta is the strange one. I have never seen it - I only know it through my early years growing up in CR Park. The mughlai parantha and sandesh, the Pujo pandals, and the traffic to get in and out of it. So when I read a novel set in Calcutta, I’m not reading about a place, I’m missing it. Mostly, I think, I am missing CR Park.

As I go through the books, I tilt my head to read the titles. Every visit I have one or two titles I already intend to buy based on my Goodreads list, and I leave one spot open for something I find here. When a book catches my eye, I take it out carefully, the way you’d pull a block from a Jenga tower. Bringing down the entire stack of books is a legitimate fear of mine. I flip through the first few pages of the book. And then, standing in the shop, the book in my hand, I open Goodreads on my phone to see what other readers made of it. Anything above 3.5, I’ll buy. I do not trust my own taste until a few hundred strangers have signed off on it.

Everyone in the store is here for their own reasons. Some pick up books to become the kind of person who reads; some because they already are. Some are figuring out a gift. Some are here on a date, trying to impress. Some are parents, negotiating with their kids over how many books they get to take home. Often I catch someone who is probably having the kind of day I sometimes have - moving slowly, touching books without reading them, in no hurry to leave. We are both here for the same reason, and neither of us is going to name it.

The staff is around, sliding books back where they belong, or helping people find a book. I know their faces now. Every visit I tell myself I’ll learn their names this time, and every visit I don’t. When I can’t find something from my list, one of them finds it in under five minutes, on the very shelf I’ve been squinting at for fifteen. They know every shelf without looking. I hope to, one day.

Very soon, I have more books in my hand than I planned for. Before billing, I admit that these are too many. I already have three unread ones at home. I make myself put some back, like a reality show elimination.

Once done, I go to the billing counter. Small books stacked on the countertop. The BharatPe QR code. The tote bags hanging behind the staff. Nothing here ever changes.

I’m handed a bookmark after I pay. I refuse it now. I have too many of them already. Enough to start a loyalty programme.

I push the door open and take the stairs down, the brown Bahrisons paper bag in one hand. The people at the Gen-Z coffee shop are still there. I step around the dog, like I always do.

I came up these stairs as whatever the day had made me. By the time I’m walking back down them, I’ve forgotten which kind of day it was.

That is the whole reason I come.

Beep beep beep.

Here we go. Another morning of four alarms. She sets four and wakes up at the last one. Daily. I’ve stopped expecting her to learn.

I slip inside her room through the half-open door and jump onto her bed, landing near her feet. I nudge them.

She doesn’t wake up. I nudge again. Nothing.

When did I sign up for this?

I make my way towards her head, across the hundreds of cushions she has for a reason I don’t understand. She’s fast asleep, face down, hair tied up messily in a scrunchie.

Perfect opportunity to rip it off, my dark side thinks. Some other day, perhaps. I lift my paw, gather all my strength, and land it on her head.

She wakes up with a groan and reaches for her phone, squinting at it through barely open eyes, looking at god knows what before she starts her day.

Thank god we cats can simply wake up and be correct about everything without relying on a rectangle.

I jump off the bed just as she reaches out to snuggle me. Not today, human.

Before I exit, I check once more that she’s up. She is. My job is done.

Let me be clear, I don’t wake her up out of love, or duty. That’s what dogs do, and I pity them for it. I wake her up because I need her to put out my food. That’s the entire reason. No other reason.

What happens next is a routine I’ve witnessed for the two years she’s been living with me.

Thirty minutes of music as she gets ready to go and earn money for me. The songs rotate between Baba O’Riley, Tubthumping, Yeh Dil Deewana, Hey Jude (which goes on far too long), and some other song I refuse to understand. I have never met anyone this confused about their music taste.

She puts out my food and leans in to kiss me. I dodge her. My reflexes have sharpened with age.

Once the human leaves, my life begins.

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The eight hours I get to myself are the best part of my day. I choose where to sit, where to sleep. Some days it’s the grey recliner. Other days it’s the Fabindia carpet in the living area. The indigo colour does great things for my white and brown fur. Purely coincidental.

