(This story was first published on 9 March 2015 and has been reposted from The Quint’s archives to mark Vinod Mehta’s death anniversary.)
Intellectuality is so often the refuge of second-rate writers, and Vinod Mehta had no need for it. Delhi’s political scholars wished to imagine that he was simple, but what he was in reality was interesting. It was an accident of personality, a consequence of a charmed bachelorhood in Bombay, his delinquency and an inescapable interest in everything around him, especially the little things.
The tourist from Bombay who was in love with the intellectual gas chambers of Delhi, Vinod Mehta, when he stood in his circles drinking, regarded a conversation as purely just that, not a peacock dance, not a marking of territory – no wonder he was an odd man in Delhi. It is somehow appropriate that Delhi’s air should kill him.

