The greatest lie that we tell about Bangalore is we love this place. Bullshit! Never.
We owe to this place a lot. Come question of acceptance, we will turn our back.
But, when I close my eyes after day’s labor, I thank every element of Bangalore. The air, the soil, the opportunities and the takeaways. Plenty, they have been.
On the streets, beside the food stalls, amid the chaos, I feel like a betrayer and a conspirator with a dagger in my hand. Friends told me I talk in sleep. But, they don’t understand a single word. Thank god, they don’t.
I make gold articles. Here, they call me magicians. They wonder how can I produce such beautiful ornaments within the blink of an eye! Poor they, I choke myself with laughter and conceal my hunger under lump.
Naive they have not seen the hunger, the lazy evening, the nagging parents and the curse of the wife. Come Bengal, I will show you the herds of the magician with the touchstones that have lost the last touches of sorcery. Trapped, puzzled and confused they don’t leap and they cringe.
I plunge and dream. I am happy without my root.
Now, my wife is all smiling and receive me in a warm embrace. That’s occasional though. Sometimes after a year. Friends say that’s ok and call it the secret spice of my happy marriage life.
But, I don’t want to be occasional with her. I need her every hour. In my busy hour and idle night.
So, I plan on my little jewelry shop. Five years more and then I shall spit on my job, on Bangalore and every freak here.
A rented shop in Gariahat, my children in those schools with sweet names which my bitter tongue can’t pronounce, a winter picnic somewhere. Oh, I love reverie.
My manager will call me selfish, will block my last month’s salary and definitely curse my native people.
Do I care? Do we care?
Image Courtesy- Unsplash