I ensure to get some exercise as well by walking around and inspecting every item. It’s exhausting, but a cat must do what it must. The nook behind the PS5. The sofa. The vinyl record player, which she bought simply to become a person who owns a vinyl record player. Sometimes I place myself on the ottoman and study her bookshelf. Some books stand, some lie flat. There’s no logic to it, I’ve tried.

Recently, she left a green resistance band on the ottoman. My ottoman. With whose permission did she place it here?

Evenings are spent observing the human. Some days she comes in looking like she’s going through an existential crisis. Some days she comes in humming a song.

Her behaviour and choices concern me at times. She talks to me, as if I will nod along and agree that her colleague is a fool. And that the government should do something about the traffic. I look at her for two seconds and then turn to face the wall, so that she gets the hint. She eats shakshuka almost daily, and then has the nerve to joke about how cats can eat the same food every day. Her taste in men, I prefer not to get into, except to say that one of them, a guest in my house, asked her where to buy crockery from. That was the day I realised there are other humans stranger than her.

A while back, something changed. Once she’s done with dinner, she writes. Sometimes on her rectangular folding device, sometimes in her diary. With great seriousness, and sometimes a smile. She switches between the grey recliner, the bed, and her desk. She yells ‘done’ randomly, waking me from my nap.

I wonder what it’ll be next. There’s a pattern here, and I know it well. Every now and then, she finds a new thing, a ‘passion’ to pursue. Usually it’s on days her existential crisis peaks and she decides to do something about it.

Once she bought drum sticks. Without drums.

Then came comedy. Apparently, some boy told her she was funny, and she believed him, conveniently missing the intention behind it. For three full days she performed SNL-style monologues in front of the mirror. Nobody laughed.

She has attempted to paint too. The whole shebang - canvas, paints, a twelve-piece set of paintbrushes - all bought during a Sunday morning of conviction. The canvas now lies under the bed. It’s embarrassed.

The green resistance band, which she used with great seriousness for two weeks, now lies coiled on the ottoman, resisting nothing but my will to relax.

Then football. Constant thuds of the ball against the wall and her shiny, white studs. That one, I have a feeling, is fading.

Each of these arrived the same way - great enthusiasm, impulsive purchases, and a week, maybe two, of devotion. Then the slow drift… the objects left around my house as trophies, and me, stepping around the evidence of another thing she was briefly going to become.

So, I know how this goes. I don’t expect much from the writing.

Except, I’ve noticed, she sits down to write and does not get up. For hours. And she smiles at the page when she thinks no one’s around, which is silly because I’m always around. It’s quite baffling, though I’ve chosen not to think about it too much.

I give it one more month. Maybe two. Then something new will arrive, and I’ll have my desk back.

It’s been seven months.

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A few months back, a friend asked me for song recommendations. Something to cheer her up. The only instruction: no Hindi.

A reasonable request for millennials. We still believe that music can save us.

It could have been a list of four-five songs, or a few Spotify links. Instead, I went quiet, because the honest answer meant revisiting how confidently wrong I had been about one of my favourite pick-me-up songs.

For years, I thought Hey Jude was about a girl named Jude. Heartbroken, obviously. Or going through some tragedy. Or maybe a woman being asked to make peace with a rival, to ‘let her into your heart.’ Or Jude was a man, also heartbroken. I wasn’t picky.

I believed each of these completely. Never checked.

For the record, I wouldn’t call myself the #1 Beatles fan. I can’t list all their albums, but I love their songs.

They were one of the first bands I ever heard. So early that I can’t even place when. One of those bands that are always playing in the background of your childhood. The ones you recognise only when you hit your teens, when you decide your taste in music is your identity.

Anyway, I remember my first-ever piece of Beatles merchandise - a black T-shirt with a graphic of the four of them in their iconic headshots. It lived a full life - started out as the shirt I only wore outside, became my night suit, then a dusting cloth. Eventually the fabric gave up.

