Uninvited Guests Quotes

Uninvited guests are often most welcome when they leave

Wine talks; ask anyone. The oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the wedding feast; the holy fool. It ventriloquizes. It has a million voices. It unleashes the tongue, teasing out secrets you never meant to tell, secrets you never even knew. It shouts, rants, whispers. It speaks of great plans, tragic loves, and terrible betrayals. It screams with laughter. It chuckles softly to itself. It weeps in front of its own reflection. It revives summers long past and memories best forgotten. Every bottle a whiff of other times, other places, everyone...a humble miracle

Whenever someone makes out a guest list, the people not on it become officially uninvited, and that makes them the enemies of the invited. Guest lists are just a way of choosing sides.

When you least expect to recall something, a memory can pop up like an uninvited guest on your doorstep.

You never know these days. Uninvited guests may force you to take an unplanned trip to an unknown destination; doesn’t hurt to be in your Sunday clothes.

In the end I learned that the water was in me. It was a ghost that could not be exorcised. But a guest, even uninvited, must be attended to. You make up a bed for them. You pour from your best bottle of wine. If you can learn to love that wich despises you, you can dance on the shore and play in the waves again, like you did when you were young. Before the ocean is friend or foe, it simply is. And so are you.

Unless you're prepared to deal with the aftermath, never invite yourself to a situation where your presence is not requested or welcomed. Don't pull out a chair at someone else's table, then turn around and be hurt when you feel unwelcomed.

Upon Mrs Scorton's reappearance, she found herself confronted, not by the fool of his family, but by the Honourable Frederick Standen, a Pink of the Pinks, who knew to a nicety how to blend courtesy with hauteur, and who informed her, with exquisite politeness, that he rather fancied his cousin was tired, and would like to be taken home. One of the uninvited guests, entering the box in Eliza's wake, ventured on a warm sally, found himself being inspected from head to foot through a quizzing-glass, and stammered an apology.

Uninvited guests might arrive at your home, but you don’t have to ask them to stay for dinner. You don’t have to let them into your mind.

She had believed that the heart was like a house and when you let someone in, they were only a guest. You could entertain them in the living room while keeping the bedrooms shut. You could limit their footprint to a minimum. But she had not suspected that Kaiz was a shameless, over-familiar guest who took a tour of the house on his own, opening doors and walking in unescorted, uninvited.

Disappointment is an unwanted—but invited—guest.

I can no longer bear the thought of being the uninvited guest in other people’s lives.

If my uninvited guest was, say, The Merchant of Death, he’d slam that door off its hinges the minute he had a chance, making me funeral-home-ready in about two seconds flat.

Hello dead girl," Isola said, ever the hostess. "Hello heartbeat girl," said the uninvited guest. "It's like a drum, it's so fucking loud. Turn it down, will you?

The Odyssey suggests that it was the responsibility of male householders to offer hospitality of this kind to any visitor, even uninvited guests, strangers, and homeless beggars

The rage Odysseus musters against his uninvited guests seems to stem from a desperate need to preserve not only his wealth but even his identity from the mouths of those who are eating him alive.

Unexpected situations in life are inevitable. They arrive on our doorsteps like uninvited guests. However, we can prepare for them. We can …grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ (2 Peter 3:18a). When we do that, we’re ready for whatever lies ahead.

Ghost-Managing Book List The Uninvited Guests, by Sadie Jones Ceremonies of the Damned, by Adrian C. Louis Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice Father of Lies, by Brian Evenson The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead Asleep, by Banana Yoshimoto The Hatak Witches, by Devon A. Mihesuah Beloved, by Toni Morrison The Through, by A. Rafael Johnson Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders Savage Conversations, by LeAnne Howe The Regeneration Trilogy, by Pat Barker Exit Ghost, by Philip Roth Songs for Discharming, by Denise Sweet Hiroshima Bugi: Atomu 57, by Gerald Vizenor

If you run out of money, there are always ways to find more. But if you run out of time….

