Sensuality in stone
And maybe it was his part
Only one moment in his life
To be close to your heart?
Or was he fated from the start
To live for just one fleeting instant
Within the purlieus of your heart?
-Ivan Turgenev.
Maybe it is not sensuality in stone only..... I should probably name it sensuality in mortar, sensuality in concrete, sensuality in tar, and sensuality in water too.
Mumbai.....the city which represents the multitude of realised dreams this country stands for. The standpoint of the Indian world, where everyone feels like the Monarch of whatever he or she surveys....the city where the royalty of the past is the base of the equality of the present, and the sovereignty of the future.
When I first set foot into Mumbai 12 years back for a 2 day holiday, I was overawed by the city. I watched the throngs of people with amazed fascination for their energy. Deep down somewhere, I probably wished I had half of that exuberance. Standing at the Gateway and looking at the ocean spread out in front of me, my mind conjured up wild, colourful visions of magnificence, of the beauty that life can be.
I had an opportunity to visit the city again, after 9 years, for a post graduate entrance examination. My opinions of the world had changed from what my adolescent mind had naively presumed, and I expected, in the casual arrogance of youth, that nothing could awe me anymore. I had forgotten that Bombay is a force to reckon with, and the overconfident are often the victims of subtle seduction. The city worked its charm once upon with me. As I strolled the by-ways of the colonial south Bombay, or "Town" as the quintessential Mumbaikar often calls it, I felt the charm of the city....the worn out facades of the majestic centuries old buildings bring India's past gently but unavoidably into one's focus. I wonder if anyone can stroll by the Victoria terminus crossroads without wondering for a second at the past which is so exuberantly alive in the face of the bustling present.
I stopped for a bite at an old Iranian eatery called the Sassanian Boulangerie, which was run by an old Parsi gentleman, who regaled me with the story of how the Parsis stayed back in India loyally even when they were offered free British citizenship after independence. As I stood at Nariman point and looked out, life once again beckoned to me, and I was reminded of a childish vow I had made to myself, and suddenly for a moment, going beyond all realities which stood just beyond the road, I renewed that vow with myself. Bombay had again lured me into its enigma, and I was, without realising it, on the way to becoming hopelessly addicted to this maze in the form of a city.
I moved back to my daily life, and forgot about the encounter. Three years later, as luck would have it, I found my dream job in Bombay. I moved in, and began the arduous task to understand myself in a city of a thousand unknown names and faces.
Everyday as I plug in to my music in the train, hanging precariously at the edge of the doors of the trains, I marvel at life, I marvel at speed, I marvel at the power of the city....I feel the power seeping into my very bones at times....I can feel the heartbroken despair of the Portuguese at having to hand over their very own "Bom-Bahia"(good bay) to the British in lieu of money.....I can sense the foresight of the British in wishing the merger of the seven islands into one landmass, into one city....I can understand the passion of the people who undertook the herculean task of metamorphosing the detached land into one pulsating mass of energy and ambition.
Every bit of Bombay is power hungry. I am not surprised that it houses Asia's oldest Stock Exchange....the quest for excellence existed way back then, and runs in the blood now, and I know it will continue to define the city.
The angry lash of the waves against the docks, the rock Gateway which commemorates the magnetisation of the British to this mesmerising land, it is an ode to everything alive within man. It is a vibrating testimony of what men live by....it is a symphony in stone, a temptress of hearts, who enchants, who pulls and throws off equally ruthlessly.
Labels: Musings
posted by Anupama. @ 9:27 am
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