I had to make a mad dash to Bombay and back — and I couldn’t quite settle my mind on how I felt about this. Part curious + many parts apprehensive, I arrived and immediately wanted to recoil/return/reject the city that had been home to so much grief.
Returning to Bombay, to feeling that familiar mix of freedom and anxiety. I was overwhelmed by all the feelings I had pushed to the bottom of the pile and put off for another day.
I watched with teary eyes as my cab drove past memories of people and places — all the friendships and relationships that did not work out for the best — I remembered the many times I had wandered around feeling like I did not belong, convinced that there was nothing tethering me here, that maybe I am not someone who puts down anchor, maybe I am not a home but a haunting. And finally, the home that never felt like home — the room that never felt enough — a place for the past and the not-to-be-forgotten. A place of resilience and living outside my comfort zone — all my accomplishments overshadowed by just trying to stay alive.
Maybe it wasn’t all so bleak, but bleakness is my strongest memory of 4 years in the maximum city.
There is also relief — a relief to know that things did get better, that I did get to readjust and realign the course of my life. That I can return from a trip down memory lane with only minor scratches and some tears. That I get to leave!
I came back with random little joys — my first adult colouring book, a framed photo of me performing, badges with lines of my poetry, old postcards, new/old shoes and a journal from 8 years ago that still makes me cry. Reminders that I made it, that there is a world beyond my fears of the worst possible outcome, that through the every-changing scenarios of my life — I remain — raw, vulnerable, trying — still here.
