Mumbai
A dump of refuse is followed by a woman with haggard skin, rags covering her body. Her hair is scattered, uncombed, full of mud. Her eyes are savage.
A stack of earthen pots comes next. A naked child running around in the refuse with a running nose looks up, wondering what the world around means. Two men smoke on a stack of old cardboard pieces. I wonder which is the father of the baby. A few steps ahead the road
re-appears. Its bright, sunny, the road is dry unlike the previous patch of wet and dark. The overhead bridge moves behind allowing the sun rays to fall on the road and my head. This place has been vacated and re-occupied several times since I was a kid. No one likes change. Definitely the ones who live under here don't ever want to change.
I'm wondering why I love this city.
The road is wet, in the center is a hollow which is filled by rain water forming a black sea. On the edges there is muck - dark grey in color, decorated with blotches of light brown excreta, mashed under the feet of pedestrians, merging into the road like paint smeared on a palette.
I really wonder what makes me love this city.
The people here are running, away from themselves, marching into time, keeping busy to avoid the pinch of worry. Suppressing the voice of their hearts, treating each other like movie actors - with pleasant envy. People are hard, cold, and ruthless. They show fake emotions, but never real ones. The reality of their feelings is reflected in their hateful actions. Somewhere someone snaps, the tension covered by tolerance is exposed and fuses everywhere start blowing up.
The delicate balance in the city is maintained by the hopeful hungry eyes, waiting for the next day, waiting for tomorrow. Everyone has a look of resentment, wondering who gave some people the right to be happy, and how dare they express it so fearlessly? They spit on those who listen to their hearts - telling them that you'll regret it one day - and you'll thank me someday for being practical. What they're actually doing is protecting themselves from the hurt they feel about their own abandoned hopes and desires. They force themselves to believe that what they really want is money and recognition. They laugh at those who are struggling with the waves of time, gloating in their secure and safe cages. Scoffing at the chance and risk some people take, letting them know how low and foolish they are. Part of them is scared that these people might actually make it through just fine. It disturbs them, because it could have been them.
Some of the objects in the city are being carried forward without renovation, shingles and hinges are rusted and creaky, floors and stairs stained and covered in centuries of dust and footsteps. The dust forms a cake on every wall and every ancient object. The lift door is covered in oil and dirt. One wonders how dirty the hearts and minds of those people are, who live here, work here and tolerate this mess. This mess is indicative of the internal mess in the person who bears it.
I wonder why I love Mumbai.
I think I know. Familiar objects make you feel safe and comforted. No matter how disgusting this city is, its what I'm used to. So I feel something for it. And I assume whatever I feel for it must be love. It usually is, isn't it? I loathe this place. Some of it is sleek and beautiful. Attractive and clean. The rest is shamelessly filthy. The contrast is indicating something. Something, I don't know if its the mood of this place or the attitude. I think its the attitude. The whole city vibrates with one frequency, and those matching it find themselves coping wonderfully, enjoying every second of their existence. The attitude is disgusting. Its good in some ways, but dastardly in others. I need purity. I need a clean place. I feel unclean here. This city is dirty. Where is my city? Where should I live? Where will I be happy and clean? Which place matches my vibrations? How will I find it?
I want to travel. I will work at random places on my travel. I am tired of being scared and struggling for security. I don't need it. I just want to control my mind and live the life my soul intended. I long for connection with my inner self. Let me feel whole again, let me get that state back, where I could hear every guidance. Let me find that voice again. Please let me heal.
A stack of earthen pots comes next. A naked child running around in the refuse with a running nose looks up, wondering what the world around means. Two men smoke on a stack of old cardboard pieces. I wonder which is the father of the baby. A few steps ahead the road
re-appears. Its bright, sunny, the road is dry unlike the previous patch of wet and dark. The overhead bridge moves behind allowing the sun rays to fall on the road and my head. This place has been vacated and re-occupied several times since I was a kid. No one likes change. Definitely the ones who live under here don't ever want to change.
I'm wondering why I love this city.
The road is wet, in the center is a hollow which is filled by rain water forming a black sea. On the edges there is muck - dark grey in color, decorated with blotches of light brown excreta, mashed under the feet of pedestrians, merging into the road like paint smeared on a palette.
I really wonder what makes me love this city.
The people here are running, away from themselves, marching into time, keeping busy to avoid the pinch of worry. Suppressing the voice of their hearts, treating each other like movie actors - with pleasant envy. People are hard, cold, and ruthless. They show fake emotions, but never real ones. The reality of their feelings is reflected in their hateful actions. Somewhere someone snaps, the tension covered by tolerance is exposed and fuses everywhere start blowing up.
The delicate balance in the city is maintained by the hopeful hungry eyes, waiting for the next day, waiting for tomorrow. Everyone has a look of resentment, wondering who gave some people the right to be happy, and how dare they express it so fearlessly? They spit on those who listen to their hearts - telling them that you'll regret it one day - and you'll thank me someday for being practical. What they're actually doing is protecting themselves from the hurt they feel about their own abandoned hopes and desires. They force themselves to believe that what they really want is money and recognition. They laugh at those who are struggling with the waves of time, gloating in their secure and safe cages. Scoffing at the chance and risk some people take, letting them know how low and foolish they are. Part of them is scared that these people might actually make it through just fine. It disturbs them, because it could have been them.
Some of the objects in the city are being carried forward without renovation, shingles and hinges are rusted and creaky, floors and stairs stained and covered in centuries of dust and footsteps. The dust forms a cake on every wall and every ancient object. The lift door is covered in oil and dirt. One wonders how dirty the hearts and minds of those people are, who live here, work here and tolerate this mess. This mess is indicative of the internal mess in the person who bears it.
I wonder why I love Mumbai.
I think I know. Familiar objects make you feel safe and comforted. No matter how disgusting this city is, its what I'm used to. So I feel something for it. And I assume whatever I feel for it must be love. It usually is, isn't it? I loathe this place. Some of it is sleek and beautiful. Attractive and clean. The rest is shamelessly filthy. The contrast is indicating something. Something, I don't know if its the mood of this place or the attitude. I think its the attitude. The whole city vibrates with one frequency, and those matching it find themselves coping wonderfully, enjoying every second of their existence. The attitude is disgusting. Its good in some ways, but dastardly in others. I need purity. I need a clean place. I feel unclean here. This city is dirty. Where is my city? Where should I live? Where will I be happy and clean? Which place matches my vibrations? How will I find it?
I want to travel. I will work at random places on my travel. I am tired of being scared and struggling for security. I don't need it. I just want to control my mind and live the life my soul intended. I long for connection with my inner self. Let me feel whole again, let me get that state back, where I could hear every guidance. Let me find that voice again. Please let me heal.
posted by Vyoma at Thursday, July 02, 2009
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