I always thought pointillism was a metaphor for life. When you’re too close to something, you lack perspective. It’s only once you have some distance that you see things the way they really are.

Diary entry, summer 1973. It may be there in a distracted glance out of an open window or in the split second of an absent look when you speak to her, or in the guarded inflections of her voice as she replies, or in the subtle chemistry of touch or smell or the taste of her skin in your mouth, or in some unspecified sixth sense that you can’t name, but when love is over, its signals are louder than disclosure, if only you are willing and open enough to acknowledge them. But of course we shake off these feelings as if they were mere irritations, as if they were unimportant and uninvited guests at a feast. “Not now,” you say, fobbing them off with shallow excuses and feigning more urgent business elsewhere. But they linger long after the party, and skulk in a corner where they plot and fester and return to ask their impertinent questions in the still of night, when she’s sleeping and wearing her child’s face. When she looks so beautiful and vulnerable with her mouth slightly open, and her hair a mess on the pillow, but as you reach to touch her, she turns unconsciously away toward the window, and then the questions start again, and you can’t sleep….

Wyatt was, in fact, finding the Christian system suspect. Memory of his fourth birthday party still weighted in his mind. It had been planned cautiously by Aunt May, to the exact number of hats and favors and portions of cake. One guest, no friend to Wyatt (from a family “less fortunate than we are”), showed up with a staunchly party-bent brother. (Not only no friend: a week before he had challenged Wyatt through the fence behind the carriage barn with —Nyaa nyaa, suckinyerma’s ti-it-ty…) Wyatt was taken to a dark corner, where he later reckoned all Good works were conceived, and told that it was the Christian thing to surrender his portion. So he entered his fifth year hatless among crepe-paper festoons, silent amid snapping crackers, empty of Christian love for the uninvited who asked him why he wasn’t having any cake.

We are like guests in this world. I do not mean this in the worn-out mystical sense. I mean it literally. In the course of every visit a point comes when one feels it is time to go. If one misses this moment, things become problematic. One's hosts try to persuade one to stay the night. The last Underground train has gone, topics of conversation run out. One has too much to drink, finds oneself in an uncomfortable bed, can be confident of never being invited back again. I did not want to be an uninvited guest in Berlin, nor to become a tolerated long-term guest.

My mother looked at my dad and didn’t know him. Didn’t know where she was. Who she was. What was happening to her. There was this, like, permanent, creepy smile, cracked lips pulled back from bleeding gums, her teeth stained with blood. Sounds came out of her mouth, but they weren’t words. The place in her brain that made words was packed with virus, and the virus didn’t know language—it knew only how to make more of itself. And then my mother died in a fury of jerks and gargled screams, her uninvited guests rocketing out of every orifice, because she was done, they’d used her up, time to turn off the lights and find a new home.

Wine talks; ask anyone. The oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the wedding feast; the holy fool. It ventriloquizes. It has a million voices. It unleashes the tongue, teasing out secrets you never meant to tell, secrets you never knew. It shouts, rants, whispers. It speaks of great plans, tragic loves and terrible betrayals. It screams with laughter. It chuckles softly to itself. It weeps in front of its own reflection. It revives summers long past and memories best forgotten. Every bottle a whiff of other times, other places, every one- from the commonest Liebfraumilch to the imperious Vueve Clicquot- a humble miracle. Everyday magic, Joe had called it. The transformation of base matter into the stuff of dreams. Layman's alchemy. Take these six in Jay's cellar, for instance. The Specials. Not wines really meant for keeping, but he kept them all the same. For nostalgia's sake. For a special, yet-to-be-imagined occasion. Six bottles, each with its own small handwritten label and sealed with candle wax. Each had a cord of a different color knotted around its neck; raspberry red, elderflower green, blackberry blue, rose hip yellow, damson black. The last bottle was tied with a brown cord. Specials '75, said the label, the familiar writing faded to the color of old tea.

