I have given Bangalore a chance. It does not disappoint. It is pretty in phases. The wind always blows here, giving the impression of existing in Hindi movie frames- the umbrella would fly out of your hands and Prince Charming will come rescue you. Yet, it is hard to feel romantic, the setting is inappropriate. It is the city of drones. The queen bee retired, bought a Mercedes and drove away to Goa.
The malls back in Mumbai, sighs V, are shinier.
Is that why we miss Mumbai, so much, I muse.
English, August speaks a lot about dislocation. Stolen moments spent with the book heighten my own fish-out-of-water feelings. This is not home. I wish I was home, I wish and then I wonder. Which home. There is a home far away, which has lost all of its charms. I have lost all my longings. It rains in my adopted city and I wish I was there. Among the torrential rainfalls and maddening traffic and a swirling seas.
Lemony Snicket says, "One's home is like a delicious piece of pie you order in a restaurant on a country road one cozy evening—the best piece of pie you have ever eaten in your life—and can never find again."
Where do I go back now?
It meanwhile rains and shines in Bangalore. We have bread jam from roadside stalls and wonder at the sheer number of fruit juice shops.
1 comment:
Very interesting post.
TCS Jaipur
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