ABSTRACT
Delhi is a physical city. It’s push and shove; sliding through crowds. It’s grit and sweat and light in the eyes reflected off new tower blocks and malls. It’s fending off stares and squeezing between the interstitial spaces, the unexpected corridors of access that momentarily at least allow breathing space. It’s red streaks of paan. It’s the sound of puja, namaaz and the chanting of secular traffic. It’s the scent of temple incense and hot chocolate at Café Coffee Day that recalls boyfriends past. It’s the architecture that engenders nostalgia for other homes and other times. It’s the smell of nullahs and meat that mark boundaries of purity and disgust. It’s roundabouts and the judgements of others read off the surface of the body.
