If I weren’t from Bombay | Saranya Subramanian

If I weren’t from Bombay,
I’d probably call it Mumbai.
I’d probably hold more value for every time I smelled the colours of the sea.
I’d never know how it is to walk out of my house to find all seven colours of the rainbow-
and the pot of gold at the end of it.
How people tread on hot coals to grab a few coins,
only to find some on chariots flying towards it.
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I wouldn’t know how it is to time travel
To study in halls and connect with the dead living in walls
To touch grainy old buildings- each of them storybooks, novels, bestsellers,
fabling tales of War, Triumph. Of brotherhood.
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I wouldn’t know the fear of almost living in a warzone
Watching the flames burn down our history
How those flames would ignite in us anger, how we’d make history
I wouldn’t see how some were cremated-
not by their sons, but by their own brothers
wearing garlands of AK- 47s.
If I weren’t from Bombay,
these eyes wouldn’t wear lenses tainted with a foggy layer of condensed crime
these ears wouldn’t be that of a priests,
confessions wouldn’t begin with “Forgive me Father for I have sinned”
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I’d probably be a better person
A more sensitive person.
But I wouldn’t understand redemption.
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I wouldn’t get to see the entire world holding onto each other
in a rusted, red box on wheels
All of us from different places, but the same destination.
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I wouldn’t know how the city of dreams
can become the spookiest nightmare.
How these streets promising a Stairway to Heaven
so easily reroute to hell.
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I’d probably see people as made up of flesh and bone
and not how I see them now-
of good, but more bad. Of love. And a little bit of war.
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I wouldn’t understand the meaning of ‘unconditional love.’
Of loving even when your stomach rumbles in anger
Of finding an ‘I love you’ in the most creative of abuses
Of pulling out love in the deeply sown seeds of hatred among bustling crowds
I wouldn’t find love in the mucchi of a paanwala
In the clubs and all night cafes giving love to the madmen and the insomniacs
In the bark of a stray dog that just wants to be heard, and loved back.
I wouldn’t find love in the streetlights at Marine Drive.
Who said we need telescopes to look at the stars?
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I wouldn’t hear how the echoes of Om, Inshallah and Amen
spiral in the air to become one.
I wouldn’t understand acceptance.
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I wouldn’t know that Twitter can be used for #NalliSilkSaris
I wouldn’t know the difference between being Modern and being Western,
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I wouldn’t know how it is to live in a beating, pulsating heart.
If I weren’t from Bombay,
I wouldn’t know how to write a love letter.

Saranya Subramanian writes on Indian Review.