Driving home from work, I was mesmerized by the darkness of the roads. They were blankets of black, straight and winding (what are the odds!) at the same time. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the radio kept distracting me from the thought of beer and chips I’d have after I got home. Beer is harmless, easy on the liver and lands on the stomach like fluffy flowers. Soft like a newborn’s cheeks, the head of a North Indian who eats dosai with knife and fork, and soft porn.
An idiotic woman driver cut into my lane and an iPod punk took his own sweet time to cross the road, making me miss the green. Just as I got the green again, another idiot pedestrian jumped out from nowhere. I motioned him to go ahead and he smiled at me. That is when I realized how much I feel at home here. This is my home. I live, work, sleep, shit and drink here. This city is as comforting as a mother taking care of a baby, spinning a cocoon of warmth and coolness at the same time, maintaing thermal equillibrium. It shelters and houses me, like Michael Jackson took care of teenage kids.
I am not quite given to homely sentiments. But this city is same and different as Madras, yet it is 8600 miles away.