The Bombay I know is intricate and inaccessible
So many alleys to vanish into, so much light to guide you out
With loud bracelets and giggling earrings
Born and bred under lush mango trees and hopeful butterfly clasps
They speak the languages of Bengali, Marathi, Urdu
Blabbering out an emotion from pursed lips of colour
Struggling to catch a glimmer of sunbeam to impress their clientele
Indians and non-Indians alike;
With stained glasses that trap sunshine into their stuffy selves
Trying to taste joy that can only be felt
Bombaim grew an island nation
out of gifts, joy, celebration, marriage, and dowry
exchanged like the currency it isn’t;
it proudly goes by capital today
a practice in subtle wordplay,
“What a delight! Capital!”
an archaic British expression,
but the outlandish words still ring true
“Let bygones be bygones.”
dogs and Indians were not allowed
look at the progress we have made, testaments to painful revolutions
Women were not allowed into clubs until the late 19th century
But now we let them dance on countertops.
Watch, as dance bars are where anthropomorphism occurs
a literary figure raped so brutally
for and of men, only men. Few women like the indoors.
We let them outdoors……remember?
Slums, sleaze, sex
Mumbai’s bars paint the prettiest and primmest of images
An added benefit:
a woman still retains her rights to paint
an image so lucid
artistes needn’t repaint it
A disguised paradox,
Bombay chases after money already clenched in its fist
held despondent, suffocated, squelched
slowly the heavy breathing evens out, sweat traverses the loosened palm
the palm breathes, tells the money it’ll all be okay, it’s just a bad dream
the money looks up in tears
so many loves lost, relationships broken, people sold- but it wasn’t its fault
Archipelago of seven islands
King of finance
Exchanger of the currency
Feel the paper’s touch
Swathes of persons in a push comes to shove milieu
Thronging towards perfection; stepping on slippery stones and
getting slashed by the rough vine
Families lost in the whirlwind of stillness
because that mischievous pot of gold at the end of the rainbow
steals the spotlight from his arch of myriad colours
Striving for that touch of sunlight
The artificial warmth, warmer than fire
a sliver through the crack.
Juliet of the sun? questions Shakespeare
No,
Bombaim has never lived to see the sun
the train whistles on, demanding to be heard
lend an ear to Bambai
the motorcycle growls at night
it stops under the bridge for some gas
re-fuelling itself with sizzling oil, a rare spice
its Portuguese persona disappears into thin air
Bombay has smells only the eye can see
Every kilometer, scents seize your senses
Charming you with their cultural idiosyncrasies
Chutney with parathas, anyone?
Put a whole lot, only eat a little
Share the rest
Bombay is an island of hope
encircled by expanses all around
Oceans to run across and skyscrapers to dive into
Little drops of condensation make themselves known on this island
The leaf can rise in pride, knowing that on this island,
there is a place for its child
In Bombay, people pour out onto the streets
From different shades of skin to dialects to dress
The money maker laughs at the man selling 10 rupee channa for a living
His entire livelihood, reduced to a sneer, so that his child can go to school
unlike him
Fortune meets misfortune,
& they become best friends
Giggles shoot out of lips curved like knives
Shrapnel pierces through the mind, an invader unwelcome
“A community,” you say. Bombay muffles her laughter.
She giggles.
“Safe? Quiet? Secure?”
shouts of treachery, disloyalty, threat, fear
Bombay can be ugly too
Show me your scariest side, Bombay!
Tell me your darkest secrets
But “No”. It said
“Secrets are meant to be kept.”
Bombaim retreats to its prejudiced persona
born and bred in shackles of dowry
“Lots of scientists have worked on this model, it’s just that we see no success within reach”
“Should we give up?”
“Let’s work on something more feasible.”
In a fury, I blurted, “You’re not the Bombay I knew and loved,”
“What did you do with it?”
“Don’t point fingers at me!” It said.
“I’ve been Bombay my whole life, I simply don’t know how to be anything else.”
“Well, today you do, Bombay.
And the worst part is that you can’t even recognise yourself.”
So looked Bombay in the eye, and spoke Bombay’s reflection, Mumbai
both brothers as long as they could remember
“Bhai, abhi toh kuch kar.”
“Chalta hai, yaar.”