Love is a very polarising force in this city (as I imagine it would be in most cities). Some are falling in it, some are falling out of it, some are chasing it and some are running away from it and then there are those who always have an opinion about it. Attraction is a slippery slope and commitment, an even slippery one. In a city full of feelings and temperaments, love is too often a commodity. It doesn’t matter if you and I can’t have a conversation, you’re hot and you make me look good, let’s be together while this lasts? And maybe, we can pretend the sex isn’t as mechanical as after dinner coffee on the menu for the sake of keeping up appearances. We’ll colour coordinate our clothes, get a casual drug habit, do art and food on the weekends, start-ups during the week, drink enough to drown this gaping abyss between us and develop a co-dependency we can comfortably ignore long as the Instagram pictures are looking great. Soon, there’s a ring on it since you’re too worried about going off the deep end and the next thing you know, you’re thirty, drinking far too much and spending far too much on doing things you don’t want to do with people you vaguely abhor wondering where your twenties disappeared. The weight of the world is love, and nowhere is this truer than in Delhi. Love runs people as much as money does but romanticism is dead, except in retail.