Saturday, 28 June 2014

Bombay, thou art sexy!

There is something about Bombay. There is something between Bombay and me. There is something between Bombay and the rest of the world.

First, I love her.

Yes, it’s a She. A "He" can never so erratic and so peaceful at the same time. So passionate, and yet so impersonal. So hard to get. So lonely inside, but still so proud. Yes, It has to be a She.

Do I yearn for her?

Yes. I do. And, badly!

But then, I don’t think I want to be with her all the time. I am apprehensive of the contempt familiarity breeds. I don’t want to belong to her, so that she has a grip on my life and I then lose its reins. Which would render me her unequal, a lover not worthy of her anymore.

So I’d rather choose to be that subtle lover, who steals his way to her on nights that rain, on days that storm, on evenings that breeze. I want to meet her, mate her on those special days and those special nights which would be meant just for us; and, when it would be just us.

I don’t want to wearily walk my way down her roads after a hard day at work, or after a sweaty day after being ill. I don't want to hang on to her serpentile train's railings or her proud red BEST buses. I don't want to banter with her native autowallahs or brush shoulders with her six sigma  rated dabbawallahs. No.

I want Bombay when we are both up for it. When she wants me too, and as badly.

Be it once in many months. Never mind. But, be it history. History! Now, that’s important. That’s a must!

I was too young to realize what it meant to leave her, when I did so nine years back. But she was not. Every time I set my foot on her, till date, she has never failed to welcome me with rain, be it even a drizzle, but still. Just like it always rains on each of my birthdays, whichever city I be in that day. Funny, no?

But this post is not about me. It’s about her.

It’s about telling her how I love her, still. How I will, always.

Can I be cremated in Bombay when I die? Please?