DELHI

 To live in Delhi – an unyielding heart of India – is like to reside at the crossroads of empires, dreams, and contradictions simultaneously.

It is to inhale it's history with every breath,

and exhale rebellion stitched into the very air.

The city does not whisper; it roars.

Real roars.

Unfortunately its lungs filled with the horns of a thousand autos,

its arteries clogged with impatient ambition and incense smoke.

It is both the womb and the battlefield –

where Parliament debates echo beside street vendors selling roasted corn,

and pigeons perch upon red sandstone like monarchs surveying ruins of their ancestors.

Sometimes, I feel the weight of centuries pressing against my spine

as I walk past India Gate with my rucksack heavy,

not just with textbooks, but with questions.

Who am I in this relentless mosaic of identities?

Am I the protest or the prayer?

The girl with ink-stained palms or the silence in a metro crowd?

The heat here is not just weather, it is a temperament –

a sun that glares like a strict invigilator,

dry and unforgiving, yet honest.

But come monsoon,

the city floods in relief,

and even the cracked footpaths bloom

in puddles that reflect the stubborn sky.

To live in Delhi is to be schooled by paradox:

To pass ruins and skyscrapers in one glance,

to hear Urdu poetry in the air while coding in CS50 at night.

To love a place that often forgets to love you back,

and still defend it like a secret.

Sometimes, when I sit on my rooftop under a confused constellation

(most stars drowned in smog and neon),

I write poems to the city that raised me.

Not tender lullabies, but stern sonnets –

because Delhi does not cradle you,

she carves you.

She teaches you to argue with dignity,

to dream with dust in your lungs,

to wear your past like eyeliner –

bold, unblinking.

And maybe, that's enough.

To be seventeen and stitched into the soul of a city

that is always on the brink of forgetting and remembering itself.

A poet by heart, code in hand.

but right now?

Right now I’m a girl surviving my end cliff climb of school education —

9 hours of curriculum, every single day —

and somehow still scribbling conversions on my palms,

between integration and Kirchhoff’s law.

It’s hard.

It’s chaotic.

But God, I love it.

They say I’m doing too much —

but maybe that’s just because I’ve outgrown the limits people placed on me.

I am doing more than a student “should,”

because I’m becoming more than they expect.

Something closer to a dreamer with the work ethic of a bureaucrat,

and the soul of a girl who still writes love letters to the moon.

Every day feels like I’m walking through a living syllabus and a living city —

ruins beside abandoned homes, algorithms beside Ghalib,

Every day feels like I’m walking through a history book –

old monuments just casually sitting next to malls and metro stations.

The traffic? A nightmare.

The heat? Brutal.

The vibes? Immaculate sometimes – like during the rains

when everything smells like wet earth and the city finally chills for a second.

Then boom, back to chaos.

But still, there’s something about Delhi.

The food? Top tier. Momos, chole bhature, street-side chaat –

instant serotonin.

The people? So different, so dramatic,

but also kind when it counts.

You’ll see strangers fighting one second and helping each other the next.

Honestly, it’s not easy growing up here.

It’s fast, and kinda overwhelming.

Sometimes I feel lost in the noise,

like I’m just another kid trying to figure stuff out

while the city keeps speeding ahead.

But Delhi teaches you things.

Like how to speak up, how to survive in crowds,

how to love fiercely even when things don’t feel fair.

And I think that’s made me stronger.

At night, when I look at the sky (barely any stars, thanks pollution),

Delhi.

This city doesn’t whisper — it yells.

Auto horns, wedding bands, azaan,

sirens, slang, street dogs barking at 3 a.m.

She doesn’t cradle you —

she challenges you.

Every single day.

And somehow, you love her for it.

I m growing somewhere between a metro card swipe

and a poetry slam on a terrace in Janpath.

And me?

I'm just 17,

staring out the DTC bus window,

earphones in, heart full of questions.

I never thought I’d end up in Delhi in my teenage , studying of all things. But I suppose, I needed to understand how this side works too.

here, I have to calculate voltage drops to turn on a bloody LED.

Today, I spent hours working on our embedded systems of questions—coded in C, debugged for eternity.

At one point I whispered “Accio logic” under my breath while dealing with inorganic, just for old time’s sake. It didn’t work, of course. But it made me smile.

Because living here is like

growing up inside a metaphor.

Every gali is a poem.

Every cup of cutting chai a break from capitalism.

You feel the heat in your bones,

and the love in random acts —

a stranger saving your seat,

a rickshaw guy lowering the price when you’re broke.

(It happens. Rare, but pure.)

Sometimes the smog makes the stars hide.

And sometimes the chaos drowns your voice.

But this city teaches you to speak louder,

walk faster,

be bolder.

You learn to fight for your space —

in classrooms, in metro coaches,

in conversations where no one listens to girls who raise their hands too much.

Delhi doesn’t give you peace.

She gives you power.

And maybe… that’s better.

Because here,

you don’t just grow up.

You grow sharp.

You grow loud.

You grow real.

And under that harsh May sun,

even when the AC’s lying and my brain’s fried,

I know…

this mad, magical, overdramatic city

is home.

And I’m proud to be hers.

With my typewriter and affection

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C.P.