Today, The Times of India had this splashed across the second page.
Excuse Me, Where's My Mumbai?
This city means many things to many people.
City of dreams, financial nerve centre, city that never sleeps, entertainment capital cradle of cricket and much more.
All apt descriptions for sure. But not enough to hide the one question that everyone wants answered but few dare ask.
What about us?
We, the citizens, who live, work, sweat and struggle to give the city its many colourful descriptions? We, with our desperate instinct for survival that's conveniently airbrushed as the "spirit" of the city.
What about a Mumbai where I can simply walk down a street without stepping into something I shouldn't. Or take a long deep breath without being petrified about waking up sick the next morning. Where I can race my kid to the nearest tree. Or commute to work without spending half my working life in traffic. And the other half paying through my nose for a roof above my head.
The truth about Mumbai is also its greatest lie. It's a city that can give us all that we work for but is hard pressed to give us all that we live for.
So there's a Mumbai for business and a Mumbai for careers. There's a Mumbai for entertainment and a Mumbai for investment. There's even a Mumbai for stray dogs and a Mumbai for party animals.
But is there really a Mumbai for me?
I thought it was just me. Just me who's slowly becoming disenchanted by this city I once loved. I used to think this city, my city, was perfect. Now I'm becoming nostalgic for a life I've never lived; for trees instead of concrete, for a home instead of a house, for walks instead of runs, for the quality of life instead of the mundanity of existence.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Excuse Me, Where's My Mumbai?
This city means many things to many people.
City of dreams, financial nerve centre, city that never sleeps, entertainment capital cradle of cricket and much more.
All apt descriptions for sure. But not enough to hide the one question that everyone wants answered but few dare ask.
What about us?
We, the citizens, who live, work, sweat and struggle to give the city its many colourful descriptions? We, with our desperate instinct for survival that's conveniently airbrushed as the "spirit" of the city.
What about a Mumbai where I can simply walk down a street without stepping into something I shouldn't. Or take a long deep breath without being petrified about waking up sick the next morning. Where I can race my kid to the nearest tree. Or commute to work without spending half my working life in traffic. And the other half paying through my nose for a roof above my head.
The truth about Mumbai is also its greatest lie. It's a city that can give us all that we work for but is hard pressed to give us all that we live for.
So there's a Mumbai for business and a Mumbai for careers. There's a Mumbai for entertainment and a Mumbai for investment. There's even a Mumbai for stray dogs and a Mumbai for party animals.
But is there really a Mumbai for me?
I thought it was just me. Just me who's slowly becoming disenchanted by this city I once loved. I used to think this city, my city, was perfect. Now I'm becoming nostalgic for a life I've never lived; for trees instead of concrete, for a home instead of a house, for walks instead of runs, for the quality of life instead of the mundanity of existence.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
-Shel Silverstein
6 comments:
"The truth about Mumbai is also its greatest lie. It's a city that can give us all that we work for but is hard pressed to give us all that we live for."
Some fabulous writing in this post Parinita.
However, I still love Mumbai too much and cannot imagine living elsewhere, though everything you're saying is perfectly true. It's probably just force of habit, but every other city I have been to can be described as boring and sleepy, after having lived in Mumbai.
I mean, the empty spaces in other cities in India just seem unnatural to me. What good is a city which has empty spaces. Haha.
And loved reading that poem.
Excuse Me, Where's My Mumbai?
This city means many things to many people.
City of dreams, financial nerve centre, city that never sleeps, entertainment capital cradle of cricket and much more.
All apt descriptions for sure. But not enough to hide the one question that everyone wants answered but few dare ask.
What about us?
We, the citizens, who live, work, sweat and struggle to give the city its many colourful descriptions? We, with our desperate instinct for survival that's conveniently airbrushed as the "spirit" of the city.
What about a Mumbai where I can simply walk down a street without stepping into something I shouldn't. Or take a long deep breath without being petrified about waking up sick the next morning. Where I can race my kid to the nearest tree. Or commute to work without spending half my working life in traffic. And the other half paying through my nose for a roof above my head.
The truth about Mumbai is also its greatest lie. It's a city that can give us all that we work for but is hard pressed to give us all that we live for.