It was a world of fine shadings and the nicest proportions, where impulse seldom set a blundering foot, and the feast of reason was undisturbed by an intemperate flow of soul. To such a banquet his wife naturally remained uninvited. The diet would have disagreed with her, and she would probably have objected to the other guests.

Pariah Luggage by Stewart Stafford I am the last piece of luggage, On the baggage carousel, If there's a suitcase deity, It has cursed and forsaken me. I see the excited faces drop, Blank me and turn away, And around I go yet again, Condemned to ovoid limbo. The stumbling supermodel, On a mortification catwalk, Bursting at badly-taped seams, Spilling contents everywhere. On my next lap of shame, Those same faces show pity, For the uninvited leper guest, At life's most fugacious "party." © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

Now this room would soon belong to someone else, perhaps another child who would cultivate his or her own memories. All the dreams he had dreamed, the lives he had wished for himself, the secret yearnings and longings he had felt, were all associated with this room. But as he had learned from an early age with the death of his parents, everything in the world is transient, and we can only hope our time is well spent. And most importantly, those dreams and longings become a part of you, not of a place, and they go with you wherever you go.

What wisdom do you want from a death-marked girl? I can say only this: In the end I learned that the water was in me. It was a ghost that could not be exorcised. But a guest, even uninvited, must be attended to. You make up a bed for them. You pour from your best bottle of wine. If you can learn to love that which despises you, that which terrifies you, you can dance on the shore and play in the waves again, like you did when you were young. Before the ocean is friend or foe, it simply is. And so are you. -FROM ANGHARAD MYRDDIN (NEE BLACKMAR), 191 AD

Totally Biased List of Tookie’s Favorite Books Ghost-Managing Book List The Uninvited Guests, by Sadie Jones Ceremonies of the Damned, by Adrian C. Louis Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice Father of Lies, by Brian Evenson The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead Asleep, by Banana Yoshimoto The Hatak Witches, by Devon A. Mihesuah Beloved, by Toni Morrison The Through, by A. Rafael Johnson Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders Savage Conversations, by LeAnne Howe The Regeneration Trilogy, by Pat Barker Exit Ghost, by Philip Roth Songs for Discharming, by Denise Sweet Hiroshima Bugi: Atomu 57, by Gerald Vizenor Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haine Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai

Do you know my father as little as that? We will take your castle, but I would not do it with you and the boy in it.

The light belies the bony solidity of the land, playing over it like emotion on a face, and in this the desert is intensely alive, as the apparent mood of mountains changes hourly, as places that are flat and stark at noon fill with shadows and mystery in the evening, as darkness becomes a reservoir from which the eyes drink, as clouds promise rain that comes like passion and leaves like redemption, rain that delivers itself with thunder, with lightning, with a rise of scents in this place so pure that moisture, dust, and the various bushes all have their own smell in the sudden humidity. Alive with the primal forces of rock, weather, wind, light, and time in which biology is only an uninvited guest fending for itself, gilded, dwarfed, and threatened by its hosts.

I don't think I've changed at all,' said Emerald, knowing herself to be lying, but there was a mist between her and her childhood self, made up of grief and multiple small denials, and she did not care to try to look through it.

Cool Dust" A heave of afternoon light pulls a tulip from the turf, a bower for locusts, a cup of shells. The farmhouse tilts, a bent shadow on wheels. In cedar rooms a family is molded, silent, wrapped in the wire of steel eyes and stopped voice, romantic ash. This is not my house, my ghost, my uninvited guest, my lost labor of love, my thicket or grease, my JPEG gessoed or rawhide suit. The yellow light throbs like an internal organ — soft body of an overture to insect sounds — sapling of a new world — whose future awaits me at the tilting window of my own domestic hut. Perhaps this is my mesh of hours, my muscular ache, my guardian sash, twist of rope carved around an old maple trunk, my rod of power red with anticipatory friction at the edge of an emerging set of planetary rings. Stained ochre by the air I pitch forward, a vanilla-scented pear that floats or falls. In the rattan chair on the front porch by the blistered boards of the front door a figure of tar watches. Cool dust sparkles and settles. Shadows have made me visible. An empty wagon flares on the hillside.

holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; instead, you are the one who will get burned. I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of it.

