When a City speaks

From the face of it, a city is not peaceful. It’s a health hazard. It’s maddening. It breeds and brings out a sub-species in us, a part of us that we never knew existed. Look deeply, and no, you don’t see anything different. Beyond a point, the madness only intensifies. 

But that doesn't mean a city’s bad. Far from it.

A city is a congregation- of souls, of buildings, of traditions, of weird sounds, of weirder habits, of tiny streets that snake through impossibly small areas, of a trillion industries- small and large. It’s a place divided into a million pieces, each watched by a million different souls, albeit for no more than a second.

A city, unlike any other place, does not speak to you. Not right away at least. A city demands patience. It says, respect me, only then shall you command respect from me.

It wasn't inherently this tough a taskmaster. It was something quaint and novel that people landed in; claimed for themselves and forever altered it beyond recognition.

It has its idiosyncrasies. It doesn't venture into conversations anymore. Through its endless transformation, it has evolved into a stubborn old creature. It grunts, snorts and wails every time it changes, which happens to be every other second. Sometimes it roars in pleasure, and the rest of the time, it simply bows to change, defeated yet again.

And this is why it doesn't indulge you, despite being unspeakably lonely, despite housing a million people. It doesn't initiate a bond with you. It doesn't allow you a second glance; it promptly sends a vehicle, a baby or your boss screaming your way, simply to distract you.

A city brings people in droves. And it drives them away in droves too.

It shoos you away, because one long look and you are etched in its memory, making farewell, all the more difficult.

It lives like an automaton most of its living time. Not looking, not feeling. But it does speak. Seldom does it speak. But when it does, it whispers, sometimes through those smoke-bearing winds, or through the bells in the temple, or through the sirens of industries. But speak it definitely does.

But it whispers only when it has deemed you fit, after watching you through those ever blinking traffic lights for at least a decade. Only when it is convinced that you have seen it long enough to believe that what you see is only part of the story. Only when you do not court it with disdain, but with patience and nostalgia does it let you in.

As a reward, it leads you to uncharted places that take your breath away; that remind you that life is more than you made out to be. It gives you newer perspectives, newer aspirations; it welcomes you in its home, lets you in on the secret cuisines, and tells you its story. 

That’s what a city is. Unless you connect to it, unless you find your own corner and appreciate it, the city will just let you be with your misconstrued notions of it, and will not bother to correct it.

It is a lonely and proud being. A lucky few get to see its nice side. You constantly speak ill of it, and it makes it harder for you to stay. It shows you a rougher, smellier and manic version of itself, masked in smoke and crushed dreams, and drives you away, so that it can exhale. A little more space, a little more place to stretch and make its existence bearable.

From deep within its automaton persona, the city watches you. It hears you. It judges you. Only then does it speak to you.

So the next time you exasperatedly quit a city, remember, neither have you lost a battle, nor has the city  won. It simply reflected the feelings you had for it, served you a custom-brewed dose your own perceptions.

PS--To all those cities that seem to be crumbling under its own weight, lend a little bit of courtesy, a little bit of gratefulness for giving you a livelihood. For otherwise you will simply strangling the poor city and with its, its precious story—its history.