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.