Somewhere during my teenage years, I decided to make sure people knew that I liked The Beatles.

Which is how I was gifted a cup, bought from Archies (yes, that era), with Let It Be written on it. It sits in front of me right now with my protein shake in it.

At 17, I decided that art could be my second personality. So, I tried to paint The Beatles on a canvas. I started with the Abbey Road graphic, gave up, and switched to the headshots one. It now lives behind a pile of old books, hidden, so it can’t remind me of my artistic talents.

And the Hey Jude poster - bright yellow, with Paul in the centre. It was up on my wall for a few years. Now it lives under my mattress. A photo of me in front of it was my Facebook display picture for a while. It is still, for some reason, my Twitter display picture.

Over the years, Hey Jude has become one of my most loved Beatles songs. To anyone who calls it overrated - please note that The Beatles is not a one hit wonder band and every song is a good song. Period.

The song became my most played during tough times - silly heartbreaks, fights with friends, the standard teenage certainty that I was lost. I grew up, the problems didn’t - sillier heartbreaks, still lost, now with an existential crisis. But Hey Jude stayed.

It’s Paul telling you to stop being sad. Like someone handing over your favourite dessert.

Once the song goes into the outro, the 'na na na na na' coda, staying gloomy is impossible. Four minutes of magic.

Which is why, when it featured in a show I loved, I smiled.

In the third season of Ted Lasso, Ted, Beard, and Ted’s son Henry are outside a pub. A street band starts playing Hey Jude, and Henry recognises it instantly. Ted steps away for a call. Beard asks Henry why he loves The Beatles, and Henry says it’s because his dad loves them. He looks a little sad; Ted and his wife are mid-separation. Beard leans in and tells him the story behind Hey Jude, how a man wrote it for his best friend’s son, while the best friend’s marriage was falling apart. Sweet, I thought. Nice story.

A few seconds later, my brain caught up.

Wait, what?

Ten minutes down the Google rabbit hole, and there it was. The song was written by Paul for Julian, John Lennon’s son, during the John-Cynthia-Yoko drama.

So. A song I had assigned to imaginary heartbreaks was, in fact, written during a car journey, for a five year old.

I felt briefly betrayed. And then briefly stupid.

It was one of those facts that change your face a little.

On screen, Beard isn’t done. “You know the best part of this song?” he asks Henry. He doesn’t answer; the song does. It goes into the coda, the ‘na na na na na.’ Then the ‘Jude Judey Judey Judey.’

That’s the part. It was always the part.

I know now what it’s for, and it still works. This is the thing about songs - what you decide they mean doesn't get overruled by what they actually mean. The two just live in the same song.

By the way, Julian never loved the song much. The one person it was for. Anyway.

My phone lit up. My friend was still waiting.

A "???" on WhatsApp.

Have you tried Hey Jude? I replied.

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“Why are you shouting? Relax.” I say, forearms up like I am weighing something invisible.

“You relax,” he fires back, slightly louder, and firmer.

“Don’t shout,” I reply, a half-notch louder.

“You don’t shout,” he replies, topping my volume.

“You are shouting,” I say, eyebrows up, the start of a laugh I don’t finish.

“No, you are,” he says, like he’s correcting something obvious.

Well, turns out, we are both shouting. My mother and sister are across the dining table. They’ve gone silent, like the audience of a tennis match, heads turning between us. They give each other a smirk and shake their heads, confirming that they’ve caught the irony. The discussion is about something, but that something is never the point. Such discussions have a familiar arc: voices rise, voices fall, and then the argument is resolved. On the same day.

Our conversations these days center around AI (me trying to get him to use ChatGPT), whichever alcohol I’ve decided he should try next (Limoncello, most recently), and his refusal to use UPI (it will, somehow, empty his bank account). He tells the same dad jokes like they’re new; I make the same unimpressed face every time. On some days, a disagreement turns into a shouting match.

At the height of my frustration, such instances made me believe we were nothing alike. Wired differently. Why else would we collide like this?

