I grew up in Delhi. Not Lutyens’ Delhi, that quieter, greener stretch of tree-lined avenues and high-walled colonial bungalows where the VIPs live. But close enough to know that two cities share one name.
One Delhi is generally messy. Rubbish piled into small mountains by the roadside. No footpaths to walk on. Narrow streets marked as one way, with every kind of traffic coming at you from every direction, and then simply stuck.
And the dust. Not a film on the windowsill, but something you breathe. It hangs in the heat, gets into your throat, burns your eyes and sets off the sneezing before breakfast.
The other is the Delhi that gets dressed when the world comes to dinner.