ASA

The sun hit the staircase of the metro station just as I was stepping on it.

For the first time, escalators didn’t feel like cheating.

I let myself glide up, hands loosely resting on the rail drifting slowly.

Then, That same automated voice echoing, "Agla station, Jasola Apollo hai." 

It's lovely to realise that the mathematics behind fixed announcement times in trains

is based on just trigger logic,scheduling theory, and control systems.

What do I see?

Fog, though? It wasn't fog.

Delhi isn’t hiding it anymore. Even the air has stopped pretending.

They say in Japanese, "asa" (朝, あさ) means "morning". It is also used as a given name, with variations of meaning, including "morning" or "hope". In a broader context, it can refer to the time period of the morning or even breakfast. 

Somewhere between the Lotus Temple’s curve on the skyline,

I remember how I used to paste it's pictures in my EVS monuments projects

when I was eight.

And now, it’s on a window view which I pass by every morning on the way to school. 

Universes live in the people of the metro.

Their eyes, their silence,

the way their headphones are like protective auras — closed doors to their internal galaxies. 

When we passed Okhla, I saw those red-brick buildings again.

Their green rooftops remind me of British homes in picture books.

I always imagine they smell like old rain and wooden bookshelves inside.

I love reaching school early~ no crowds, no noise, just the stillness of beginnings.

I was the first one today. I always try to be.

My shoes clacked in the clean corridor — click, click, click .

Oh! How much I love this sound.

The sunlight filtered through the upper ventilation panels,

drawing long beams across the worn floor.

I opened the classroom door slowly.

The smell that rushed out was the same suffocating old classroom scent

I don't know, maybe sweat, dust, and tiredness.

There was a pigeon near the window again. 

Same spot, like it has a punch card and takes its attendance more seriously

than most of us do. Honestly, I think it’s emotionally attached to this ledge.

I turned on the fans — one, two, three

and they groaned awake like they’d also rather be unemployed.

Honestly, mood.

The walls are more worn than last week, or

maybe I’ve just stared at them long enough to notice their existential crisis.

There’s something oddly sacred about this little routine.

Sacred in the way brushing your teeth while contemplating the futility of everything is sacred.

It’s the same one I had back in my hometown school to

romanticize the stillness while slowly dissociating : arrive before everyone else, breathe in that pure morning air, diary in hand, and either watch trees like

I’m in a coming-of-age film… or

Maybe finishing the biology notes I pretended to take in class.

Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, yes, we know, we get it. Can it power my motivation?

Hell, no.

I arrive early, settle into my corner, like I’m the protagonist.

Sometimes I’d solve math problems on my favourite third-last bench

Just right for contemplating the futility of life while factoring quadratics. Same corner, same girl. Just a different city now.

And here’s the kicker,

Remember those formal letter-writing practices?

To The Editor

New Delhi

Subject :Please Save the Planet Because the teacher won't Save My Grades.

I used to make up that address religiously. It just sounded... official.

The application letters where I used to write my hypothetical school addresses

as Sarita Vihar.

I’ve essentially been scammed by my own imagination. Manifestation? More like accidental GPS-based irony.

A sleep-deprived girl with a diary, a vendetta against ceiling fans,

and just enough sarcasm to power through the day.

And really, isn’t that all the enchantment we need?

Afterall.

I don’t believe in magic the way fantasy books sell it.

I believe I am the magic. And maybe that’s enough.

In class today, Sir said something like,

"Storms are approaching, be prepared."

Everyone laughed. He meant exams, of course.

But I thought — what if I am the storm?

Like in that Murakami quote I keep scribbled in my notebook:

"And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through... But one thing is certain — when you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in."

Maybe storms are nothing but growth in disguise.

And I?

I’m the wind building up.

While going back, I noticed the peach-cream apartments in Jasola

glowed under the harsh noon sun.

Delhi afternoons really do slap you in the face — sun slaps, I call them.

They leave invisible fingerprints on your skin.

Delhi makes you feel all seasons in a single day.

See you tomorrow

—C.P.