The Delhi walla's pretension in writing makes me want to lodge a bullet in his balls - Blogger Nimpipi, the woodchuck chucks
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At The Book Shop, Jorbagh Market.
[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]
One afternoon, The Delhi Walla sighted his most beloved Delhiite – author Arundhati Roy. She was browsing at The Book Shop, Jorbagh.
Ms Roy was looking as she always looks – interesting. Her gaze was kind. A mischievous smile was playing on her thin lips. But her eyes were searching for something elusive. It was not the bookshelves for sure.
From such close proximity, Ms Roy did not seem very tall and yet her presence was towering.
However, she was carrying no book. No tiny diamond was gleaming in her nostril. Her arms were folded and there was a bag slung on her left shoulder. Two necklaces were grazing her absurdly beautiful collarbones. A floral-print skirt (or was it a pair of trouser?) was billowing around what must be her slender legs.
Ms Roy's hair was still wild as they used to be when her novel The God of Small Things was first published in 1997. But now, when she is rumored to be working on a new novel, they were a little grey. Her eyes had also sunk a bit. The region around them was darker than the rest of her dark skin. Ms Roy had never looked so beautiful in book jackets and magazine covers.
She kept on walking straight; her gait suggesting that she had a nice athletic run. After what seemed to be a lifetime, she came very close to The Delhi Walla. Then Ms Roy looked at him, looked away and went out. Like a jazz tune.