Lost In Space?
Friends often ask me often how is it to live in Bombay. I've thought about this for awhile and have come to the following conclusion.
Call this version 1.0 of an ongoing project if you will.
Well, parts of Bombay are closer to London than to the next slum a hundred meters away. And me, I have become bootstrapped to these seven mile boots. But the boots I wear are not these cute ones out of the old fairy tale I can hardly remember anymore. No, they are fucking turbocharged: I am ripped off the ground every moment, thrown into open space. One instance I am sitting in this air-condition cafe sipping cappucino somewhere between becoming-Seattle and Milan. Another and I am back on the crowded noisy street in a street cafe somewhere between becoming Punjab, South India, China. Yet another step and I am at a fusion bars somewhere in the cosmopolitan lalaland between Soho and becoming-Singapore while on the way home the children who beg behind the taxi window wear Santa Claus hats. And the window is only a few centimeters thick but the distance spans light years.
So, yes, parts of Bombay are closer to London than to the next chawl or slum. The geography of my life has become bent in strange ways. Its spatial configuration have nothing to do with the firm ground of Newtonian physics but instead form a twisted chaotic machine in which technology, culture, color of skin, money, language all form new and strange dimension and formulas yet to be imagined or dreamed off.
And then I am home in the honorable company of an Indian, and Irishman and many more writing to whomever wherever yet still close to me. Literally.