Longing

It’s amazing what thirty-odd days and nights in a row can do to a person.

I feel trapped in this place more than ever, now that I’m back. Every second, every cell in my body is longing in a way that chokes me, holds back every positive impulse I have, makes me pine, pine, pine. I miss the anonymity, I miss the freedom, I miss the absence of pettiness and smallness and gossip, I miss the streets, I miss my balcony, I miss chilli omelette in the mornings, I miss the Causeway, I miss going to work and the trains and the walks and the mad way my best friend smokes and drives, I miss everything. I miss never having the time to blog properly, I miss the sound of the sea and Byculla Zoo and Breach Candy and Andheri and Fort and Town and Theobroma and the beautiful buildings and the beautiful people and the ugly buildings and the ugly people.

Most of all, I miss the sense of infinite possibilities. This place has a way of holding you back, making you small, dragging you back into filth and mud no matter how hard you struggle to wash yourself clean.

I want to run back to the rains. I want to throw my head back and laugh until it hurts. I want to sleep on time and eat my breakfast everyday. I want Moshe’s jam and Churchgate station and apple crumble pie and chatni sandwiches that cost ten rupees, I want to hunt for a pretty dress to wear on an evening out, I want to come back home and find sweet little notes written just for me, I want those fucking frustrating bus routes where the drivers don’t shout out their destinations, I want to break every bloody glass he ever owned, but I want to go back. Run back, as fast as my legs will carry me. I want to meet every stray kitten that roams the fish markets at Lower Parel, I want to float on my back at the pool at Cavala, I want to hold hands with the girls and jump over big waves at the beach, I want to wear my blue bikini and walk like I’m not ashamed, I want to wear my red skirt and dance with him to the live Saturday night band, I want him to turn his back to me and say Jeg elsker deg in his half asleep way, I want that little flat high up on Bandra and the couple that fights like they love each other and our little glasses of wine, I want my laughing best friend to push me back into a crowd of vicious women boarding the local train, I want Marine Drive and the horrible crowds at Nariman Point on Sunday, and every fucking frustrating beautiful infuriating thing about that place.

I want Bombay.