This city, you see lovely, was
the city of my love.
I was a child when I came here. Well, almost a
child, to be precise. I wanted to fly. It was like an escape. From what? Do not
ask me. I don’t remember. But does that matter, love? What matters today is, I
ran away from one place to the other, because? I knew I was not meant to be
where I was. Simple! You call it intuition, I call it, misunderstanding. But
whatever it was, this city, my lovely, was the city of my love. Went on loving
it, nevertheless.
A lot happened in five years.
Much more than was thought. But one thing happened for good. I learnt how to
write and give shape to my crude thoughts. My words, my words, my words; all
left, my words remained. A chaos inside my head. Pregnant. Growing old, older,
and oldest with each passing day. Sometimes they would shrivel up, sometimes
they would swell. They would make noises, scream within, formulate without,
hammer inside the thin layers of my head. My words wouldn’t let me sleep. This
city became synonymous to words for me.
To begin with, there wouldn’t be
a day when I wouldn’t climb the public bus from college. Drab, monotonous and
the pelting heat of May. Those cruel summers, friendless, empty streets, sticky
mouth and sometimes, saliva less. Then there would be a break up here, a patch
up there. A boy friend who would leave and a broken heart which would need
care. Words again. They would swallow me down with grief. I would fight with
them. Writing thousand love letters, hate mails, all in my head.
Then, friends happened! A lot
many. Morning coffees, sleepless nights, pajama parties, discotheques, late
night wandering, complaints, drinks, high heels, boys, etc.
This city my lovely, gave me what
I wanted and grudgingly, took a lot away.
My closest friend, died- metaphorically.
My best friend, left- significantly.
Those girls were called off, geographically.
That friend, oh he was a dear but he lied-
irresponsibly!
Another came, we parted. Our ways were not the
same, you see.
People faded but my words remained. I went on
placing words on each chapter, the beginnings and the closures. Words laden.
Heavy. But those words spoke nothing, they only resonated.
Then once more, love arrived in the city of love.
He wouldn’t understand me. I wouldn’t understand him. We spoke different language.
Crisis of words had hit me back again. Lovely, my love was deaf. He has been my deepest
sorrow, my heaviest regret. He has been the lead filled arrow, my hatred, my
extremes. I would howl at him, bark at him, and hurl the filthiest words,
softly. I loved him way too much. Crazed with his love, I would pile words on
words and still remain unheard.
All left but words remained and remained this new
found love. We would make peace; walk hand in hand, without knowing the deepest
turmoil within each other. Complacent.
After an incessant, tireless journey of three years,
old faces were replaced by the new ones. New names. New stories. New tales.
Geography, my lovely, is the big problem. And getting to acknowledge it, is the
bigger one. Defying it is the biggest.
Three years passed and I had again started feeling
strongly for the roads. I would take the
window seat of the car or the bus and gaze outside, not knowing how I was
preparing to run away once again. I used to make all mental notes. I should
have left that day. I should have left when all of them had left. But lovely, I
stayed. Not knowing why, not knowing for whom. I just stayed.
This city is a choot
of a place and my love for filth has always been in me. I would cover the filth
with words.
Today, two more years passed and it is five years
ever since I left that place called home. Where is home, lovely? Where is home?
Few lucky ones get to return, most of us don’t. We do not have homes. I have
courageous words to fuel me up but my words have no courage to make me a home. Home
is what I fear, home fractures me, disappoints me. Words don’t. Should I build
a home with them?
This time, another set of people left, love-ridden,
saying “goodbyes” with tears in eyes, hugging, writing “on my way home, but let
us meet again.” This city is finishing with each day. Falling to
pieces, getting dislocated.
In this city, people come, stay and leave. This
city bears the filth of each. Whore of a city, lovely, this is a whore hole.
You pay, you stay, you court, you mate, you shit, you add to the garbage, you
leave. Guiltless, mostly. This is a city of meticulously calculated, crafted,
full-proof fuck. City, I will cheat on you too, some day. May be soon, may be
late. I feel the threat of time, I feel my heart wavering, giving way.
Where is home and where should I head? What
awaits next? Tell me, till how long am I suppose to stay? Make the words speak
and show me the way.
Empty now, full tomorrow, this city will be empty
again. It shouts- stay, go, stay.
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