Home is where the hurt is.

November 3, 2007 § Leave a comment

I tell myself I’m not pathetic, desperate, lost or wanting in love. Mostly I succeed. I am not truly any of these.
I was born like this… with a great awareness that the world will carry on because of me. And I was wrong. I have not proven it yet. Some reprieve, that. Vague winds move in the land of my dreams. They unsettle all the moments I laughed as my mother tickled me. And the cold seeps into my sepia memories of a perfect time. There are lost paths that I trace in the electric trails of streetlights when I drive in my sleepy city. I hate my city for the reasons I love it. It exists with no expectations. It remains with little pretension. I feel at home in my city when I feel how quietly relaxed from the chaos of life it is. The festivals, the death marches, the loud songs, the politics, and I feel my city, she ignores it. The waters of the Hussain Sagar move in that useless beauty, a serenity of rippled movement towards nothing, going nowhere. My city’s slowness always pissed me off at some elemental level. I wanted to and still do belong to Bombay in Spirit, with her restless, grey seascape and lost crowds. But in my heart perhaps Im much too comfortable with being a Hyderabadi, it consoles me, maybe this is the truth to existence. To simply be.


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