A Lifeless Poem.

I have always disliked poems. Because of those premium forwarded poems on friendship in my e-mail inbox got me bugged, I had to put my friends on spam-list.

Just about recently, I'd learnt to read a poem and just put up a smile and tell them that it's good. Just about very recently, I did learn how to appreciate raw literature in any form - which means, I can still read that stupid poem of yours and yet appreciate it like nobody else.

And then, something terrible happened the other night. As usual, I got that little bottle of uncolored alcohol, and as you sip in, you start believing that you don't belong to the house you live in, anymore; you believe that you can fly; you believe that you can do even the impossible. That's unconsumed power waiting to burst within. O yes, you can definitely forget about the goodness of alcohol when you know you're wasted and when you don't even know where you're going to crash.
So, what I was saying is, I was drunk and not wasted, and I could see my brother Dennis Tac trying to break his head to write a poem, and do a few of those pen-sketches that are already uploaded in his Facebook Picture Gallery by now. I went upto him so that I could get a glimpse of his work. Because, you see, I always like it when I get to read his poem before the world does - gives me an amazing feeling.
O! What do I see there? The poor man has just written about a few lines, and he's stuck. Hence, I thought, why not give him a small paragraph based on those few lines he already wrote, and then let him connect it the way he wants and put those rhyming words like how Poets do. So, I wrote.

I fell in the darkest of black-holes,
I knew I had no other go,
then I knew I saw a ray of hope,
of light, a ray of unbound hope.
I thought I needed to live beyond,
So I nailed the height and climbed to the top,
and I think it was better to be in darkness,
because my illusion deceived me in obscurity.
Because the world after all is a lump of lifelessness.

I realized that the above was a poem only when I was told that it's a poem. You can imagine how cocked I was. That's when Dennis circled the entire thing with a red-pen and labelled it as 'David Tac' - he wanted to write something on his own. I know its not that great,and I don't want an appreciation on this work of mine, unnecessarily. May be because I have read the best of the best of poems of Dennis, and my friends on Facebook. But a poem is a poem. And it's my poem. And as much as I like it, I hate it too. Because, like I said, I hate poems. I literally HATE poems. And I think Shakespeare is a much more important man than a Thomas Edward Brown, or a Jean Cocteau. If I do have a soft corner for poets, it's because Musicians use them well. Infact without poets, we would have been listening to a lead guitar session or a flute session without vocals. Without Poets, we would never have a Rape me by Nirvana, A Day In the Life by the Beatles, or a Stairway to heaven by Led Zeppelin.

Oh. I almost forgot to tell this - I kept encouraging Bonita Sarah, Hydayath Hussain and Nikith Narayan to write cheerful poems. I take back those words, my fellow friends. I now know that's easier to bring a poem into a paper when you're upset, and when you're happy, you're just happy; you're just enjoying the feeling, and when you do get the time to write something about it, depression comes back in some random form again.

Until next time, folks.

Cheers.

With love and warmth.

A Look-back to a timeless city: Bombay!

Beautiful women, glitter, fame, experience and magic: These are any man’s common dream. I set out my foot to witness them live. Haven’t been able to achieve much of it, obviously. But what I have with me are those few months in the city where I experienced life on new dynamics, lived it because I wanted to, and thereby survived because they said “Catch up” and I found it difficult – because Life in Mumbai is much more faster than its trains.

In these days of rapid and convenient travel, to come from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, does not necessarily denote any great strength of character. It might only mean more restlessness. Or probably that’s why I prefer junkies in Indian trains than Filipinos in Saudi Arabian Airlines.
Every chase of happiness begins with a ray of hope. I believed mine was Ayesha Nizam, a friend whose presence, anywhere in the vicinity of Maharashtra was believed to be a huge relief to anybody, in and around the state: A long sigh of relief and I had myself stepped out of Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, Mumbai.

I have travelled in every absurd town in India, and I know how cab drivers are. And I hate it when they poke their nose into your affairs. I hate it if they raise an opinion on whatever I speak on phone or with my companion. But there was something about Mumbiakar Cab Drivers. The look on their face is like one of those who’re not bothered if the world’s collapsing, or if nature hits them with the worst hurricane. Contradictingly, I asked him a question rather having him tumble down with questions in front of me. I asked him why and his reply was:-

“dhanda hai boss… jab tak karna hai, karenge. Agar Taxi chodna hai, tab tak hum is duniya ko hi chod chuke honge.”
(It’s our job, boss… will do as long as it takes. If I have to leave the taxi, I would leave the world by then.)

