Of Churchgate and bhurji-pao
of Tea Centre, then and now,
Samovar and its Punjabi samosa
of Kamat's and its sada dosa
Of opportunity and hope
of hard work and of scope,
of dreams is this place of mine
of make believe and tears brine
Of train stations and flyovers
of traffic jams and jay walkers,
of promenades and lovers
of crowed trains and shovers
Of private cars and ricks
and chain snatchers and pocket picks
of hoardings and lines of shops
and little children spinning tops
Of Kanchenjunga and Correa
of Peddar Road and Antillia
of Babulnath and Chowpatty
and Cross maidan, and khao-galli
Of Aederi and Mahindra Towers
of Jaslok and its visiting hours
of late night drives
this place sure thrives
on stunt bikes and Ferraris
(sometimes even Maseratis)
Of Irani cafes and brun-maska
and the cutting chai chaska
of seas that face and faces that see
is this, my place - my city
Of hot apple butter tea
of changing tide and rising sea
of Bombay Masala and Pizzeria
of Indian Summer and Volga
Of necklace lights
and road rage fights
of paver blocks
and flamingo flocks
of smoke and fog and smog and clog,
of sleeping late and weekend snooze
and the neighbourhood stray dog
Of hate and love, and love and hate
my feeling’s never same
I tried to go, to leave this gate
But no, right back I came
Of cold-sweet paan,
car-window daan,
of melting pots and community
of living, breathing harmony
Of dhongi cabs and corrupt cops
and errant naka bandi stops
of cash and credit cards galore,
Could you ever ask for more?
Of sea links and closing gaps
and balloon-selling chaps
of candy-floss and popcorn,
of garbage-bag babies forlorn
Of expensive multiplexes,
of eunuchs and their confused sexes
of beggars and flower sellers
and automated machine tellers
Of misal-pao and pao-bhaji
of Tanaji and chai tapri
of Lalbaug and Hilla Towers
of politicians and pseudo powers
Of Holland house and Rusiji,
(a good friend he was to me)
of internship I loved the most,
friends and cheese masala toast
Of memories and aspirations
of good and bad vibrations
of colours, and black and whites
of beauty and of ugly sights
Of shabby buildings - woebegone
of a quiet chilly winter dawn,
of all-night construction cranes
of Architects and working brains
of less and less, and more and more
of condescending people’s haste
of water cuts and daily waste
Of Gowalia Tank and Babulnath
of eight lane roads and no footpath
of Ghetto, and bars and pubs
of Willingdon and Radio clubs
Of cycling and sailing,
shouting and wailing,
of Matunga and Sunday brunch,
of late office and early lunch
Of scarcity and mediocrity,
and alacrity, excessively
of floods and terrorist attacks
of season sales and discount packs
Of theatre and funny plays
of Bawas and their funny ways
of Gujjus and their market stocks
of Jains and their diamond blocks
Of Apsara and Swati snacks
of bedroll roadside quacks
of smart salesmen and their chatter
of paan-chewers and spitting splatter
Of sleeplessness and toil
of peace and of turmoil
of day and night, and night and day
is your Mumbai, and my Bombay.
_____________________________
30-01-2011
