The Rosa Parks moment was when Shaheen Iqra sat on the road flanking Shaheen Bagh which connects Kalindi Kunj in southeast Delhi and Noida blocking the busy traffic on December 15, 2019. Earlier that day police had forcefully entered the Jamia Millia Islamia University nearby and brutalised students in retaliation for a massive protest they undertook against the Citizenship (Amendment) Act. As the cold dusk crept in early, Iqra exhorted others with a handheld microphone to join the sit-in. In the peak of Delhi winter, the coldest in over a
When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written. (Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer.) Deepak outside the pastry shop The police van was parked across the road from where the dead body lay as if poised for a quick getaway. There was a lull in activities when I walked into the crime scene; it transpired later that it was the break when everybody awaited the official police photographer. That nameless guy whose thankless work accompanies
#instatravel #motorcycling #heritage #dhaba #nh2 #royalenfield #incredibleindia #travelogram And finally The city gives up. Hauz Khas, where I stay, conurbates into more highrises and flyovers, reverberating underpasses and fringe residential areas before thinning out into open mandis – wholesale marketplaces. As I passed by these throbbing centres of humanity, big boned jolies laides were making a beeline to collect the stock of vegetables, fruits and flowers from the previous day that were unsold. These would be, through the course of the day, hawked at traffic signals with snotty kids saddled
Jump / AIIMS “On the bright side, the ride to the mortuary will be considerably shorter,” she said as she stood with one hand on her plump hips. She looked at her husband and even though she didn’t detect any mirth she laughed as she breathed hard. “We are going to die woman and you cannot be quiet for a full minute?” He asked gruffly, succeeding with some effort to suppress a smile that crept into his lips. He had always marvelled at his wife’s funny sense even though he
Heritage plays a temporal trick – it can make history feel within reach. I walked up the pathway leading to Lahori Gate, entrance to Red Fort, where friends waited. On my right was the eyesore barbican built by Aurangzeb; Shah Jahan, his father, who built the fort, was miffed with the looming gorgon in garish orange. ‘You have made the fort a bride,’ he wrote from his house arrest quarter overlooking the Taj Mahal in Agra, ‘and set a veil on it.’ The high wall today, fortunately, blocks the view
