Speed with Lipstick

I arrived in Delhi with one suitcase, a garment bag, and the kind of face that made people look twice and then look away as if they had been caught doing something improper.

Fifteen days after I had arrived in Delhi with one suitcase, two handbags, and the kind of confidence that should have come with a government warning, the room changed hands.

I learned very early that Delhi did not ask what you deserved. It asked what you were willing to swallow without choking.

By August, Delhi had stopped pretending to be kind.

By the summer of 2022, Delhi had learned to sweat again.

By the time Delhi had learned my face, I had learned its moods.

By the time I became the kind of girl people pointed at across a room, Delhi had already taught me the difference between being seen and being held.

Khanna started calling me at odd hours, which was how I knew he had moved from indulgence into ownership.

I wanted out the way a thirsty woman wanted water and a drowning woman wanted air. Not in any noble, poster-ready way. Not because I had suddenly discovered the sanctity of the female soul or the tragic poetry of self-respect. I wanted out because I was tired in my bones, tired in my mouth, tired in the soft tissue behind my eyes where vigilance had taken up permanent residence and started behaving like a tenant who never paid rent.

The first thing I knew was the noise.