So there's a Mumbai for business and a Mumbai for careers. There's a Mumbai for entertainment and a Mumbai for investment. There's even a Mumbai for stray dogs and a Mumbai for party animals.
But is there really a Mumbai for me?
I thought it was just me. Just me who's slowly becoming disenchanted by this city I once loved. I used to think this city, my city, was perfect. Now I'm becoming nostalgic for a life I've never lived; for trees instead of concrete, for a home instead of a house, for walks instead of runs, for the quality of life instead of the mundanity of existence.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
No, no, all of that gorgeous writing but for one measly paragraph belongs to TOI and Shel Silverstein. Fabulous writing indeed.
I think house hunting and then being forced to move to the very distant suburbs have sucked my soul and love for this city.
I still love Mumbai even when I don't. But now I can imagine and even look forward to living elsewhere without my brain screaming "The horror!"
Excuse Me, Where's My Mumbai?
This city means many things to many people.
City of dreams, financial nerve centre, city that never sleeps, entertainment capital cradle of cricket and much more.
All apt descriptions for sure. But not enough to hide the one question that everyone wants answered but few dare ask.
What about us?
We, the citizens, who live, work, sweat and struggle to give the city its many colourful descriptions? We, with our desperate instinct for survival that's conveniently airbrushed as the "spirit" of the city.
What about a Mumbai where I can simply walk down a street without stepping into something I shouldn't. Or take a long deep breath without being petrified about waking up sick the next morning. Where I can race my kid to the nearest tree. Or commute to work without spending half my working life in traffic. And the other half paying through my nose for a roof above my head.
The truth about Mumbai is also its greatest lie. It's a city that can give us all that we work for but is hard pressed to give us all that we live for.
So there's a Mumbai for business and a Mumbai for careers. There's a Mumbai for entertainment and a Mumbai for investment. There's even a Mumbai for stray dogs and a Mumbai for party animals.
But is there really a Mumbai for me?
I thought it was just me. Just me who's slowly becoming disenchanted by this city I once loved. I used to think this city, my city, was perfect. Now I'm becoming nostalgic for a life I've never lived; for trees instead of concrete, for a home instead of a house, for walks instead of runs, for the quality of life instead of the mundanity of existence.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
I completely agree with you! And I have spoken to so many people who say the same thing. The Bombay we used to love is only in our heads today.
Excuse Me, Where's My Mumbai?
This city means many things to many people.
City of dreams, financial nerve centre, city that never sleeps, entertainment capital cradle of cricket and much more.
All apt descriptions for sure. But not enough to hide the one question that everyone wants answered but few dare ask.
What about us?
We, the citizens, who live, work, sweat and struggle to give the city its many colourful descriptions? We, with our desperate instinct for survival that's conveniently airbrushed as the "spirit" of the city.
What about a Mumbai where I can simply walk down a street without stepping into something I shouldn't. Or take a long deep breath without being petrified about waking up sick the next morning. Where I can race my kid to the nearest tree. Or commute to work without spending half my working life in traffic. And the other half paying through my nose for a roof above my head.
The truth about Mumbai is also its greatest lie. It's a city that can give us all that we work for but is hard pressed to give us all that we live for.
So there's a Mumbai for business and a Mumbai for careers. There's a Mumbai for entertainment and a Mumbai for investment. There's even a Mumbai for stray dogs and a Mumbai for party animals.
But is there really a Mumbai for me?
I thought it was just me. Just me who's slowly becoming disenchanted by this city I once loved. I used to think this city, my city, was perfect. Now I'm becoming nostalgic for a life I've never lived; for trees instead of concrete, for a home instead of a house, for walks instead of runs, for the quality of life instead of the mundanity of existence.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Sadly, I agree. The city we think we have and the city we actually face are two different things. I haven't given up on it completely but I wouldn't be opposed to moving on either.
Excuse Me, Where's My Mumbai?
This city means many things to many people.
City of dreams, financial nerve centre, city that never sleeps, entertainment capital cradle of cricket and much more.
All apt descriptions for sure. But not enough to hide the one question that everyone wants answered but few dare ask.
What about us?
We, the citizens, who live, work, sweat and struggle to give the city its many colourful descriptions? We, with our desperate instinct for survival that's conveniently airbrushed as the "spirit" of the city.
