Praveen Vijh
Photography

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Beyond the high walls of our weathered courtyard, muffled calls of the city are white noise punctured by the clashing of bangles against stainless steel plates. A lapis sky pours in, the pressure cooker shrieks, steam escaping, teasing with smells of lunch trapped within. The trumpet play of neighbour’s vessels whistle from surrounding balconies and announce the time of day. Clothes hang like kites drying in the morning sun. Washing water, harpic blue, sharp and dense, overflows onto the stone floor.

At a nearby hospital, in the gauze Delhi heat of a July night, I was born. Residents had pulled their mattresses outdoors to catch the murmurs of a breeze and to let the chatter of crickets lull them to sleep under the bare essence of a new moon.

By the age of two you know what your life will be. You know the path ahead. You know what is love. You already know your yearnings, your passions, the fire that flickers in your belly.

You are already friends with the adult you are going to be.

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