A plane takes off about a kilometer off from my place. A train, a fast local, passes by making the windows reverberate. And the rains- it’s raining as if it were a frigging tropical rainforest. There are pigeons living in my AC duct- the AC that doesn’t really work- who make loud mating calls at odd hours in the night. And the walls- though seemingly thick- are made of some super sound-conducting medium so that I can hear most of what goes on in the adjoining flat. The lift sings an irritating Mozart tune everytime it’s in use- a tune that my flatmate has decided to whistle whenever I am in his presence, compounding my agony.
I open my window and there is Bombay outside my window. I can see slums and sewage and flooded streets. I have been a Delhiite all through my life until Citi packed me off here. Here, to the City of Lights Blinding Even More. To Bombay. Probably one of the worst cities to live in.
I wonder why I am so in love with it.
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