The Uninvited Guests, by Sadie Jones Ceremonies of the Damned, by Adrian C. Louis Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice Father of Lies, by Brian Evenson The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead

The Uninvited Guests, by Sadie Jones Ceremonies of the Damned, by Adrian C. Louis Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice Father of Lies, by Brian Evenson The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead Asleep, by Banana Yoshimoto The Hatak Witches, by Devon A.

The Uninvited Guests, by Sadie Jones

Grams had a very solid rule about uninvited guests: keep the doors shut and the curtains drawn. “No one should show up without an invite to one’s home. That’s invading their haven,” she’d always say. “And if they do that, they will cross all of your boundaries without a blink of the eye.

Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruit.” Prov. 18:21.

Nobody likes change. It's an unwelcome guest to your schedule. An uninvited intruder to your schedule. It rocks your routine and can even alter your way of living. Because we live in a world that is constantly changing, we learn to live anticipating the next modification in our lives. Technology, entertainment, fashion, and even the economy are forever in a state of flux. And that's okay as long as their changes don't affect us. But inevitably, it shows up at our doorstep unannounced, taking us by surprise.

Ghost-Managing Book List The Uninvited Guests, by Sadie Jones Ceremonies of the Damned, by Adrian C. Louis Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice Father of Lies, by Brian Evenson The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead Asleep, by Banana Yoshimoto The Hatak Witches, by Devon A. Mihesuah Beloved, by Toni Morrison The Through, by A. Rafael Johnson Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders Savage Conversations, by LeAnne Howe The Regeneration Trilogy, by Pat Barker Exit Ghost, by Philip Roth Songs for Discharming, by Denise Sweet Hiroshima Bugi: Atomu 57, by Gerald Vizenor Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabal Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai

Ever since her injury she’d assessed every situation with safety in mind and always had an exit strategy.

worried that Obed would not be able to keep as close an eye on Merab as Sarah had done. He was gone most of the day, working with his father and brother. What would Merab do, left to her own devices? Sarah sat quietly while the others ate. Taleh thought Sarah would be glad they were going. Instead, the old woman acted as though she was sorry they were leaving. Surely that could not be. Having uninvited guests thrust upon one for a month, extra food to prepare, the constant bustle and lack of privacy, who would miss that? But there were tears in Sarah’s eyes. The meal was, if anything, noisier and more jovial than usual. Obed and Javan discussed work, and houses, and the best, most efficient way to transport their belongings. Merab said little, but she paid close attention to her husband, which relieved Taleh. Merab’s sulks often were about him, when he was not around. It would

Sometimes, silence drops around like an uninvited guest.

Pain is an unwelcome guest, but one that knows exactly where to settle. It doesn’t knock; it walks in uninvited, and claims the deepest corners of your being.

I smiled. “Hey, ‘Eve,’” I said. “Think you’ve got some uninvited guests.” Now they were on three monitors. Teams of men in uniform black, huddled down behind riot shields, forcing their way into the Enclave lobby. A tear-gas grenade exploded on one camera, blanketing the lens in white smoke. On the parking lot view, a swarm of police cruisers ringed the building. “Oh, hey,” I said. “Looks like the whole Vegas Metro SWAT division is here. Plus the FBI, Homeland Security, and probably the IRS for good measure.” Lauren shook her head wildly. Her plants quivered. “What? How? They have no reason to be here, no evidence against me!

Change, the uninvited guest that destroys what once was.

Some nights I am the fallen star with too many wishes hung upon it. Some days I am the wilted flower which has seen too many winters and too few springs. Mostly I am the invisible presence that never quite learnt to show itself. I have watched too many people and know too well the bitter scent of pretence in the air. They will pretend to see you, know you, love you, but, hurt you, leave you, kill you. Life is a party some said, but no one warned me against uninvited guests.

