So cities become holidays. Airport welcomes. Suitcase stays. Holding onto days.
Do homecomings count as holidays? The kind that involve long unmapped walks in worn-out boots. Bus rides and turnstiles that have been figured. and people that figure large in the word 'home.'
I'm back to the glitzy shop windows, a year later. Cinderella-clowns have replaced the Santas. That's about it. Storytellers who teach how to dream. Snowflakes on eyelashes and black umbrella spikes on my head. Bridges on grey water and canal walks with bare trees. chocolate-tobasco-cocktails downed drowning fights. and turkish kebabs under the lantern-lit ceilings where I never learnt to order well. That and lining up for mass at the Cathedral. I think it's been a happy homecoming...
My red bus-waiting, kronenberg-drinking, perfect evening-planning, red-nose-dribbling, multiple conversations-etching, 3am walks and 3pm strolls by river/canal/on bridge alone-and-not-alone two weeks.
And my comfort. The one that the many longitudes makes me sweep under the carpet and keep on gchat. comfort in pink and wine and moving images and black gloves and egg-breakfasts and toothbrushes and nice hair. comfort in crying and screaming and name-calling. comfort in a vacuum cleaner and endless hours of same-space-disbelief.
that and shared introspection. what-next-i-dont-know-i-want-a-plan-where-to-where-are-you. the honesty that comes tumbling out on an airport escalator, dealt with head-clearing-clarity and familiar pragmatism.
alone-not-alone questions that my self-preservation was pricking me with are now on the back-burner.
My city. My Christmas stocking full of no debit cards, promises to the self, oft-clustered thoughts and lots of wine. Of best friends and soul searches and soul mates. I think it's been a jolly season.
Post-script: This is what my favourite storyteller wrote about the city...for the fables and streams of consciousness on night buses cannot be left untold:
I love this dirty town - I
"There is something magical about London. It can coax a water lily to sink its roots into soil."
- Mohsin Hamid
Somewhere in between the suits on London Bridge, and the leather-bag carrying army on Liverpool Street, lives a soul. A soul that defines a city.
If you were being trained to be a writer, I'd like to throw in my two dollars (pounds?) worth..don't write after a night out in the city! A night out, that involes....endless rounds of scotch at Ain't nothing but the blues bar, off Carnaby Street. Where the music plays with your senses, and the barmaid well, also plays with your senses.
With old friends buying rounds, and discussing life.Life = crisis, something that one needs to go through,as soon as the biological clock touches 23. More often than not its about the job you don't like, or the winter thats suddenly become,well, unbearable?the British Home Office, that decides to take months to process a Visa? Or just the girl. The term 'girl' on such a night is not very well defined. It could be the one you miss, or the one across the bar.
And at such places, one makes new friends. Those found at the bar, slyly sipping a pint of water whilst the others dont watch. Its a cardinal sin, but also a necessity (thats my justification, and I will stand by it!).
While the drummer looked bored, with talent oozing out of him. The basisst requested for several pints of bitter.The lighting helped set the atmosphere. We found ourselves, in a comfort zone. References to 'Someplace Else' in Calcutta. Where we shared our first beer (of course, we had reached the legal drinking age! If you're reading this right now - you can clear your throat, because I just did).
Once the bar closes, London streets are meant for those that are fit for survival. Night buses are crowded.Filled with the craziest people, most of whom behave like their time is spent at institutions, the non-academic type of institution, that is. And if you're in the mood to get a glimpse of the dark side, you might even see movies scripts unfolding around you. Like a fight that breaks out for the smallest reason, or the girl at the crossing of Regents Street looking for company. Or the homeless looking for shelter, or beer. There are Starbucks cups on the sidewalk. And McDonalds brown paper bag lying on the streets. And the wild side is unleashed. You might even see groups of teenagers pledging allegiance,not the one written by Francis Bellamy in 1892, the words are different the meaning similar " I swear blood, for you...anything blood". Dirty town.
Walk down narrow lanes, look for food in Soho. The chances are you'll stumble upon your favourite Russian joint that does the best fried eggs around 3 am. Or the brothers that run the falafel place. And if experimenting isn't your cup of tea, then sleep is the best option! No food at 3 am. Dirty town.
