This April I completed half a decade living in Delhi. It felt momentous, even worth a minor celebration. But Delhi doesn’t give you a chance to do that. April 17 was the anniversary when in 2017 I’d arrived to the city to a friend’s place for a new job assignment. It was a cloudy, pleasant day that we spent indoors, sulking about meagre pay drinking KF premier. This year’s on April 17 the city felt ablaze. The heatwave had come in early, by the end of March and by the second half of April we felt like everything around was on fire.

So in July when the rains came in it felt like a reason to solemnise. And when I say rains in Delhi what I’m really saying is drizzles, scattered here and there, spread out. It comes in spits and bursts, few bouts, and that too, far in between. A rehashed version of its former self. A ghost, a wraith, I could go on.