The Megapolis

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 abstract hues and subtle cues

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 lure of the sea-shore

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.

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30-01-2011