As I waited at the bus stop, for the 453. I had a chance to reflect on all that was. The Christmas lights that look majestic on Oxford Street, the 5 am junta, waiting for the underground to open. The familiarity with which one knows the different underground lines or in my case, the bus numbers. The cold didn't feel all that unbearable. A city is what you make of it. A transition, a holiday destination or in my case...home. London for me, will always be special. As I complete another year here, I have realised that it is possible to live in the city with a negative bank balance (which will require close friends having an additional couch), or with a job that allows you to pay rent. London is what you make of it.
London is a 'she' for me. I have a bench by the river. I have stories of magical nights. There are regular eating joints, where conversations have lasted till last orders, sometimes even beyond. There is the shrink at Freuds, or the Arsenal faithful at Bayswater. The Bengali connections. The winter wonderland. My favourite TV producers. And of course, the 8 am breakfast haunts. And finally the friend, that experienced London, with me.
I love this dirty town.
ps - another tip for those planning on choosing writing as a career, you must read after you finish writing your piece. i have not!
pps - this article isnt for the punctuation police, or the English teacher. :)
- Mohsin Hamid
Somewhere in between the suits on London Bridge, and the leather-bag carrying army on Liverpool Street, lives a soul. A soul that defines a city.
If you were being trained to be a writer, I'd like to throw in my two dollars (pounds?) worth..don't write after a night out in the city! A night out, that involes....endless rounds of scotch at Ain't nothing but the blues bar, off Carnaby Street. Where the music plays with your senses, and the barmaid well, also plays with your senses.
With old friends buying rounds, and discussing life.Life = crisis, something that one needs to go through,as soon as the biological clock touches 23. More often than not its about the job you don't like, or the winter thats suddenly become,well, unbearable?the British Home Office, that decides to take months to process a Visa? Or just the girl. The term 'girl' on such a night is not very well defined. It could be the one you miss, or the one across the bar.
And at such places, one makes new friends. Those found at the bar, slyly sipping a pint of water whilst the others dont watch. Its a cardinal sin, but also a necessity (thats my justification, and I will stand by it!).
While the drummer looked bored, with talent oozing out of him. The basisst requested for several pints of bitter.The lighting helped set the atmosphere. We found ourselves, in a comfort zone. References to 'Someplace Else' in Calcutta. Where we shared our first beer (of course, we had reached the legal drinking age! If you're reading this right now - you can clear your throat, because I just did).
Once the bar closes, London streets are meant for those that are fit for survival. Night buses are crowded.Filled with the craziest people, most of whom behave like their time is spent at institutions, the non-academic type of institution, that is. And if you're in the mood to get a glimpse of the dark side, you might even see movies scripts unfolding around you. Like a fight that breaks out for the smallest reason, or the girl at the crossing of Regents Street looking for company. Or the homeless looking for shelter, or beer. There are Starbucks cups on the sidewalk. And McDonalds brown paper bag lying on the streets. And the wild side is unleashed. You might even see groups of teenagers pledging allegiance,not the one written by Francis Bellamy in 1892, the words are different the meaning similar " I swear blood, for you...anything blood". Dirty town.
Walk down narrow lanes, look for food in Soho. The chances are you'll stumble upon your favourite Russian joint that does the best fried eggs around 3 am. Or the brothers that run the falafel place. And if experimenting isn't your cup of tea, then sleep is the best option! No food at 3 am. Dirty town.
As I waited at the bus stop, for the 453. I had a chance to reflect on all that was. The Christmas lights that look majestic on Oxford Street, the 5 am junta, waiting for the underground to open. The familiarity with which one knows the different underground lines or in my case, the bus numbers. The cold didn't feel all that unbearable. A city is what you make of it. A transition, a holiday destination or in my case...home. London for me, will always be special. As I complete another year here, I have realised that it is possible to live in the city with a negative bank balance (which will require close friends having an additional couch), or with a job that allows you to pay rent. London is what you make of it.
London is a 'she' for me. I have a bench by the river. I have stories of magical nights. There are regular eating joints, where conversations have lasted till last orders, sometimes even beyond. There is the shrink at Freuds, or the Arsenal faithful at Bayswater. The Bengali connections. The winter wonderland. My favourite TV producers. And of course, the 8 am breakfast haunts. And finally the friend, that experienced London, with me.
I love this dirty town.
ps - another tip for those planning on choosing writing as a career, you must read after you finish writing your piece. i have not!
pps - this article isnt for the punctuation police, or the English teacher. :)
ppps - dont you love this dirty town?
*********
