HonkyTonk

On highways, lorries swing their wide hips - they usually carry sand or bulging sacks, the ones with oil/water are silent. Clinking noises aside, the horns play tunes on repeat, pattern music, joyful whistles. Within city limits, here in Bombay, they whimper, often times howl tragic impatience, much like how I feel, unwelcomed and intrusive.

Wide Open Spaces

Marine Drive Promenade is our habit and like most habits, has creeped in on us unknown. It is a curious lack of ideas, comfort zone and hence an obvious choice. "So what do we do now? " we ask ourselves of any given weekend evening and promptly end up sauntering on the sidewalks of Marine Drive. We look at the crowd of people sitting on the parapet watching the distant skyline. We shake our heads in disbelief and mutter, "How did we land here? We should never come again." Come next weekend, you will find us there, in all probability. It is like the favourite college hang-out, the same coffee shop and the same bunch of friends. Except we are two of us, you and I. We are boring that way.
South Bombay is a dazzling mistress. If you are new and innocent, she shows you things you have never known before. She tortures you with sinful images of gloss and glitter, gazes on you serenely, and smiles haughtily with blue blood flowing through her veins. The day after I had set foot in Bombay, a friend took me to the British Council Library at Nariman Point. We drove around that afternoon and book shopped in Fountain. I was heady, I was in love with this city, which was unlike anything I had ever known. Weeks afterwards, on Saturday evenings, you would have found me walking along those wide cobblestone roads leading up to the sea. Everything from the street lights to the smooth wide roads spelt royalty, a lifestyle I have never peeked into. I imagined glittering salons, flowing champagne and whispering guests, perfumes and diamonds. In fact my first question to my friend was, "How much will a house cost here?" He had smiled indulgently, amused at my childish ambition. I kept asking this question long after, atleast until my love affair with South Bombay began to turn sour. It is on these very parapet that we once sat, curiously divorced from each other, like travellers on a train, civility urging us to keep up the conversation. We had spent the evening at Oxford's and searched in vain for Samovar Cafe suggested by a colleague. It is also here that we learned to learn each other, slowly but surely. A few months ago, one evening here, a charming lady making a short film on Bombay, asked us to speak a few lines on Bombay. While you rattled off facts and reasons, I was curiously camera shy. I could not think of any word to describe Bombay until the camera veered off my face to yours. It was our seven seconds of fame. Remember the time when we met a tired Kannan for a late dinner at NotJustJazzByTheBay? The taste of fresh lime water still lingers in my mouth.
The drive from Wadala to Marine Dirve, kept the fire going for some time. The stink of fish and matchbox slums of Wadala give way to pristine white washed century old quaint Parsi bungalows, that announce the date of building proudly on engraved marble slabs, to the human sea in Dadar and the skyscrapers in Worli, the gravel lanes of South Bombay announce the haughty glittering Queen's necklace. I loved the cross section of lives, the change in human scenery, which is the only scenery you can see in Bombay. But even that has now turned tiresome.
It is time I found a new place to fall in love with. Something with hills, mountain mist hanging heavily fighting the sunlight, a well thumbed book of poetry, the smell of soil and fenced abyss. People? Thanks, but no thanks.

Dilemma

These days, I measure distance with music. Worli Sea Face is 'Sotta Sotta Nanayidhu Taj Mahal' thrice on repeat from home. I find myself looking up in search of rain laden clouds. This morning, while the shades greyed out the bright blue sky, I met the cool breeze with a "Rain" playlist - sensous and slow. My nose searched for the wet hot smell of the passionate embrace of clay and rain. All that reached me was the smell of the open drain running parallel to the rail tracks. At Worli Sea Face, the dark brooding horizon meets garbage right below the parapet and the sigh of comfort turns to a retch. I mute myself in disbelief. The city no longer makes me laugh. Like a Yash Chopra movie, the people here are cosmetic, made up, unreal and fast. The enchantress cannot seem to hold me in her grasp anymore. My heart sinks at the sight of the sea of heads. The Mumbai local train that once embraced me with their music and breeze now spell sweat, grime and the never ending grind of everyday life. This is a city of cliches, of crowded malls, multiplexes, cars, traffic, forgetful and forgettable.

I want the warm stupor of hot afternoons, the curtains that keep the heat and dust off, dancing to the breeze and letting the sun rays play hide and seek on the mosaic. I want to feel the warmth of clothes freshly dried on long clothes-lines and piled up on the bed, the wrinkles waiting to be folded. I want arguments over crossword during evening canteen. I want pyjamas and bathroom slippers on me, for whole days. I want to retreat into the circle of a reading lamp, for entire nights. I want a library that smells of old paper. I want long walks without meeting a soul for hours, midnight romps with the "wing" and common room TV. I want everything that Mumbai can never be.

Is this reason enough to escape to the mountains and rain for two years?