What about a Mumbai where I can simply walk down a street without stepping into something I shouldn't. Or take a long deep breath without being petrified about waking up sick the next morning. Where I can race my kid to the nearest tree. Or commute to work without spending half my working life in traffic. And the other half paying through my nose for a roof above my head.
The truth about Mumbai is also its greatest lie. It's a city that can give us all that we work for but is hard pressed to give us all that we live for.
So there's a Mumbai for business and a Mumbai for careers. There's a Mumbai for entertainment and a Mumbai for investment. There's even a Mumbai for stray dogs and a Mumbai for party animals.
But is there really a Mumbai for me?
I thought it was just me. Just me who's slowly becoming disenchanted by this city I once loved. I used to think this city, my city, was perfect. Now I'm becoming nostalgic for a life I've never lived; for trees instead of concrete, for a home instead of a house, for walks instead of runs, for the quality of life instead of the mundanity of existence.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Having lived in Delhi all my life and then visiting Mumbai for a few days for holidays makes me kind of like Mumbai more than Delhi. Or maybe it's because the time spent in Mumbai isn't long enough to be a perfect judge.
In fact, there are positives and negatives of every city. Mumbai and Delhi with its large population and extra noise. Mumbai has its security which is visible even in the wee hours which Delhi doesn't provide. Delhi has its wider spaces (in comparison) which puts it above Mumbai.
P.S. That's some fabulous writing in the ToI.
Excuse Me, Where's My Mumbai?
This city means many things to many people.
City of dreams, financial nerve centre, city that never sleeps, entertainment capital cradle of cricket and much more.
All apt descriptions for sure. But not enough to hide the one question that everyone wants answered but few dare ask.
What about us?
We, the citizens, who live, work, sweat and struggle to give the city its many colourful descriptions? We, with our desperate instinct for survival that's conveniently airbrushed as the "spirit" of the city.
What about a Mumbai where I can simply walk down a street without stepping into something I shouldn't. Or take a long deep breath without being petrified about waking up sick the next morning. Where I can race my kid to the nearest tree. Or commute to work without spending half my working life in traffic. And the other half paying through my nose for a roof above my head.
The truth about Mumbai is also its greatest lie. It's a city that can give us all that we work for but is hard pressed to give us all that we live for.
So there's a Mumbai for business and a Mumbai for careers. There's a Mumbai for entertainment and a Mumbai for investment. There's even a Mumbai for stray dogs and a Mumbai for party animals.
But is there really a Mumbai for me?
I thought it was just me. Just me who's slowly becoming disenchanted by this city I once loved. I used to think this city, my city, was perfect. Now I'm becoming nostalgic for a life I've never lived; for trees instead of concrete, for a home instead of a house, for walks instead of runs, for the quality of life instead of the mundanity of existence.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
I don't want to move to Delhi from Mumbai anyway! Well maybe to work in a publishing house. I want to move to the Himalayas!
Excuse Me, Where's My Mumbai?
This city means many things to many people.
City of dreams, financial nerve centre, city that never sleeps, entertainment capital cradle of cricket and much more.
All apt descriptions for sure. But not enough to hide the one question that everyone wants answered but few dare ask.
What about us?
We, the citizens, who live, work, sweat and struggle to give the city its many colourful descriptions? We, with our desperate instinct for survival that's conveniently airbrushed as the "spirit" of the city.
What about a Mumbai where I can simply walk down a street without stepping into something I shouldn't. Or take a long deep breath without being petrified about waking up sick the next morning. Where I can race my kid to the nearest tree. Or commute to work without spending half my working life in traffic. And the other half paying through my nose for a roof above my head.
The truth about Mumbai is also its greatest lie. It's a city that can give us all that we work for but is hard pressed to give us all that we live for.
So there's a Mumbai for business and a Mumbai for careers. There's a Mumbai for entertainment and a Mumbai for investment. There's even a Mumbai for stray dogs and a Mumbai for party animals.
But is there really a Mumbai for me?
I thought it was just me. Just me who's slowly becoming disenchanted by this city I once loved. I used to think this city, my city, was perfect. Now I'm becoming nostalgic for a life I've never lived; for trees instead of concrete, for a home instead of a house, for walks instead of runs, for the quality of life instead of the mundanity of existence.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
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