The City of Blinding Lights

I stand on the edge of the rocks and let the cool breeze graze my face and the gushing sea kiss my feet. I feel every inch of my body feel recharged. Little do I know that this sense of rejuvenation is going to be eroded by that awful stench the moment I turn around. “I am still new here”, I say to myself as I envy those who are enjoying the beach as if it were amidst a perfume factory. I walk back, battling the stinking air and stand under a palm tree facing the pavement abuzz with tiny bulbs. From the angle at which I am standing, this beach could easily be in Havana or Miami. But I doubt whether those place could do anything more for me, except temporarily satisfying the part of me struck by wanderlust. I turn around to catch a glimpse of the main reason why people come here. A friend had once ruefully observed about Bandstand, that it has been hyped just because of the residence of a single person. He missed the point that this person can own half of Mumbai which he does, in a certain sense. As I look at the small crowd which has gathered outside his gate to see him, I think that it is only befitting that the people of Mumbai worship Shah Rukh Khan. For, he is a tribute to this city of dreams, to the adage that anything can happen here, and to the belief that this city can be owned by anybody.

I look around myself at people having a good time. A group of college kids strike various poses to get photographed. They all look the same. The girls, thin as a stick wear skin fitting jeans with their T shirts sleeves rolled up to show a bit more of skin. Their hair is ironed to perfect straightness and they all speak in catchphrases with a fake accent. The boys in their baggy jeans and Mohawk hair flash their latest smart phones and behave like the most important people in the city. At their age, this city is not too big. As dusk begins to fade away and the night starts to fall, I decide to make a move before the traffic thickens.

My car gets stuck in the traffic the moment it gets on the highway. Looking at the highway gives me a rude shock, which again proves that I am still new. As far as I can lay my eyes, I see long winding stretches of roads, with their blinding lights. I suddenly miss the moments I had with myself at the beach. Moments of privacy are rare to come my here. Large hoardings line the street, with Shah Rukh Khan tearing out of one of them reiterating his larger than life impact on the city. The hoardings are the newest feature of the Mumbai skyline, the most effective tool to grab the attention of this “always on the move” city. Every celebrity worth his/her salt can be seen here, posing stylishly, flashing a smile, delivering a witty line, pointing towards a product and ordering you to buy one from your nearest supermarket/ showroom. The demureness and the confidence of these dashing celebrities are a mere façade hiding the feverishness of the corporate to capture the loyalty of the ever shifting consumer base. Loyalty, that elusive virtue, fast fading into obscurity in this city of blinding lights. You don’t belong to anyone but your ambition here, not to your values, not to your love, not to your brand, not to your employer. The traffic loosens a little and my car leaps into action like a leopard let out of a cage, only to be tamed into a halt a few minutes later. This is how most of Mumbai returns home after a day of overcoming hurdles, by crawling on choked streets. I like to think that this is befitting in a strange way, for it gives them the time to thank the universe for letting them survive another day. But then again I wonder, when do they live?

Monday Blues....not today!

Hi everyone,
I had the day off today (thanks to the UK banking system). All my friends who like me, are freshly catapulted into professional lives will completely understand the bliss a non working Monday can bring. I was informed about the holiday a few days ago, and since then my mind had been conjuring idyllic images of spending an afternoon at home on a summer weekday. It was brilliant indeed, lazing around the house, reading Austen and Wodehouse (my way of thanking the British for the day off) and not worrying about any deadline for once. Sure, I do these things on a weekend too, but doing them on a weekday gives me a different feeling altogether.

I was perched on my bed at 3:30 PM, sighing (yet again) at Mr. Darcy and saw the sunlight streaming in through the window. I know, it is hard to be romantic about sunlight in May, but hey, I was reading the mother of all romances. It filled me with inexplicable joy and contentment to sit in my sun kissed room. Just then, I realized how much I missed afternoons. I think afternoons are the most underrated part of the day. It is like the middle of a plot which takes it own sweet time to unfold. Holed up in my air conditioned cage of a workplace (which is not entirely bad this time of the year), I had forgotten about the laidback charm a pensive afternoon can bring. The post lunch sluggishness, the long siestas, sitting listlessly having meaningless conversations, has a lure of it's own. I walked around my whole house watching the rooms radiate with pleasure, bringing a smile on my lips. I then sat in the balcony, listening to the chirping of the birds and the noises of children and it was therapeutic. I remained seated in the balcony, later joined by my mother. We watched the kids play, talked a lot, admired her plants, sweat profusely and welcomed the dusk together. I guess these are the moments we live for. The little things we do with our loved ones, the quiet afternoons we spend with ourselves and the holidays we happily welcome after working hard....all in all, a great day!

Blank.....

I gaze at the paper, eager to pen my thoughts,
Blank as a slate, with bewilderment I am fraught.
Words elude me, or is it my feelings that are numb,
In this drunken world, to the stupor have I succumbed?

I reminisce fondly, when my words had flown like a river,
Now they twitch morosely, curdling in my pen that quivers.
I grope into my soul, grappling with blurring memories,
They refuse to be forced out, afraid to see the light of reality.

My paper remains blank, words dying a silent death,
Martyrs to my despair, shrouded in tears of regret.
And I sit in cold stillness, gaping at my friend once so ardent,
Sighing heavily at the silence, and the wordless night that I am going to spend.

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