It felt like a film. And all of the old Delhi in its nightly beauty seemed like a blur background.
Let’s leave it like this. A photograph, of sorts. Preserved forever as the present without any distinction of time.
Maybe also like a silent film where dialogues come after the moment, sometimes skipping it altogether. You hear what I say only after I say it, anyway. For my voice in the present belongs only to me. You hear it after the moment I have actually spoken.
We all belong to different times, that way. We cannot escape these timescapes except in instants we do not speak to each other.