I remember the first time I moved house. I said bye to each wall. I said bye to the back lane where we dried clothes on a line. I said bye to some of the stuff we were throwing away, to the fountain outside the house, to the rock bench where boys would sit in the evenings and chat. Ma told me to just go so that it doesnt become hard on me. Sort of like yanking off the band aid from your skin. And then rubbing that spot so that it doesn’t remain red too long. Later, I felt guilty of liking my new house – much more than I felt bad about leaving the old one.
I’m leaving this city soon. And I realised that there won’t be any more walks on the shores of the sea, and there would be no silly comparisons in my sillier mind about how from this side of town, the other side looks like New York. There won’t be any planning and pushing the plan for a later day to visit chor bazaar early in the morning, nor for learning art and buying supplies from Himalaya. I won’t complain about the abundance of muck in the monsoons nor about the absence of chill in the winters. Pao’s will be what I eat when I miss the city, not something I will make fun of and yet tuck into when I am low on cash. Chai will be just chai. Not cutting. Not tapri wala. Chowpattis will once again become an area in the distant memory, not where every spicy craving of mine will be filled. Bandra will continue to have new eateries and newer trends, and I will only hear about them from friends checking in and checking out. Train crowds won’t bother me any more but neither will the trust with which I have taken rickshaws and cabs at 2 am. Life will go on. And I will hate everything about it, for some time, before I settle down and fall completely, head-over-heels in love with a new home.