“My art re­volves around Delhi,” says il­lus­tra­tor An­gel Bedi.

India Today - - INSIDE - The au­thor is an il­lus­tra­tor at The Filmy Owl.

Iam a pure Delhi girl—not the kind who car­ries a point­less, un­com­fort­able look­ing bag, nor the soli­taire-hoard­ing kind, or the tick-tock­ing in pre­ten­tious mall kind. I am that typ­i­cal dilli waali, who loves end­lessly. I feel love comes nat­u­rally if one says hanji in­stead of nods of ap­proval. Ev­ery lit­tle thing must be adored in my eyes. Strangers need to be smiled at once in a while, street dogs are def­i­nitely more im­por­tant than people. Yes, I do sound like I am over dos­ing on happy pills, but be kind and keep read­ing.

You have to keep shut while Mum­bai­ites point fin­gers at our snobby-ness, but then we ob­vi­ously have the power to smack them hard if they don’t stop af­ter a point. This is where the desi ghee kicks in and our Kol­ha­puri chap­pals come off.

Be­ing a doo­dle artist, I draw for a liv­ing. My work, my art, it all ro­tates and re­volves around the people of this beau­ti­ful cob­web of a city, Delhi. From the di­alect that starts off with pretty of­fen­sive words, which must be used in­stead of prepo­si­tions, to the jar­gon our gora chit­taa boys use to woo the thul­las, it’s all so typ­i­cally Delhi. I am in­spired by aun­ties, who in­vented the con­cept of bar­gain­ing. Ev­ery­thing about these gor­geous crea­tures—from their chipped ma­roon nail paint to the way they emo­tion­ally black­mail the poor sabzi walah with their killer looks—are so fas­ci­nat­ing. The other day, I sat in an auto and got lec­tured by a young, right­eous driver about how wrong was it on my part to have sat in the auto with­out ask­ing if the me­tre is work­ing or not. Yes, it is very un­com­mon, but some­times, out of nowhere, this city throws good­ness your way. So one must work on those re­flex ac­tions and catch the happy vibes time to time.

Of course, I am be­ing overly pos­i­tive at the mo­ment and ig­nor­ing all the ridicu­lous be­hav­iour that hovers all over us mostly, but there is a tiny speck of sparkle that is peep­ing out of this bas­ket full of rot­ten ap­ples. Look at that sparkle. If you be­lieve in the power of biryani, you will un­der­stand why this place makes my heart melt. Ev­ery­thing sums up to a steamy mix of per­fec­tion. So do me a favour to­day, feel that mo­not­o­nous lit­tle feel­ing and smile be­cause you are a part of some­thing fan­tas­tic, at this very mo­ment.

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