For Sweden, the price of aiding the Allies could be fifty thousand uninvited guests

Depression is hard to crack. It’s not like you can just wake up one morning and say, “I’m not going to be depressed anymore.” It stays with you, like an uninvited guest who just won’t take a hint and go away. Ritch

Nate, what's that? Over there, someone's running. Come see." Sure enough, way off in the distance, a kid. He looked a little younger than us. Running criss-cross through the streets, looking like a kick returner zagging upfield. Dozens of zombies followed, desperate to tackle him. Chapter 10 – Uninvited Guests for Dinner I grabbed the binoculars to get a better look. The kid was all decked out with a backpack and some sort of protective face shield, almost like a welder might wear. He dragged a weed sprayer in one hand and an old rake in the other. "That kid's in trouble. Just about every zombie in town is on his rear." He seemed to have a plan. Running with purpose, only shooting zombies in his path. He must have had some strong stuff—a trail of flaming zombies lay in his wake. "Is he coming this way?" "No. I think he's headed east, the bridge maybe?" Dropping the binoculars, I headed down the ladder. "Come on. He'll get cornered at the bridge.

that is how an uninvited guest makes a stir on arriving at a ball. Underdress, and everyone else’s finery looks ridiculous.

You’re not wearing a shirt or waistcoat.” The corners of his lips turned up, the first real humor she’d seen in him—and at her expense. “You spent a half hour sketching me, and you’re only noticing this now?” An hour sketching him, taking him apart visually and putting him back together on the page as a composition, a study. As he’d hunched over his letter, his chest had been a shadow she’d avoided. “I noticed.” Though she’d noticed by omission. Her gaze traveled down. “What is this?” “The cat…” He didn’t move, didn’t leap off the couch and hold the door open for her. Jenny pushed the dressing gown farther apart, revealing two long, angry red welts running up Elijah’s belly to his sternum. “Timothy did this?” She touched the welts, surprised they weren’t hot. Elijah’s stomach went still beneath her fingers, as if he’d stopped breathing. “Timothy was an uninvited guest at a kiss,” he said. “An ill-advised kiss. He absented himself from the proceedings as best he could.” As

I’m fine. I’m fine. Those words kept playing repeatedly through my mind. They were trying to push out the other thoughts that seemed to grow louder and louder with every passing second. Stay down. What’s the point of getting up? I hated days like today. Days when the battle inside me raged fiercer than I’d had the strength to fight. Depression was an uninvited guest to my soul, and it had thrown a shroud over my will, leaving me paralyzed in the sanctuary of my bed. The digital clock on my nightstand kept changing, a relentless reminder of the world moving forward without me. I wanted to get up and shake off the despondency sticking to me, but my body refused to obey my wants. I was tired.

My apologies! / Your ache cannot be of gold there / Forever an uninvited guest / This city doesn't carry hand-me-down devastation / Unlike you / Unlike us

Charlotte looked about her, haunted, at the edifying squareness of Sterne’s hall. ‘It’s a great mistake ever to imagine one is home,’ she said brokenly and sank onto the bottom stair.

Sometimes the dream sent her flying high around Sterne like a bird, with the roofs spinning away beneath her; the chimneys, stables, gardens and country filling her eyes. Then plunged back to earth by waking, she inhabited her bed alone, and wept for her lost infinity.

Like an uninvited guest, “Doubt” shows up at the most inopportune times

One should not, he considered, take shortcuts uninvited, especially when one was the guest of people of social importance.

Another way of saying (uninvited guest) "She brought Ma, Pa and the Cook".

For truly I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be removed and be thrown into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he says will come to pass, he will have whatever he says.” Mark 11:23.

holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; instead, you are the one who will get burned.

