The Long Winding Road

There I was… staring vacuously at the sea, not knowing the way forward but not having enough courage to move backwards. It was one of those moments when I turn to Bombay, one of those rare occasions that I feel grateful to the city with all its shortcomings, simply because it lets me be, no questions asked.

The city fails to fascinate me, the neon lights fail to keep my desires burning, the towering buildings no longer inspire me to dream big, Bombay no longer beckons to me; still, like an old couple, we hold on to each other, not so much for the better, but for the worse.

Over the years, my relationship with the city has evolved like any other relationship. From the adolescent infatuation with its care-a-damn, live-and-let-live protocol to being blinded by the power of love, from the rebellious kid who challenged everything that was wrong with the city to being the matured pragmatist who quietly accepted her destiny, from the young girl with only dreams and no vision to the realistic woman who was capable of distinguishing between dreams and fantasies, from the headstrong person who never compromised to the mellowed-down individual who simply got tired of fighting, Bombay had coloured me with different hues.

The brush was gradually giving in, the paint was slowly fading and the picture was a worn-out version of its original colourful self…