"Bombay."

By Aanya Menon

there are people in the early dawn light, with their torn yoga mats and greasy footballs and sand fringed toes. their voices mix with the clear air, and they stick to your ribs like a song of the sea, a long lost treasure you didn't know you could find. the pigeons are raucous, and you stand in a husk of the crowd torn city that spills from your seams. it is in the way you talk, rough and lilting and painted with the streets of your childhood, kabbadi streaked bones.

the jagged cuts on your knees bend at the seams, washed in mud and the sadness that slithers in with the city lights you see in the plane. britannia is quiet in its way of charm, but the burn of raspberry soda still stings your throat when you soak up the rain at the bus stop. the bus itself is never not filled with the mildly pungent scent of after hours cologne and melted ice-creams, and the train is a mesh of gawking infants and wide-mouthed aunties who seem to think that the most comfortable pillow in the world is your shoulder. bombay is a gaping tear in my heart that cannot be mended. but for now, one-rupee barbie bandaids will suffice.

By Aanya Menon