deep blue something-jet black nothing, deep blue something-jet black nothing, blue-black, blue black, blue-blue-blue-blue, pant, i was out of breath.

I had been wondering and continued wondering in the pool. It was a night of dark, hot sticky summerness. clingy heat.

I hadnt wondered for a while any wonder then that all of wondering came upon me all at once washing over me like sleep. I wasnt sleepy though it was just such a good line. stolen but a good line anyway. No I wasnt sleepy i was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed that all of this wondering had come upon me in this inky, blue sticky blackness.

The weather i think has a lot to do with nostalgia. What nature of nostalgia then had this sticky night inspired? I was unsure and more than a little flumuxed. My mind seemed to be turning cartwheels in no particular direction. there seemed a sense of purpose to the inky blackness. I knew i was supposed to be wondering because a strange sense of almost unreal not-rightness was tying my stomach in little knots. knot knot knot knot went the unreal not-rightness.

I stopped perhaps i had water up my nose. it was dark. "no time to swim" said the unreal not- rightness with the water lapping in my ears. lap lap lap knot lap. Perhaps the unreal-not-rightness would leave me to my solitary swim if i only went where it was quiet. no lap lap of the water no sounds of silent black night just the crushing press of water. I swam underwater, chest skimming the white-blue tiles, arms powering through the blue-blue somethingness. i found a tooth. Pant i was out of breath.

There was a tooth in the pool. Half a human tooth. I'm quite sure it was infact half an old bleached human tooth chipped at an angle, the owner must have cut his lip, the gum perhaps. There must have been blood.

I cautiously, self consciously ran my tongue on my teeth, my lips, my gums. There in the inky blackness with the unreal-not rightness positively swirling around now i tasted the viscous mettalicness of my blood. blood a trickle, blood a stream. blood and tears a flood.

this was not a new wound, this was old uncried pain. the heaviness of hot sticky nostalgia had dripped saline liquid on wounds as yet wounded. In that one second of searing, bloody pain knew that i missed you still.

The car tore through the heart of darkness and then it was gone. 10 minuets before New Delhi Railway station it was dark again.

I loved Delhi from the first time that I saw her. I was born in a not so god-forsaken nursing home in the not so heart of Delhi. I don’t remember seeing her for the first time but I like to believe that I loved her then. In between the bloody sheets and screams and tube lit rooms I’d like to believe that I loved her.

I didn’t know that I loved her until I loved someone enough for them to show me what it was to love Delhi. She showed me how to love her.

Perhaps it is that when all the orientalist romance is done I go home to my not so orientalist home away from all the aching and fear and love and lust. Safe in my not-so-orientalist bed.

Perhaps if I had to live the Delhi I love perhaps things would be different then.

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Today I cant find something I love and I don’t know what to do with this feeling. I don’t know what to do with this aching feeling that won’t give way to rage. It seems I have no one to blame.