Hold a handful of sand—your inescapable fate.
Redemption dangles like a carrot on a stick—
Always within sight, yet forever out of reach.
Delhi, the heart of India, is a city layered with centuries of history. It has borne witness to the rise and fall of empires, each leaving its mark on its culture, architecture, and politics.
Once known as Indraprastha in the Mahabharata, Delhi has been a seat of power for dynasties spanning the Mauryans, Guptas, and Chauhans. The Delhi Sultanate and the Mughals sculpted its skyline, leaving behind legacies like the Qutub Minar, the Red Fort, and Jama Masjid. Post-partition, Delhi transformed again—this time into a political powerhouse, home to institutions like Parliament House and Rashtrapati Bhavan. Today, it is a metropolis in flux, a city where the past and present collide, where the weight of history meets the burdens of urbanization, pollution and overcrowding.
To me, Dilli has always been home without a home. Before I was even born, my family’s routine revolved around traveling from Rohtak to Delhi every other day. Dilli is an imprint on my soul, a presence woven into the fabric of my life.
But time sharpens perception. With every conversation, every experience, I have come to see how insular our chosen social worlds can be—how we confine ourselves within the upper and upper-middle-class enclaves, dismissing the reality of the majority beyond us. These circles seethe with resentment, convinced that politicians ignore them. And so, the ruling powers stoke this resentment, keeping hatred alive while ensuring the status quo remains untouched—the poor stay poor, the privileged keep their illusions.
The difference between them and their so-called nemesis, the “Khan Market gang,” is simple. The latter, branded hypocrites, at least engage in discourse, at least make some effort toward progress. The former, however, refuse even that—clinging to a fragile comfort that maintains their version of normalcy. Their misplaced anger turns inward and outward; they despise both the wealthy who dare to have a conscience and the poor who require one.
So spare me the narrative of the innocent. The starkest divide has always been education—not wealth, but the chasm between knowledge and mere information. The government understands this well: information, wielded differently for the educated and the uneducated, is a tool of control. And the real problem? It is neither the poor nor the middle class—it is the über-rich, the ones who influence but remain untouched.
Look at the middle class: stagnant incomes, shrinking opportunities, and a future blurred with uncertainty. The government knows their frustration must be redirected; otherwise, it might turn against those in power. The easiest target? Those already at rock bottom—the poverty-stricken, the marginalised, the alienated quantitative majority mislabeled as a “minority.” Flood the whatsapp groups with forwards of “othering” and reap the benefit. Keep the gated societies gated.
In this, the middle class turns to religion, searching for belonging in a world that offers them none. And the ruling regime offers them an easy path: Don’t question. Just believe. The fact that Air pollution is not even an election point speaks volumes about us as a society in these Assembly elections.
Yet, they continue chasing the illusion of prosperity, watching as lucrative projects are handed to monopolies, hoping—praying—that one day, they, too, might rise to that level.
This is Dilli.
This is India.
This is where we stand—adrift, in flux, caught between what was and what might never be.
Himanshu Chakravarty Sharma / मंच 