First impression affixed, without even a blink of an eye.

I was much in silence for the rest of the journey to Mulund, the far end of Mumbai which borders to another district called Thane (also informally known as Bombay). I saw the sun set and the luminescent reflection of the street lights on almost everything its light rays met. Even if Mumbai faces the world’s longest or thickest traffic jams, you’d still find things moving like little insects. Bikes and bicycles, from children to women to old people…worst case, even rats. Everything just moves like the wave of the ocean…And it moves real fast. As though their life’s endangered, or they find life to be a time-specific project. No one has time for others and no one wants you to spend time for them. Live and let live does not really apply here. They live, and not even bother if you live, or get rotten alive.

I met Father Josh of Mulund’s Church Federation who helped me with the accommodation on the same day I landed. I bid good bye to the cab driver with a token of appreciation and then I knew he was not happy with that. I tipped him with hundred bucks (because unfortunately I had no change). He nearly knelt down on my feet and said thanks. I felt like Bill Gates for a change, because, as far as I know, he’s known for doing that often, and he has his house maids and drivers kneel down at him. Ofcourse, I did it because, I couldn’t break the freakin hundred into smaller denominations, and he does that to evade tax or for the pleasure in giving (whatever suits his mood accordingly).

I know for a fact that most Priests who are holders of the Christian churches are misers. No offense, but he has a bungalow in Kerala, and he drives an 87 model Fiat Premier in Bombay. If I was him, I would have turned the tables the other way round. It’s the obvious that if I was a priest, the tables would have turned the other way round indeed, this time, not geographically, but mindlessly in different churches.
He took me to a place called Kharegaon , a place that shelters a swine of pure Maharashtrians, a home to a million wild rats, and a military zone of cockroaches. Haven’t you heard of an Indian say: ‘Out of every 10 people in the world, 3 are Indians..And am sure that the first two are mallus in any given corner of the world’. Father Josh had just pointed a door and it had a name plate written on it.

“Mr. Sasidharan Pillai, Kerala.”

It was a single bedroom flat (looked like one, and apparently the kitchen was partitioned when his family came down and stayed with him for about less than a year. I never was surprised when I heard that.) I was dumb folded, that apart from Sasi, I had another room mate in that standard-bathroom sized bedroom: Johnson Pooyapalli (50). Oh and Sasi’s too young. He was sweet sixty (60). Father Josh, being a Father, prayed and before he left, he shook hands with me and said,

“Son, I didn’t know the room was pretty small..I saw it for the first time, just like you. But these are very friendly people. You might not get such mature gentlemen, ever, as your room mates. Try and see if you can adjust. Till then, Good luck!”

And he left me in a state of paradox. I went out to get myself a new phone service. And I spent my time checking out the ambience of the locality. Younger men usually had their ass rested in any platform in front of the shops having their informal talks; Old men out with their pet dogs on the streets; Cows and buffaloes finding themselves a comfortable zone to unload their dung …Women, who wore fashionable clothes, and walked like they’re walking the ramp, the attitude of an actress…and faces that looked like the back of my shoe. A soulful tear just dropped down and rolled down my cheek. For some reason, I got this instinct that lady luck will never favor me in this city. I rushed back to my room, and those men had turned on their TV and were happily watching their favorite daily soaps: 2 of them and it takes two hours to get finished including the mallu advertisements.

I asked Sasi if I can pee, because, I thought I could at least be at peace inside a loo. He gave me a one word reply: Outside. I walked outside the door and I found a gateway to garbage dump place. It smelled so harshly that the germ stricken smelly air just drilled an extra hole in my nostrils giving me every reason to run for my life - four partitioned common bathrooms for 10 families in the ground floor. All I know is that I went for the call of nature every four days.

Mahesh Tutorials, one of the most established coaching centers which is widely branched in various parts of the city. I got into a class of close to 150 students. Me, being me, wandered (eyes) over the most elusive section of the class: Girls. Umm...Naah. I shall discuss about a particular favorite, later.

Back to my accommodation - The building is as tall as any high-end tower in Cochin – with the only difference that every floor’s common bathroom had a leakage. The drainage water leaked and drove by itself all the way down. Rats were probably the happiest creatures in that locality. And I must say they become wild huge creatures (at least 1.5 feet long) after feeding on human shit. Undoubtly, I was struck with fever which lasted for more than 15 days.

