*Two signs point to this being a good year for love. One: the heart shaped balloon that broke away from its companions and drifted towards me, dodging traffic and electric poles. I am standing, amidst fairy lights and stripper poles and interesting conversation and I watch it as it drifts towards me, taking its time. And then, when it’s about a foot away from my grasping fingertips, it winks and drifts away again, leaving behind the promise of potential. I look away for a second and when I look back, it’s gone.
And the second sign? The fact that my berth number on the Rajdhani train home is 69.
* Crosslegged at a friend’s flat, I look around me, at the girls I love, and I feel a sense of deja vu, so strong that it takes me by surprise. Here we all are, sitting the way we used to, having similar conversations, swatting away mosquitoes from our bare legs, and yet, here we are not. You can never go home again, says the old refrain, and yet, we are happy and fulfilled, we are drinking coffee then, in the next blink, at an old favourite coffee shop, we are drinking a glass of wine, we are interrupting each other, each of us with different stories of me! me! me! and we are happy that the others are happy, we feel, resonating within our systems, a sense of well being that we have made the right decisions, and yet, that we are in Bandra, all together, looking well, feeling well.
*Passing by the house I once lived in, the house I once loved, I strain my head to peer out of the rickshaw up the floors till I catch sight of my old bedroom. And oh, the lights are off, no one’s home and I miss it, I miss my house more than I miss any other part of my relationship, is this odd? I miss my house, I miss the way it smelt and felt and was, I miss the everythingness and the nothingness of it, I miss hungover Sunday mornings and rainy Tuesday afternoons and the doorbell ringing and running up and down the stairs and the particular click the key made in the door.
* Oh, but. When someone asks me why I miss Bombay, I don’t even have to think about it. “My friends,” I say, “I miss Bombay because of my friends.”
*It is in Bombay that I make the decision to go speak at the Manipal Media Students Convention, and it is also in Bombay that I decide that while I’m down South anyway, I’m going to take myself off on a solo beach holiday (the first one I’ve ever done) to Gokarna, which is right next door. (Details: In Manipal on the 17th, speaking there on the 18th, off to Gokarna for a couple of days after. If you’re in Manipal, come say hi.) Bombay makes me adventurous and up for (pretty much) anything, when I die, I want to be cremated and my ashes scattered off the tallest building, so each person inhales a little bit of me and carries it across the city that I love.
*And today, a rainy spring day in Delhi, when I clean up and potter about, I think I shall spend the day looking out at the roof tops around me and dreaming.