A poem by Mukul Kesavan, a writer and essayist

Yes, I remember the cold weather

in Delhi. I see lower lips cracked

in half; noses raw from blowing;


dark at six; dead coffee houses, ghosts

sipping hot, chlorinated slop, yes,

I remember winter in Delhi.

And the rain, the wet, I remember

that well. The old photo of a bus

drowned at Minto Bridge that

the Statesman

carried once every monsoon, rainy

day holidays, the Jumna flooding,

oh, I remember Delhi coming down.

But whenever I dream of Delhi

I see cyclists wavering in the heat,

roads softened by the sun,


beggars barefoot in the tar, Lutyens’

green avenues, their still, vacant


In my dreams of Delhi, it’s always


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