The 15th day was terrifying. I opened my eyes at 9 in the morning because; I could hear whispers in the background, presumed to come from the door. Sasi was talking to a 6 feet tall, mid-aged man, from U.P. (evident from the dialect of his Hindi). Two minutes later, I couldn’t believe my ears.

Sasi: Toh, Kya hai? (So, what is it?)

The other man: Sahib. Sau rupay se kam nahin hoga. (Sir, it won’t go less than 100 Rupees.)

Sasi: Par tum chahte kya ho? (But what do you really want?)

The other man: Poora moo ke andar le saktha hoon. Sach boloon toh, aap mujhe kabhi bhoolenge nahin. (I can take it entirely into my mouth. To be truthful to you, you will never forget me.)

Sasi: Rate kum karo. (Reduce the rate please)

The other man: Sau Rupay ko aap negotiate karke sharam nahi aate? ( Are’nt you ashamed of yourself to negotiate a deal of just 100 Rupees?)

Sasi: Abey dheere bol. Bacha so raha hai. (Keep your voice down. The child is sleeping.)
Chal theek. Kal sham ko. Che(6) baje. Tumhare ghar par. Kahan rehta hai tu? (Alright. Tomorrow evening. 6 PM. Your house. Where do you stay?)

The other man: Frister’s ke saamne. Door number 380. Advance chaahiye boss. (In front of Mulund Frister’s. Door number 380. I will need an Advance, boss.)

I felt like I was being plunged by a knife right through my arse. After both of them departed from the room, I pondered over the entire conversation again. I slept for fifteen days in a small room, lying next to Sasi… for 15 God forsaken days, and I get to know that Sasi’s gay on the 15th damned day of my stay in Bombay. Or what if Johnson Pooyapalli’s gay too? I ended up calling mom. I literally pleaded her if I can say good bye to the coaching center and head back to Kerala. She said she’ll welcome me. But you know how it is when you walk about 100 kilometers into the desert keeping tracks so that you never get lost, and then you suddenly find your water bottle empty. You start blaming the snakes to have your water sucked away. To bring up the real reason as to why I couldn’t go back, was because of my classes at Mahesh.

I fled to an independent flat the same day, which is located in a tiny town called Kalwa, which is about 2 minutes from Thane City Limits. When trouble strike down upon me, it never came in installments. It came like a volcano. I tried counting the number of floors to my new flat, and I always got confused. On the records, my flat’s on the fourth floor. Off the record, I guarantee that I resided on the 5th floor. I knew I would have been slapped if I had to ask the owner if there was a lift in the building. For 3500 bucks, I believe any Mumbaikar would embrace the offer. I had to. I had no other choice.

Life then on, was even more boring. I consoled myself a billion times, that at least I don’t have to share my room with any one, particularly gays. With no television, and no laptop (at least a personal computer), Mobile Facebook was the only source of entertainment like always. From status updates, to live streaming videos on YouTube, I pushed across days, and I began to get worried. I made my own tea. I travelled alone. I went for movies alone. I spoke to myself. And I killed time cooking noodles in the evening (took me two good hours, thanks to my cooking skills and the primitive cooking platform – Kerosene stove). Of course, I’m really thankful to all those who called me on my phone to just keep my day a little more exciting. To name the remarkable few: Kiran – Matt – Cris combo- conference calls, Vivek Ranjit (often after watching a movie, on my way back home), Sadaf Saleem, my dearest mom, and occasionally Dennis… And towards the end of my stay in Bombay; Jenifer Jose & Pratheesh from Australia, Riya Kurian from Philippines, and Feba Johnson from the U.S. (Sincere apologies if I haven’t mentioned any of you other than the above, not because I have ignored mentioning about you, just that, I can’t remember things like before.)

Azim Aziz and Nilisha Joseph had also kept my Christmas season, very compelling and entertaining. Ofcourse, I joined hands for friendship on facebook some time in November, with one of the most quality stricken man known to me who’s residing in the Emirates - Azim (I find the others to be too lame... and perhaps, senseless beings too.)

