The Invisible Father

Delhi was not a city of facts. It was a city of overlapping, competing symphonies, each playing a different tune in the same chaotic hall. It was a metropolis built on the shifting sands of versions-each truth a bespoke garment, customized for the audience, tailored to survive the acidic scrutiny of dinner-table debates and the performative theater of courtrooms alike. The air itself seemed thick with narratives, smelling of diesel fumes, marigold garlands, and simmering ambition.
Light in Delhi was a currency; the harsh, honest glare of the May sun revealed the cracks in the concrete, while the forgiving, saffron-tinged haze of a winter evening could make even a garbage dump look poetic. In the tangled, spice-scented lanes of Lajpat Nagar, where the sound of a pressure cooker's whistle was the local heartbeat, you could buy a first-copy handbag that bled color in the rain, a watch whose gold plating would flake off by next season, and, if you knew the right people with the right whispers, a brand-new reputation.
The colors here were loud: shocking pinks and electric blues of synthetic saris vying for attention against the dull grey of dusty pavements. Here, the air hummed with the silent thrum of servers and the scent of expensive, bitter coffee. In these towers, you didn't buy knock-offs; you bought narratives, futures, and, for the right price, alibis.