If someone's peeking through a window, let them look.

Probably Tuesday

but who’s counting when life feels like a loop?

All I have to do every morning is to travel 11 kilometers.

But somehow,

it feels like I have to cross planets, dimensions, and bureaucracies of movement — and for what?

To sit in a classroom already too tired to think.

I left the hostel sharp at 6:45 AM,

walking to the metro station with my bag weighing on one shoulder and sweat already crawling down my spine. 

Then came the security check.

The moment I’m reminded that every place I enter first needs to doubt me.

Bags scanned — all part of this weird dance of safety and suspicion.

And then up the stairs. Always stairs.

I swear if I had a rupee for every stair I’ve climbed this year,

I'd probably afford an AC for my school.

I board the metro 25 minutes of relief.

Once I’m out, the sun slaps me in the face.

Again, I haul my bag across the street,

hop onto a rickshaw that jolts like a washing machine,

my spine rattling with every pothole.

Then I reach that one landmark

Well, the one I’ve mentally marked as checkpoint two.

Another change. Another rickshaw.

Another few minutes of staring into heat and noise.

Finally, school.

I know people say this is convenience — the metro, the shared rickshaws,

the fact that I can travel at all.

And I get it, I do.

But some days, it doesn’t feel like convenience.

It feels like a machine I’m stuck in.

Like I’m wasting hours just to move.

Like the city controls not just where I go,

but how I go, and how long it’ll take, and how tired I’ll be by the time I get there.

I wish teleportation existed.

Or just... less friction.

But for now, I guess it’s just me, my bag, the stairs, the sweat, the checkpoints,

and this never-ending dance to reach a place that’s supposed to build my future.

A city that teaches you how to fight and survive,

but also asks you to look away when it’s inconvenient. 

I was at the metro station.

Peak hour, same crowd 

You know 

exhausted faces, people buried in their phones, a couple arguing quietly.

I found a spot near the wall, away from the rush, and leaned my head against it for a second.

That’s when I felt it.

The tremor.

It started slow.

And then it grew heavier, faster, closer.

The metro was arriving, and the wall whispered it before the announcements did.

It’s weird, how something so mechanical can feel... alive.

The vibrations ran down my spine, not violently,

but enough to remind me that this city is always moving — whether I want to or not. 

Delhi is a paradox.

The city wears a shiny necklace of malls, metros, and mirrored buildings

but behind it, if you tilt your head just slightly, you’ll see the thread fraying.

And My school is right on that thread.

Where apartment buildings with floral balconies

stand just meters away from a trash-filled barren land.

Beauty and dump sip the same tea here.

What fascinates me and hurts me is this dance of contrast.

Dry, cracked fields stretch like forgotten promises.

The air smells of smoke, plastic, and burnt leftovers.

Dumpyards puff out their gloomy breath,

and children — maybe younger than me — 

rummage through garbage,

collecting recyclables instead of dreams.

I don’t want to look away.

I want to write about it.

I want someone, anyone, to know that they exist here too

~ in the dust, between cracked walls and Wi-Fi signals.

In the gaps of policies.

In the borderlines of South Delhi.

In the morning,

when the first period begins,

and I noticed old aunties in their balcony sitting silently,

middle aged women doing the laundry

And kids cycling with tiffin boxes slung across their backs.

There’s a comforting rhythm in this middle-class life so alive and familiar.

After a couple of hours....

When my exam just ended — I hadn’t slept the night before.

 

Free period. Not really “free,” though.

I had my books out for the next exam, highlighters ready,

a page open with scribbles and notes that only I can decode.

But something about the breeze from the corner window called me again.

So I paused. Just for a bit.

I leaned against the wall.

I peeked out of the window,

I see the cottonwood plant.

Tall and stretching all the way up to the fourth floor of the school building.

Its branches swayed gently, as my hair strands dance with the storm breeze

and I saw birds making nests among the leaves.

There it was — life happening without any plans.

A tree swayed like it had nowhere to be.

Birds flew past in random loops.

And in the balconies across the road, little kids were being… well, kids.

One was crying because her toy fell down,

another was laughing and someone else was shouting just because he could.

Wild. Free.

And I sat there — quiet, composed, a little tired and reading a bit more.

From doing everything on my own, day after day.

Being self-dependent feels good most days,

but it gets lonely in between lines and expectations.

Today, I just wanted to laugh like those kids. Loud. Shameless.

Not as a “girl who should compose decently,” but as a human who wants to feel.

But no worries.

My parents — they’ve raised me with wings, not cages.

Through exams, lessons, late-night studies, early morning alarms.

Through the moments when I pick myself up without applause.

"Everyone be like ‘what’s the time?’ and I’m out here lifting my wrist like a vintage queen, decoding circles like it’s 1885."

And then I thought — maybe someone’s watching me, too.

From another window.

Seeing a girl sit quietly,

eyes wandering in the sky wishing they could be me too.

Maybe they’re creating a story about me in their head.

Maybe they think I’m mysterious. Or strong.

If someone’s peeking through a window, let them look.

Let them imagine.

Let them build a world through their view — because isn’t that what I’m doing too.

Inside, the teacher sat on a chair,

yawning quietly, and my friend had her head down on the desk,

half-asleep, escaping into her own calm.

And just like that, I was no longer seventeen.

I was ten again.

Back in my hometown, at my school

where trees had stories, 

afternoons were slower, and life felt softer. 

Sometimes, all it takes is a tree, a bird, a quiet

afternoon — and you’re transported home.

Anyways, the bell’s about to ring. Back to being the quiet warrior I’ve become.

  

Maybe that’s what being 17 feels like — noticing too much, feeling too deeply, and still hoping things will bring a good change.

Until then,

I’ll keep writing:)

C.P.