The only two friends to whom I said a ‘hi’ was Akshay Bahal and Raunak. Oh yes. How can I forget the ladies in my classroom? Nothing great is to be spoken about them. Well, a few that stands out of the crowd. A few, of at least three or four years younger than me. A few whose names I have no clue off. There was this particular one who cuddled up the courage to ask me my name. And as far as I know of myself, any woman who comes forward to you for the first time, and tries to begin a conversation with ‘Hey, what’s your name?’, she must be replied in the most effective manner possible. Oh yea, there is nothing much you could reply than speak out your own name and ask hers, ofcourse. I spoke out my name in a fashionable way, and I could see her lips elongate sideways, each corner moving in the opposite direction, going wider by a millimeter each, every fraction of a second, until I knew she was smiling wide. I knew I made her do that, on purpose.

She didn’t give me time to ask her name. She retorted immediately (still smiling wide) with an interesting question “Dave, are you catholic?”

It took me 3 seconds to reply to her because I was talking to myself:

“Bullocks! Why can’t you just enjoy me, rather my Christian denomination? Why the fuck do you bring in religion? Bitch, do you not read books...Do you not watch movies? Or do I look like a prick for you to debate on religion?”

She raised her well defined eye brow, and I could see her well spaced forehead curl with anticipation. I knew I was late to reply. Finally, I took a deep breath and said

"No. I’m a protestant. The world calls us your age-old enemy. The question is, why strict Catholism for a beautiful woman like you? Don’t you like the fairy tales, the stars, the moon, cute men (pointing my finger towards me)?”

She laughed. Trust me if you want to, but that was the most sensuous laugh I’d ever seen in my whole life.

There came the volcano of feelings, and there came a volcano of problems. My professor had walked in. Why would you not wait for her to laugh again?! I waited, and after class, I saw her rushing towards her dad’s car. Her dad looked angry. Like those in my class, I wondered why. After that day, I never saw her face again. True paradises are the paradises we have lost, indeed. . And there goes the lady luck down the drain.


If there is something that’s more contrary to the organization of the mind, of the memory, of the imagination, then Bombay’s definitely a tormenting factor that’s trivial to many of those who live there and a source of unimaginably, resourceful supplier of blissful magical feeling, to people like me.

I lost the entire mood in making new friends. Okay. I can put that in a more honest way. I didn’t get any. Because, I always wanted friends, similar to those I already have. So, I decided to continue being a loner in the city. I decided to explore the vastness of the city. I decided to be a free man wanting to have more of the mystical air swirling in and around the streets of Bombay.

Discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen and thinking what nobody has taught. I kept my mind low, but when I heard the buzz of the traffic outside the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST Railway Station), and when I saw the olden structure of the railway station; I knew Bombay won my heart. I walked 2 kilometers just because I loved the smell of the air and I loved what I saw. The old colonial British Structure (Times of India Head office) and the Mercedes CL500s, The BMWs, the Hayabusas with young spirited boys and girls, the gorgeous women walking on the pavement with their hair let loose, with a cell phone stuck in their ears with the help of their right hand and the other usually carrying a classy hand bag…Usually wearing a top notch costume…generally, and slightly, just a little below the crack. Woooohooo!

C.S.T. Railway Station


Walked the coast line of Juhu Beach. It’s said that you could find personalities in business to be found here often. Since luck and me goes in opposite directions, I never got the opportunity to be able to see one. Perhaps, destiny had it that I will enjoy walking on the shore, get my eyes meet a few couples making out in the dark, and run towards the next destination.

Stood stand still in front of The Gateway of India, and The Taj. When I say standstill, one must understand that the entire landscape where The Taj and The Gateway of India share, is like heaven – You have well dressed horse-cart drivers awaiting you to hop in for a ride, at a nominal charge. You have ground nut stalls and the like, with the most well natured salesmen that you might not be able to find in any leading store across the world. The untouched ships on the waters bordering the area, is amazing to look at. Finally the sea which was as calm as you could ever imagine.



Came down to Church Gate and then walked all the way to Marine Drive (Nariman Point)…In fact, I enjoyed the peacefulness at Marine Drive. The marvelous lighting of those few tall buildings right across the sea is not really that fascinating, but the thought of an Indian, and we, as Indians, reaching new heights in terms of development, which was unimaginable 50 years ago, just made my skin-hair stand up for about half a minute.



I just let loose the longest of sighs that night. This is it. This is glitter. This is dream land.