I have since revised this theory. We are mostly cut from the same cloth, with patches from other people. My Instagram algorithm figured this out before I did and kept serving me ‘eldest-daughter-is-like-the-father’ reels until I saw it.

Once I did, I couldn’t unsee it.

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The first thing I noticed was the music. We reached home at the same time one evening; his window rolled down, and Staying Alive was playing in his car.

It took me a second to realize that it was also playing in my car.

My path once I enter the house is fixed. Turn right, glance at the clock in the living area, and climb up the stairs. There’s no reason for it. I still do it. I watched him do this for more than two decades before I noticed that I do it too. The same path, as if there’s a secret map only the two of us have received.

He checks the main door to ensure it is locked before bed. Reasonable enough. I check it again before I sleep. Not reasonable. Because he just checked it thirty minutes ago. The lock wouldn’t unlock itself. I check anyway.

We both reach the airport three hours before departure. Missing a flight requires several ignored announcements. We would rather not be the people they are announcing.

His car number plate has his birth date. I used to think it was silly. Then I bought my own car and wanted the same thing.

Neither of us can be crafty. Putting money in the stock market feels, to both of us, like an act of daring. And we are both calm - right up until we aren’t. You’ve already seen how that one goes.

When my parents are away on vacation and I’m the in-charge, I catch myself doing the same things I’d make fun of him for. I check if the motor is running on schedule. I pester my sister to share her location when she’s out. I attempt to replace a tube light on my own, because why call the electrician?

A few weeks back, my younger sister told me she wanted to extend a work trip in Malaysia into a solo trip. She came to me first, before our parents. I was supposed to be the one who’d help her make the case.

My first reaction was a no. Not a considered no, more of a reflex. My eyes narrowed, head pulled back an inch, my whole face settling into an expression I had seen before - on my father’s face when I was ten and asked to go for a school trip to Amritsar. He had said no. I decided I would never speak to him again. The resolution lasted all of two hours. Then he brought home my favourite ice cream.

I heard myself ask her a string of questions that arrived fully formed, in an order I had not chosen - what she’d do there, who she was going with, and whether she’d researched the place at all. She had answers for all of them.

I told her I’d think about it. We both knew what that meant. It was the same thing “we’ll see” had meant when my father said it to me. I knew, even then, that it meant no.

Now it’s past ten at night. I decide to resolve the argument. But before that, night-time cravings start. I open Swiggy and browse through Nirula’s menu to find Hot Chocolate Fudge. My go-to dessert since childhood.

I hear a knock on my door. It’s dad. He opens the door a bit and peeks in, as if waiting for my permission to enter completely.

I give him a nod and say “Hmm, yes, tell.”

“You tell,” he says, acting as if I have walked into his space, and not the other way around.

“Chalo, ok, sorry. I admit my mistake. You also admit yours,” I say.

“Ok, sorry. I also admit,” he says, already smiling.

“Truce, peace out,” I say, with a V symbol I make with my fingers.

As I pick up my phone to resume ordering, he says, “Accha, let’s order Hot Chocolate Fudge from Nirula’s? Craving something sweet.”

It’s been in my cart for five minutes.

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“Ladies and gentlemen, we have now landed at Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport. Welcome to Mumbai.”

The in-flight announcement woke up Pooja from her nap on the Delhi to Mumbai flight.

She landed in Bombay with a very Delhi-coded name that sounded straight out of a Bollywood film. For a minute, she wondered if she’d be taken more seriously here if her name was Mira or Aanya.

As she loaded her three suitcases onto the trolley and walked towards the exit, she imagined herself in the shoes of Aisha from Wake Up Sid, starting a new chapter in Bombay.

Thud.

The top suitcase fell off the trolley, interrupting her cinematic thoughts, all thanks to the gentle ramp before the exit. The slope was rather innocent looking, the kind that asks nothing from you except public embarrassment.

She hurriedly put the suitcase back and frantically pretended to be on the phone, so she’d look distracted, not stupid.

