So I wrote this in Mumbai...

Since the last time I visited Mumbai, nothing much has changed. Strangely though, nothing quite looks the same to me. There are good things and there are bad things. Things that I remember Mumbai with, things that remind me of this place. It is one and the same thing, but then it's not. My first day has been more of a journey than anything else. From scraping the worm-bodied passages that now adorn the airport to passing by swarms of cleaners and airport security. Faces in India have a permanent smile on their faces, a smile that is synonomous to the warm, welcoming attitude that most Indians are born with. Correction, ALL Indians. Yet, there is a faint, somewhat depressing look in their eyes that stare right back at you and pierce you with so much pain which you would've never imagined.

The first thing that hits you as soon as you step out of the submarine-like aeroterminal is a warm, balmy gust of wind that first seems to surround you from all sides and if you happen to wait long enough, it almost feels like it is growing on you like a slimy layer of non-removable cling wrap. this, accompanied by the painful, yet enterprising screeches of cabbies and hotel bookers and packs of tourist guides; makes the welcome into India rather memorable.

Driving back home in a chauffeur driven 4X4 is not a privilege that many enjoy. It is something that I don't appreciate as much since I come from a rather affluent family, but at the same time there's this feeling of superiority that is both holy and horrible. Horrible is not the rigt word but strangely, it fits. I just don;t know which bit of it is holy and which is horrible. driving through the crammed alleys and the crowded roads, I see every possible mode of transport making its way to the end like some eternal race for survival. Men, women, children and cars; on the road they all look the same. the stooped folk, with drab clothes lying around the corners and under partly constructed sites are what give the mise-en-scene of Mumbai the flair that it claims. As we turn to the lane that leads towards my house, I see familiar faces, indifferent and oblivious to the arrival of someone that they raised, someone they played with, someone they loved or hated, in short; someone they once knew. The faces have not changed a bit, yet there is something about them that brings them about as such strangers, possibly from another planet. this shield that every person here builds around them is what keeps them going, it is something that gives them a reason to occassionally socialise. For, ignorance is bliss; but denial is trouble.

The next few hours at home are spent in unpacking, absorbing the house in, its still atmosphere, a lot like an incubator. The sights and smells are familiar, and it's what I call home. But home, is it really my comfort zone? an hour into this and Im still trying to figure out if it was a good decision or bad. I miss my people back home, some more than the others. I cringe at the thought of not being able to see someone for a whole month, conjuring a plethora of thoughts in my mind.

I walk down to a friend's place, finding solace in the few friends that I've managed to contact. It's funny how wanting to have to meet or talk to someone becomes so important that your life almost depends on it. Yes, I've heard the "man is a social animal" saying many times to ever have forgotten it. However, I think I find it unavoidable because the only cure to loneliness for me is love and at the same time, the reason why I am lonely is also love. Thus, mingling with other folk temporarily fill that void and make it easier for me to try and focus on things that I originally intended to do. My time with them friends is good and it is then time to return home. Yes, back to the still air and gaping at the immaculate relationship between the grandparent and the television set. Sometimes I wonder who is helping what. Is it the grandmother who's watching TV and increasing TRPs or is the TV that's playing on a loop on and on to keep her mind occupied.

It's strange I've come to a house where people wind up at the dot of 10. The insomniac that I am, is finding it very difficult to close my eyes even though the body is sore from all the traveling and internal stress. I read for a while, make small talk with the cousin, indulge in some housework and finally see everyone off to bed. Luckily, I have a balcony just where I'm supposed to be sleeping. That balcony to me is much more than just an opening to the external environment. What lies outside is the back alley of my street, trees lined up on either side, a church bell and some more trees. But what I see is far more complex and interesting. I see the dimly lit alleys, but only, they look like streams of liquid gold. I see trees, but somehow they resemble fairies, wizards and all things mysitcal. I see shapes that only exist in my mind, things that havent been named yet but things that have a clear definition in my head. I see the church bell and at once, I think of several thousand bats flying out from it in generous sweeps and coming righ towards me. These are strange thoughts, strange ideas and stranger comparisons. But for me, somehow all of it seems so vivid it's almost impossible to decide which is real.

This page of black and white has turned to a morgueish shade of grey, a sign that my eyes have finally married my body and that they both now are crying for some rest. Crying here is the wrong word here, because I never cry for what I want but for the things that I've lost. Im not sure I want them back but I still cry. I cry till I convince myself it's never coming back. Instead of crying over things I want, I channel that energy to doing things to pursue that desire. If this is sounding like greek, then it really is time for me to hit the sack.

I'm turning in now. Yes, with my rivers of gold and bats, alright =D