the crossing at Connaught Place

At five-thirty, the inner circle. Everyone moving, nobody quite looking at anyone else, but everyone aware of everyone else. The aunty with the shopping bags who parts the crowd without effort, some understanding with the city that I haven't achieved yet. The pigeons doing what pigeons do, which is to say: being present and indifferent and occasionally dramatic about a crumb. A man standing completely still at the edge of the fountain looking at something I can't see from here. This city is very large and also very small. You can stand in a crowd of two thousand people and feel suddenly, for no reason, that all of it was made for you. Then someone bumps your shoulder and the feeling is gone.