The Next Bend

The weather here has changed quite suddenly. At first, the raindrops didn’t surprise. It was gradual—the way humidity changed clothes. It was proof that Delhi doesn’t fail to shock.
It has been quite sometime that I have been sleeping out the nights here. Even this year, winter came and left, freezing memories in its wake.

And summer is having a terrible identity crisis.

Recently, I had mentioned to Anand that summers here can kill. Interspersed with bouts of mellow rain and lashed by dusty thunderstorms, the city of mughals has been hissing hot steam from its parched cracks. But the rain sometimes manages to hide the sins.

It's quite nippy here now.
Two years might not be a very long time. But guess it has been the most eventful period of my life. When I first came here, I didn’t know what to expect. But now guess it’s time to step out again.

Working for a newspaper as a journalist is not an easy job. Of course, no job is. But then again, words have their place.
Of late, I had started looking at writing as a job. People say that it is actually so. But I say it’s not that easy to just let go.

All of us sin. But the enormity of the crime lies not in the execution but the intention. It is important to know what you want.
In my case I don’t know because I haven’t seen far enough into the future to decipher it. It is important that I want to do it. I feel like climbing up the wall to see what lies on the other side.
The day-me, or anyone stops wanting, will be the end of the road.

Every bend has a new stretch waiting. How much you discover depends on whether you want to take it...