Flying into Delhi on a Diwali Night

We were racing the sunset, and it was fast catching up. Above the smog now, but soon below it. That was a surprise in itself – normally, you don’t escape the smog until you’re very close to the airport. Being Diwali, and very near winter, you would expect it to be worse.
Delhi’s a pretty sight from the air on Diwali. The city’s all dressed up, lit up. There are patches of sulphur light, in them strings of smaller deep-yellow lights from the diyas lining the roofs of the houses. And the intermittent little bright flashes on the ground, that I’d never before seen from a night flight - a jeweled sprawl below. The sprawl who’s sky was routinely lit up by balls of fire of red and green and white and yellow.
We landed amidst the violet lights lining Delhi airport’s tarmac. Violet is pretty light. Violet filaments have a red tinge to them - and you stare at them long enough, and they even turn pink, then blue.

The girl at the conveyor belt. Frail, demure even, beautiful with marble eyes, and great poise. And she knew the effect she had on the men, and women, all around. She stood with one leg stretched out, leaning on the trolley, looked around and sighed – with general contempt, I imagine. Traveling with her parents, with whom she shared no facial resemblance. The mother looked Assamese, the father not – neither had her green eyes, or peach skin. To try and imagine her origins in a crowd would be hopeless then.

(2006)