I think my life is spent in a perpetual alternation between two rhythms; the rhythm of attracting people for fear I may be lonely; and the rhythm of trying to get rid of them because I know that I’m bored. That’s where Divya Ramesan filled the gap. Stranger to think about it, because, we knew each others name when in school, or probably did see each other, but never had a conversation that shared our history. A person, who’s as much as stranger to me as how I am to her, sent me a mail on Facebook, that she will be in Bombay for Royal Enfield’s program with her boyfriend Gulzar, and also that she would love to catch up for old time’s sake…probably have a drink together and talk about our eternal memories of school. Oh wait, gentlemen, I almost forgot to mention the spice of my story: The gorgeous, and the enigmatic - Varsha Narendra.

There was music in the air. So, ultimately, Varsha, Divya and me, met at Varsha’s fantasy place. Gregory David’s (Of Shantaram fame) favorite spot: The Leopold, at one of Bombay’s most exclusively slick locality: Colaba.

We ordered a couple of beers and the girls started the engines. It was just a shame to not having spoken to her right from school. She’s the thrill that anybody would love to have around. I was quite most of the time, not having anything to talk at all. And when I’m quite, I am good at one thing – close observation, and deep character-study. She was an attractive woman, with sharp features on her face, eyes big enough to keep you inquisitive; I think it had the deepest of secrets and thoughts behind them. Truly, a wonder-watch. She’s this person who’s bold, who does what she wants, who goes where she wants to, who thinks where she wants her mind to travel to. Typically a Delhite. But her eyes just got me restless – She had emotions behind the thickest of walls. She’s not what you see. She’s greater than common man’s vision. I, truly, was mesmerized by her willingness to socialize, and her frequent urge to reunite with her friends, wherever they are.

It was time for her to leave. Gulzar had been waiting for her, so she had to leave us soon.


I believe time was in my possession. I knew exhaustion of that little moment is folly. I knew it would die soon too. Be it gash or gold, it will not come again in this identical disguise. We ended up walking hand in hand to the nearest restaurant (of her choice because she said I would like something that’s her favorite there).She, later, had me follow her. You know, I always love it when women take over things. She was the woman of the night after all. I could see her swing, from left to right, and from right to left. The half bottle of beer knocked the right side of her head. Oh boy yea, I loved it. She giggled. She spoke non-stop. There’s something that made me feel like a bird; she said – “David, I’m not sure if I can walk. You will have to carry me back home. And you’re not going to disobey.”

I’ll tell you this: Any man can drop down his knees for a woman. Any man could drop his pants off for a woman. Any man could nearly get down and crawl up to a woman. And I…I could say good bye to gravity for Varsha. Oh wait! You don’t understand. I can take her for a ride in the clouds.

“Be my guest, Love!”

“Just as I thought...” Those four words she uttered and she walked right through the door of the restaurant.


We departed to the nearest railway station after our dinner. And we unfortunately had the second class tickets. At around 9.30 PM, we were victim to one of the busiest hours of the day as far as trains are concerned. Chembur is about 30 minutes from CST and we checked into a compartment that merely looked unoccupied, but stations after stations went by, and the crowd grew thicker. Men of all kinds and sorts boarded the train. There was hardly any gap left in the train to breath. She was standing in a corner and I had her covered from the uncontrollable push from behind. I made her listen to my favorite songs so that she doesn’t get bored. I saw her enjoying the music with her head down and her eyes closed. She was just about three inches or less, away. There was nothing more that I wanted. I stared at her innocence. I stared at that marvelous creation. I felt the impossible. I wanted to hug her so tightly. I wanted to make sure that she’s protected. I wanted to make sure that I’m there whenever she needs me. I dropped her off at her place. We bid goodbye to each other and the devil knocks back… “Thank you for bringing me home, and taking care of me, David. Thank you for everything.”

It’s not that I fell in love with her, all over again. It’s just the feeling of having a person right next to you, who was yours once upon a time. My perfect possession, once upon a time. It’s not a desire to reunite. It’s respectful love. It’s blissful calmness. Like a 5 year old child, it belled the back of my head, very immaturely: “what if there was never a look back. What If time was standstill? What if she was still there? Why did I fall in love a hundred times, after her? Why did I move on? Why is there a destiny?

I reached my town at midnight and I just didn’t want to go home early. I went to a local bar and treated myself with malt whiskey. I always knew I’d get the answers when I’m drunk:

I created history in High school. I created history in Chennai. I created history in Bangalore. Valuable history; worth remembering. If time was standstill, I would’ve been a dick that never gets erect.

