LOST WORDS
Vikrant Potnis
I was madly in love with her until two years ago. We were inseparable, I couldn't stay away from her for more than a few days.
Fate (or was it destiny?) conspired to part us. I was taken away from her. I was made to see her from a different perspective. I started questioning a few things about her. The questions soon turned to dislikes, and suddenly I was not in love any more. I started preparing for life without her, away from her. I tried to run away from her.
In a curious twist, Fate brought us together again, and made me see her as I had seen her in the first place. All it took was one rainy afternoon, when I happened to be stuck with her. And it all came flooding back. I was wrong. How could I ever have stopped loving her? It is impossible. It had just been a lovers' tiff.
You must have heard of her. Her name is Mumbai.
Enough has been written about Mumbai. I have lived here all my life, and you cannot do that without falling in love with the city. I visited other cities and towns, but in my mind, none of them compared to Mumbai. She was a goddess.
Then I started exploring the country-side. Forts, mountains, hills, lakes nestled amongst evergreen forests. The Sahyadris. Nature caught my fancy. Grass is prettier than tar, red soil is prettier than bricks; smog is ugly, mist is beautiful; car horns sound harsh, singing birds sweet. And there are too many people in too small a space, they can't keep the city clean, and the pollution makes you cough if you go out on an evening. People live in ugly, rectangular blocks of concrete.
Enough has been written about concrete jungles. I
Until that fateful afternoon. I had some work in the city. I took a train to Churchgate. There was rain in the air; surprisingly (for Mumbai, that is), it was just a drizzle, with a strong wind.
I walked from Churchgate to the Secretariat. From there I had to go to the Sessions Court. I walked along the Oval. It was green with the overgrown grass. Raindrops fell and made perfectly circular ripples in pools of muddy water. Tea! I used to think of it as tea, when I was a child. I used to wait for it to rain so that I could see tea collecting in the Maidans. I was clever enough never to drink it. The Maidan now was abandoned. It did not even have the proverbial children-splashing-in-puddles-floating-paper-boats. Grass, mud, water, rain, wind. The Sessions Court; the University of Mumbai with the Rajabai Tower and its clock; the High Court; the road leading to CST and the right turn to Flora Fountain; the left turn to Churchgate station. All a glorius heritage from the British era. The footpaths, where knowledgeable vendors once sold second-hand and pirated books for rock-bottom prices you could negotiate further. The sea. I had to go to the sea. Marine drive: the waves crashing into the tetra-pods, flinging spray onto the footpath. Couples. Love, as much as rain, in the air.
Mumbai and rain. A love and hate relationship. I love Mumbai the most during the rains. I love Mumbai. The city has a soul, she has a sense of humour, and she often laughs at herself. The tiff is forgotten, the lovers are united again.
It rains some more, and more puddles of tea collect in the Maidans.
Thu Aug 23, 2007 11:45 pm
