The Blazing City

The Blazing City

This is the first part of this story, The Blazing City.  

All characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Before going further make sure that the candle is properly placed, so that it doesn’t catch any fire.



He was an Ad-Hoc professor of Delhi University, and she was, dark under eyed, phD student of Jamia. Beings poles apart from religious perspective both had a “Anti- CAA” pluck board in their hands.  They first ran into each other at Jantar Mantar, where she, when felt some ambiguity regarding the not so clear content of his pluck board asked him with determined countenance, ” What do you mean by this — PM 2.5 is better than PM 2.0.”

He looked at her in a way that only Ice cream lover looks at droping choco chips. In just a moment of rushing slogans ‘aazadi aazadi’ he noticed her wearing green kurti on a sky blue jeans and had a red dupata rolled around her neck just to establish a simple innocent fact that she is a revolutionary student of the modern times.

“PM 2.5 is a pollutant, so as our dear prime minister’s second term in the office” he said wiping out the smudged ambiguity of his bright pluck board.

“Brutal” she said in a soft voice, adjusting her spectacles.

“And what does your board says”

“Go ahead just give it a read”

“I would have, but I happen to forgot my Google glasses, that could translate urdu to hindi”

She smirked, and he wished to pinch her cheeks.

“Its a nazm, written by faiz, Hum Bhi dekhenge

“Oh, that’s very thoughtful and anti national as well”

“Guilty,” she said rolling her eyes. “See you around”.

Next time he saw her outside JNU near a tea stall, but felt a little too burdened to go and say “Hi remember me” stuff, so he kept silent and ordered tea for him self, just when he turned, holding the cup, he bumped into her, and hot tea felt all over his ironed shirt. Thank god it was winters.

“Oh, I am really sorry” she said, noticing familiarity of his cheek bones hidden behind not so well groomed Brown beard. He smiled, and forgetting the fresh strains of his shirt said “Hi you”.

“Well hello” she said feeling guilty. “And I am sorry for this” she said pointing to his shirt.

“Not a problem, mam” he said putting undue stress on the word ‘mam’.

“How come you are here” she asked noticing his official couture.

“I am here to submit my thesis” he said

“Well now you sound boring to me” she said mockingly

“That’s actually my guilty pleasure” He said with a diabolical smile.

“And that’s mean” she said in high pitched voice, almost hitting him on his arms.

When he wonderd how womens cut across the touch barrier so fast, where as if it was the other way around, things might go very wrong. Very very wrong.

“See you around,” she said, waving her cylindrical hand in the air precipitating a morning breeze out into the atmosphere.

“Hey Stop, at lest tell me your name” He sounded so desperate that even the tea seller couldn’t control his eyes and ears that sensed his desperation, reminded his time when he first asked the name of the a girl who was visiting the Baniyapur Mela along with her siblings, after knowing her name he offed her the special Jalebis that are slowly cooked and has jaggery filling inside, later the girls brother discovered their act of fooling around and the beat the guy with stick and stone. Probably our protagonist was lucky enough that there was no jalebi around to offer.

“I’ll tell you the next time we’ll meet.” she flaunted and disappeared into the mist of floating politics anticipating their next meeting. He saw her moving forward with the air discoloring all around, with fainting smell of her cologne, simple sober with strained salmon shirt.

Two weeks later She joined a  peace march from Shaheen bagh to Chand bagh, it was….

To be Continued…


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