On some days, I wear my jhumkas as reminders of the “twilight in Delhi,” the colour of the setting sun tastes a bit too much like a late-evening orange bar, melting unevenly, and sour-sweetly, against the bustling India Gate greens. And soon, we play a game of aankh micholi, blindfolded with a dupatta I stole from my mother back home, the itchy grass; my only instinct. I hear the chiming of a friends’ jhumka, erratic, much like her chatter. But I hold onto it, my ears eager to catch sound, and call it home, so that the next time someone says Delhi, I will carry them through the resonations of my jhumkas, whispering slightly, “Home is here,” and with my palms, I will slowly extract the dil from dilli, and place it somewhere on the metro, where one day, like an everyday metro passenger who complains the first day only to return the next, my heart will recall Ravish Kumar, And tell itself, Shayad isi ko kehte hain “ishq mei sheher hona.”