But it was Bombay. Nobody cared. Everyone went on with their own business. It relieved her in a strange way - she disliked being the centre of attention.

Once she sat in her Uber, she texted her cousin who lived in Bombay:

“Just landed. Why does the air smell so weird and fishy here?”

“Welcome to Bombay! Get used to it haha.”

Pooja sighed, kept her phone down, and leaned against the window for the remaining thirty minutes of her car ride till Bandra West.

The flat she chose was located on 21st Road in Bandra West - which, she would later find out from Bandra purists, was technically Khar West. Bandra was a deliberate choice - great bars, cafes, stand-up & music gigs, and art - all a stone’s throw away. The traffic to get in and out of Bandra was less a problem and more of a personality trait of the neighbourhood that had to be accepted.

The office was, however, in BKC. Was Bombay’s entire economy being run by jaded employees wearing the same shades of blue and white, she wondered, as she noted streams of people pouring out of buses, autos, and cabs.

Office was going to be her first interaction with core Bombay people, the Mumbaikars. For Pooja, it felt like a personal mission to debunk all the Delhi stereotypes.

“What’s the vibe like in Delhi? Y’all discuss politics most of the time?”

“Aren’t Delhi people always loud and flashy? How come you’re so soft-spoken?”

Pooja stood there, as if she was the sole representative of the loud Punjabi uncles and aunties with their MK bags, unsafe roads, and the short-tempered population. This was tougher than she imagined.

“Oh no no no, it’s all a stereotype, guys,” she sheepishly said and hid behind her laptop screen. She’d spent years being annoyed at Delhi for this reason, but when someone else said it, she got defensive. Funny, she thought, only you are allowed to criticize your city.

After the Delhi cross-examination, the next step was getting back home.

Auto commute in Bombay had two personalities.

The warm one, which Pooja had experienced in Bandra & Khar - going by the meter, zero rejections, and returning the exact change.

The other one was the peak evening commute from BKC to anywhere… seriously, anywhere.

“Sir, Bandra West chalogey? Arre traffic toh harr din hota hai.”

“Khar West jaana hai, KFC building se thoda aagey bas.”

It would take Pooja twenty minutes and five auto rejections to finally find one who would agree to drop her home for three hundred rupees. Too tired to haggle on the fare, she’d just pray that the driver takes the SV road route.

Bombay monsoon was over. And December in Bandra was perfect.

The ideal temperature with a cool wind and clear skies. Pooja would usually step out at night for a walk. One such night, she started her walk with a Salted Caramel gelato from Copetto Gelato near her house.

There was a soft breeze. The residential roads were silent.

I love how Bombay is so much more walkable than Gurgaon, she thought. It was past 10 pm and the roads were quiet, just the occasional person walking a dog.

Just as she ate the last bit of the cone and savoured the subtle salted caramel flavour, she stumbled over a poorly covered pothole and found herself facing a heap of sand. Behind it lay a portion of road dug up, probably without its consent.

A small reminder from the city: chill, don’t romanticize everything.

Women’s safety was another thing that pulled Pooja to Bombay. One night, after some drinks at Lower Parel, she experienced a new freedom - taking a cab alone at 1 am.

In Delhi, any cab ride post 11 pm comes with live location and at least one friend asking you to text once you’re home.

But here she was, sitting in the kaali-peeli without any of these troubles.

The window was down, and she could feel the pleasant breeze on her face. The air smelled like, well, Mumbai air. She was used to this now. She closed her eyes and felt the wind through her hair.

And then she felt something on her foot.

She flashed her mobile torchlight on the taxi floor.

A cockroach.

“Ew ew ew!” she shrieked as she brushed it off frantically with her bag before pulling up her legs on the seat.

Oof, Bombay really doesn’t ever let you have a moment, she thought to herself as she shook her head and laughed.

January and February flew by. March came in hot. April arrived.

It was 3 am. The air was still. 21st Road was silent. The Uber driver loaded Pooja’s three suitcases into the cab with a disgruntled noise. He was clearly not happy with the extra task of handling 40 kilos of baggage.