Getting comfortable again, I grab one of the magazines that I keep stuffed under my thin mattress. Flipping to the article the guard Paul told me about, I’m just getting to the part about how chandeliers are a necessity in creating an awesome she-shed, when two prison guards come running in. They take one look at my open cell door, the magic smoke still polluting the air, the unconscious male on the ground, and turn gaping looks at me. I give them a bright smile and point down at Scarface. “Hey, Paul. Could you clean that up for me? I think he wet himself.” Paul lowers his gun and pulls off his SWAT-style helmet. “Another one?” he asks, jerking his chin toward my uninvited cell guest. I shrug my shoulders and give him an apologetic smile. He shakes his head and nudges the unconscious jail-breaker with his boot. “Damn. We need to up our security. We aren’t used to so many supernaturals trying to break someone out of here,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as he frowns in thought. “Yeah, it’s very disruptive,” I tell him. He grunts in agreement. “Good thing your ride is here,” Paul mentions casually as my unwelcome cell guest groans loudly from the floor. I squeal and start clapping excitedly, which startles both guards. “Yes, finally!” I shoot up from my cot and thrust both arms out, ready for the required shackles whenever a prisoner is being transported. Paul releases an amused chuckle, and Terrence—the other guard in my cell right now—gives me some judgement-laced side-eye as I giggle and wait like a kid on Christmas morning for the cuffs to click into place. I’m finally going to be sentenced and booked into Nightmare Penitentiary. I can’t fucking wait.

Those who feel plagued by not being good enough are often drawn to idealistic worldviews that offer the possibility of purifying and transcending a flawed nature. This quest for perfection is based in the assumption that we must change ourselves to belong. We may listen longingly to the message that wholeness and goodness have always been our essence, yet still feel like outsiders, uninvited guests at the feast of life.

Love and DEATH are two uninvited guests, when they come nobody knows but both do the same work, one takes the HEART and the other one takes its BEATS

Music can be the uninvited guest. But how we receive it will determine our mood, and sometimes, our decisions in life.

Some people who don’t know what to do with their own time believe they can feel free to waste my precious time and energy trying to keep bombarding me with their visits.

An uninvited guest who makes appearances at public occasions with no warning. An unconditioned reflex that cannot obey the dictates of common sense or reason. A reflex that commits an act of betrayal just when one is about to excuse oneself from a populated room. A breaking wind that sometimes chooses the path of silence, at other times loudness. If one is born under lucky stars, one might make it to open spaces with no company just in time to expel the intestinal gas with an unpleasant odour. If star-crossed, a cough or a slight movement or even miscalculations in time to reach the door could cased the wind to explode in a way that compels those in the vicinity to shield their nostrils or turn their head sideways for fresh air in disgust. Farts are mortifying!

You are an uninvited and unwanted house guest. So you'll drink it and you'll fucking love it, or your next beverage will be drain cleaner. Clear?

Words were loaded. They came with uninvited memories and they had guest. Tears weren’t welcome here.

He just stared at his lap and waited for each successive second to impose itself on him in turn like an uninvited guest the way the previous one had.

The Turks, themselves defeated in the Great War, treated the Russians surprisingly well and smiled acceptingly when their uninvited guests would rest on the stairs of mosques. They would even allow the Russians to enter the Hagia Sophia, which before the Ottoman conquest of 1453 had been the major cathedral of Eastern Christianity. Greeks and Armenians, old foes of the Turks, were still banned from this enormous mosque.

Here, she was an uninvited guest in a home she didn’t want to disturb.

Admittedly, from her observations, Cristina, King Owain’s

long after an injury is gone, the pain can hang around, like an uninvited guest sleeping on your couch. Doctors call this chronic pain,

Slanting sun rays entering through the window panes like an uninvited guest, chit chat of the neighbourhood aunties complaining about their maids, traffic scratching out its way with noisy horns, vegetable vendors, loud uncles, ironworkers and many other unrecognizable sounds; enough reasons to wake me up amidst the Chandni Chowk’s volant lifestyle.