“Software. Software. Software!” “Laminaaaaaaaaaatiooooooon!” come the calls from young, beady-eyed boys (yes, all boys). They’ve finally reached puberty, their voices just cracked, enough for them to yell at the top of their lungs and whisper beneath their breaths at the same time. They are equally present on the pathway and hidden in the shadows, with their Dolche and Gobbana shirts fitted to their almost-tonned bodies (in the evenings, after they’ve sold their share of illegal software, they’ll go to the gym, staring at a picture of Salman Khan with stars in their eyes). Nehru Place used to be my own personal hell-in-Delhi; I used to imagine that each and every beady-eyed boy that I made eye contact with was the one who had torn into our privacy in A-Block Dayanand Colony, invaded our memories and travels and pushed reset on all our technology, wiping them clean and reselling them without bothering about the empty hole it would leave in our lives and minds. But now, after weekly trips to the printers tucked behind the stationary shop where the employees always compliment me via the materials I get printed, after cups of coffee overhearing legitimate and friendly business conversations, after short but immediate interactions with smiley patrons of the pavement, I realize that it isn’t the stolen electronics (and the lives contained in them) that make Nehru Place what it is – it’s the lives that are there, present, sitting and selling, thinking and living, breathing and sometimes yelling, because and in spite of everything else – business suit or badly copied and branded jeans. *These photos were all taken and edited with an iPhone 5 and were originally published on my other blog: daybydayindelhi.blogspot.com