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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In Nizamuddin Basti.
[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]
One night, around quarter past ten, The Delhi Walla sighted his most beloved Delhiite – author Arundhati Roy. She was walking in the medieval bylanes of Nizamuddin Basti.
Dressed in salwar kurta, Ms Roy was carrying magic secrets in her eyes. She was speaking to no one. A tiny diamond gleamed in her left nostril. Her arms were folded and there was a bright red bag slung on her right shoulder. Although her curly hair were covered in a red dupatta, there was something restless and untamed about her. Her demeanour suggested the recklessness of a suicide bomber. Everyone around looked a bit wary of her. She was like the Osama bin Laden of Words, just beyond our grasp. It was best to just Let Her Be - a literary terrorist.
And then, while deep within herself, Ms Roy suddenly smiled. Her luminous nut-brown skin shone as though it has been polished with a high-wax polish. She was the most beautiful woman ever seen.
Soon, the smile faded and Ms Roy kept 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 walked past. Like a jazz tune.
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