I stand on the other side of the one hour forty five minutes flight from Delhi. And here in Bombay, I discover my real sentiments about the city I left behind.
It certainly did not mean concrete, a lonely street, towers, flyovers, railings and red lights to me – I know that now!
It meant lovely bougainvilleas peeping out of white villas. It meant the whiff of cardamom on winter evenings. It meant trees that bow to welcome.
A city is independent of its people. A city is its own person. It is an individual.
It can be moody, cold, rich, dry, warm, cultured. It’s sometimes a wanton woman, and sometimes, strong and silent. Some cities are intense. While others frivoulous as hell.
You make your own connections with a city; you form your own relationships with it. Most of all, you have your own equation with it. Which is why when you go back visiting even after years, you still smile at the old clock tower. Which is also why you blame it for changing if it does.
May the city, my old friend city, never change.
I will visit soon.
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4 comments:
Your friend city had a man.
Man had a book.
Which he gave to you.
Could not be returned.
Will you do it now?
Find him at his number.
He would have reached you himself.
But has not your number.
visiting delhi soon for three days. will try and return it. sorry was too caught up before leaving. or maybe i will courier it.
Ain't in the city, friend.
Call or text.
We'll figure a way out.
Thanks.
Touche :)
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