Between words and silence there is a space – a chink where no word
has begun and where silence is already
rustling her skirts – a fissure where the absence of
silence and lack of words gives rise to iridescent heat.
This is the skin of reality. It is thin. It is unreal.
Bougainville hues in choppy flight
across the yawning expanse
of the patient heavens.
Rain in Delhi
William Dalrymple calls Delhi the City of Djinns in his book of the same name. The book brings Delhi to Delhi-zens in many unexpected ways. It also underscores the experience of Delhi; never the same for two people, never the same in two seasons, the city changes faces ever so often.
Delhi is itself a djinn, almost!
This is how the silence begins –
in desolate noons stolen from barren
landscapes nobody visits –