“Isolation in India is a mirage. This whole building, the entire complex, this corner of southwest Delhi, the whole city is connected to me. A thousand insistent bustles creep upon me from under the gaps in the door, through the window screens, through the valiantly glass-fronted, rubber sealed, fenesta barrier. No matter how apart I try holding myself, I am inevitably connected to the heaves and sighs, the humming music, the din and clamor of the world in constant ferment outside my window. The dust raised by all the dances and lamentations of this city gets in my hair, forms a skin on my skin. Is barricading possible? Even now, the smoky flavors of paturi fish waft in from a downstairs flat. From somewhere, Jagjit Singh’s silken incandescence rides the airwaves. “Zulmat-kade mein mere… shabe-gham ka josh hai (In this house of darkness, in this night of grief, so much of fervor)”. Aloofness is so un-Indian. Every solitude becomes inclusive — tinged with the pungency of mustard oil and pathos of Mirza Ghalib! The smells and sounds here have a way of jumping across not just balconies but centuries.”