Thoroughly intoxicated, I wanted more out of my night. I hired a cab and went to Marine Drive (Travelled for about One hour and thirteen minutes again). I ended up watching the sea through the night, until sun rise. I remembered an interesting quote about an interesting biological fact about oceans and seas; that all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the oceans, and therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea – whether it is to sail or to watch it – we are going back from whence we came.

I shouted Bombay a Good morning, and rushed back home, for a new beginning. And so to bed.

My costing Professor said:

“Over-estimation of life is never good, unless you climb the summit with determination.”

I climbed every stair to my flat, having in mind the purpose for which I went to Bombay. Chartered Accountancy’s not just a joke.

“It’s practically a serious joke: for those, who think CA could earn them rubies and diamonds with the completion of that Final Exam. True to a great extent, but I’ve seen a good number of Chartered Accountants who pay the rent of their office out of nothing. They sit jobless throughout. Or probably run their houses with just about a few clients (whose turnover or worth, doesn’t go over Rs. 2 million).”

The real question is what if I failed in my Inter level exam? I’d never see an opportunity of earning Sterling Pounds or the opportunity of sitting jobless. Hence, I decided to de-dust my books, and read. Due to my irregularity to lectures in Mahesh, I needed someone with whom I could study with. And my mom could come up with the greatest of delighting idea:

“Why don’t you study with your friend in Cochin? Just about 2 months of combined study. Here’s the deal, you can come home every two weeks, ease out your stress and not be bored as how you are in that bad city. Come back David, come back!”

Mom…sigh. I never could resist the idea of being with her. Being in a magical city is different. Being with yourself in a lonely flat is different. Watching movies alone is different. And being with mom is hell different.

15 days left to leave the city and I found it exciting. I roamed around like a tourist. I was once told by Ms. Margaret Vincent, A British lady whom I met with, in Goa, about Lin Yutan’s definition of travelling – A good traveler is one who does not know where he’s going to, and a perfect traveler does not know where he came from.

You hardly get to hear such words of wisdom from people who come to visit, who make hasty relationships, and fly back with memories and photographs. I was blessed. I wanted to be at least a good traveler, if not a perfect one. I’m just a normal Indian, after all. I bought a bottle of whiskey, mixed it with Pepsi, and carried it in a large can, which could be recognized as a bottle of fresh grape juice. The salesman in the ticket counter had asked me my expected point of disembarkation, and I simply tried the ever green movie dialogue – WHEREVER IT GOES. With a scornful look, and silent motions, he issued me a ticket. After 45 minutes of travelling, I got down at a station drunk, not knowing which part of the world it was. Name boards seemed dizzy. I could see people running. The train horn was like a danger siren during war. I took the stairs and I met an old man who offered me a cup of tea. He asked me if I was sick. I just told him that I was drunk. Whatever came out from his mouth was like a train engine’s sound. He pointed me to a direction and I knew he wanted me to see something remarkable. I entered the western side of the railway station and I thought I was an actor and I was in the middle of a movie set. Built by the British apparently, and known to be one of the oldest railway stations of Bombay. For heaven’s sake, it looked like a museum. Old display boards, a clock that looks it belonged to the creator of the 1900 era. The structural beauty…Like I said, I felt I was in a movie crafted and based in the 1900s and specifically designed for people of the 21st century to get enthusiased and visually thrilled each time they’re there.

I visited the station 15 times before I left to my hometown: Dadar Railway Station. I tell you, the place is magnetic. The people who come there are a worth to watch. Different class of people. Different emotions. Some are angry. Some are in a hurry. Some cry. Some lost in the iPod plugs. Some with a romantic smile. Some serious as though they know they’re going to die in the next hour or so.

If you can’t get enough of what you see or if you really want your eyes to constantly see, you have to be in Bombay. I guarantee, folks, your eyes will never get tired. Or take me with you, and I shall show you what Bombay is all about through my eyes.

Coincidence or whatever you can call it: My train to Kerala was at 12:15 PM; I switched on the radio on my phone. Unbelievable it was when the train started moving slowly, and as each minute passed, I could hear the engines roar louder and louder…and what made my eyes misty, was the song plugged in my ears…

Ae dil hai mushkil, jeena yahaan…zara hatke, zara bachke…yeh hai Bombay meri jaan…

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