HAVE YOU EVER LIVED DELHI?

EVEN IF YOU HAVE LIVED IN IT

Have you ever been to Delhi?
No, not visited. I mean lived Delhi. Not just in it—within it. Let it seep into you, linger under your skin, settle into your bones?

You may have heard of the city’s stereotypes—spoiled children in fast cars, extravagant weddings, noise.
But have you met the soft-spoken grandparents with faces so burdened with the pain and loss of their home to partition?. And yet, when they see you, they smile.Not the forced kind. The kind that wraps around you like winter sun. The kind that offers warmth even when their own hands are cold.

You may have heard about the traffic that millions endure every day on their way to Gurgaon, or the road rage sparked by 50-degree heat, as cars crawl along, packed to the brim, with air conditioners that only serve in name. But have you ever driven through the boulevards of Central Delhi in the rain? When the trees, freshly washed, stand tall and lush, their vibrant green leaves glistening in the cool breeze, and the flowers, in full bloom, line the roads, painting the city with the kind of beauty that feels almost unreal. Have you ever seen a biker slow down so that he can give a motorised push to a cycle rickshaw with his leg as it trudges up a flyover?

You may have read about communal disharmony and intolerance—and yes, it exists. But have you ever walked the streets of Old Delhi on Ramzan nights? When the Jama Masjid looms large over every street, as inescapable as the Duomo in Florence, its presence a silent witness to centuries of history. The air is filled with the tantalising aroma of delicacies, and smiles shine as brightly as the lights that adorn the streets. In those narrow lanes, night never truly falls; in those large hearts, there is no room for darkness, only a shared warmth and light that transcends all divides.

You may have experienced the concrete jungle that every city has become—a rapidly expanding metropolis with little time for ourselves or our loved ones. But have you ever stepped into Nehru Park, where, nestled in the heart of the city, a green haven awaits? Where, on the running track, you’ll see the same familiar faces every day, without fail—runners who, amidst the rush of life, carve out moments just for themselves, letting each stride be a quiet act of self-care. Or visited Buddha Jayanti Park, where, beneath the trees and dupattas, love finds a quiet space even on a working day? Or wandered through Lodhi Garden, where the ancient ruins of the Delhi that was stand as silent witnesses to the Delhi of today? Where, in the shadow of the Bada Gumbad, readers gather each Saturday, lost in their books, surrounded by the quiet companionship of strangers who somehow feel like old friends. Or crossed India Gate on any given night, where families gather around ice cream vans, fathers balancing their children on their shoulders, quietly calculating if their monthly budget can stretch to afford the flying toys that seem to be everywhere, as their children’s eyes sparkle with longing, dreams of owning one just out of reach.

You may have been to the malls—those glass-and-steel temples of modernity, sterile and identical, humming the same tune of consumerism no matter where you are. But have you ever truly wandered through Delhi?

Have you let your feet carry you through Connaught Place, where time folds in on itself? Where colonial-era buildings curve in proud white arcs, and each turn reveals a restaurant that’s stood still through decades—its walls steeped in stories of first dates, business deals, and post-exam celebrations?

Have you heard the layered music of the city? The clatter of rickshaws, the sharp punctuation of horns, the sing-song calls of street vendors—each voice a thread in Delhi’s sprawling symphony?

And have you ever stopped for a milkshake from Keventers—now Shake Square, after a corporate shake-up of its own—and let it wash down the heat, along with two hurried pastries from Wenger’s next door?

Delhi is often known for its colorful, and at times, abusive language—and perhaps it deserves that reputation. No sentence seems complete without the inevitable MC BC, whether it’s meant to express affection or unleash anger. But have you ever immersed yourself in the brilliance of Delhi’s poets? Mir Taqi Mir, Zauq, Ghalib—these legends weren’t just poets; they were the very soul of the city. Delhi is not just a city of noise and chaos; it is the heart of languages, the birthplace of Urdu, not Lucknow or Lahore. There's a reason these poets romanticized Delhi—because it was the city where the language of love, passion, and sorrow truly found its voice. (For a deeper dive, read Saif Mahmood’s Beloved Delhi—it brings this poetic reverence to life.)

Delhi is not just a city—it’s a pulse. A thrum beneath your feet, a rhythm you grow into. It doesn’t reveal itself to those who merely pass through, maps in hand and itineraries to tick off. It opens slowly, stubbornly, like the city itself. In conversations with cab drivers who have seen a hundred versions of Delhi. In the familiar nod of the guard who watches your comings and goings without a word. In the quiet transaction between a bookseller and his regular—an unspoken pact to preserve the old as the new rushes in. In the shared laughter over a plate of chaat under a flickering streetlight, even as the metro hums past above your head. It lives in the contradictions—the chaos and the calm, the memory and the momentum, the grief of what was and the hope of what could be. In the smooth, sweeping flyovers and the gnarled maze of alleys that still carry the footsteps of history. Delhi isn’t a place you simply live in; it begins to live in you. Quietly at first, like a song you didn’t realise you knew, and then all at once. Until one day, whether you’re across the country or halfway across the world, you’ll hear its familiar echo in your bones. And you’ll know—it never really left.