“Madam, aap shift ho rahe ho kya?” asked the driver.

“Haan,” said Pooja, surprised at the ease with which she had dropped the “ji” she had grown up adding to the word.

After almost a year, Pooja was moving back to Delhi for work.

She went over to her building’s security guard and handed him a five hundred rupee note. She looked back at her building and noticed her room window on the second floor. It was covered shabbily with a makeshift curtain made from an old bedsheet. She had somehow never found the time to buy curtains.

She looked down to find the building’s stray cat walking towards her. Her fur coat looked whiter and prettier in the dark than during the day. During her stay, the cat had treated her the way Bombay had treated her - occasional eye contact, on-and-off love, and no real commitment.

Pooja bent down to pet her, hoping for some sort of cinematic goodbye.

The cat dodged her hand, made a sound, turned around, and walked back to her makeshift bed.

Fair enough, Pooja thought. One last reminder, but this time she already knew.

Bombay had always been like this. Warm, but not easy. Poetic, but realistic. Almost home, but only almost.

Delhi was waiting.

And Bombay, as usual, had chosen not to be too sentimental about it.

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Have they changed the way to the platform?

As I stand at the gate of Huda City Centre Metro Station (I refuse to call it Millennium City Centre), with my hand shading my eyes from the October sun, I notice a new structure to my left. A crowd is walking towards it, which is usually how India tells you where to go.

So, this is the new way to the platform now. Not bad.

After so many years of making us walk for 5-7 minutes till the platform, they suddenly decide it’s time to do the right thing. Or was it always a plan to make me walk the most during my ‘young, carefree days’?

Either way, I am offended.

After making my way through the security and baggage check, which always has at least one red suitcase slowing down the entire belt, I reach the platform. I find muscle memory kicking in and move to the part of the platform where the third door of the ladies’ compartment will open. I make sure to not cross the yellow line marked on the platform.

Once the train arrives, I walk straight to the corner seat on the left-hand side, the one not reserved for senior citizens. I would struggle to remember concepts from Sampling Survey during my undergrad, yet somehow the metro seat map remains intact in my head even after 10 years.

As the metro starts, I feel my body relax against the cold metal seat. I rest my head against the cool glass panel near the door. Announcements sound familiar, the metro line map is the same. Except for some station name changes and new lines. Very colourful lines.

There’s a pink line AND a magenta line? In addition to the existing violet line??

The metro line map looks like a kid scribbled on it with different colours. But in straight lines, somehow. Smart kid.

The movements of the train are exactly the same. The same spots of the entire line where it shakes a little more than usual, where the lights go off for a few seconds, where you feel the brakes hitting to slow down as it goes underground.

Most people look bored or impatient. One woman is on a call while glancing at her nails. Another is glued to her phone, probably watching something. I’m listening to a ‘Delhi metro music’ playlist on my AirPods. Reminds me of Sonam Kapoor in Dilli 6. (What was that costume, btw?)

What a change from the era of having mp3/mp4 files in your phone, with wired earphones plugged in at dangerous angles.

Then comes Rajiv Chowk.

The doors open. This is always easy - the effort to get off the train at Rajiv Chowk is 70% crowd, 30% yours.

Shit, I blurt out, as my Kolhapuri slipper almost comes off. It’s October, I’m in my Pujo/Diwali phase.

In the midst of apologizing to some impatient passengers for the one second delay due to my struggle, my AirPods’ noise cancellation turns off.

And suddenly, I can hear Delhi.

The metro horn. Screeching brakes. Feet shuffling. Frequent mentions of yaar and bhai. College kids making their way back from their TIME/Career Launcher coaching.

Rajiv Chowk is a weird mix of chaotic and calm.

I smile. Internally, of course. Otherwise I would look crazy.

As I exit from Gate 8, walking up the slightly inclined, dull grey path till the escalator, my footwear loses grip and I almost slip.

Just like I always did.

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