I need proof.
I need proof that there still exists
Dusty, stifling streets, bustling crowds,
Never ending calls of vendors, hawkers, traffic,
People. Utter strangers.
People who won’t bother with common courtesy
But who will rush to your aid
If you but call out.

Architecture walking the tightrope
Of modernization using a
Victorian style walking stick to balance.

I need proof that I still have a home
In the by-lanes where we used to
Smoke and sip chai.
In the dingy bars where we used to get
Intoxicated on cheap, dark rum
and with each other.
On the sea face where the breeze
Used to teach me to love my curls
By tossing them around
And the lights of my city used to assemble
In a sparkling, glittering row
And paint the city for me,
weaving the fantasies and fears
Hopes and hates,
Smiles and sobs
Into a panorama which ran
The length of my tired soul.

We used to sit,
The evening rush hour providing us
With a soothing background music.
We used to nestle against our city,
Safe. Secure.
We used to look out to sea
And dream of countries like this one.
Less pollution, clean streets,
Not as many brown people, not as many people,
Bigger cars, spacious houses, equality,
Walmarts and Starbucks, opportunity
And all the various elements of the
American Dream
Which has long since surrendered itself
To the great ocean of Time
With its waves of hours, years and decades.

It sits at the bottom, this Dream,
A grotesque shipwreck.
Piranhas swimming through its ruins,
Moss running up its sides.
Kissing the ocean floor as tenderly
as it used to kiss the heads
of sleeping children, artists
and those who ran their fingers through money
with dreams being the everlasting currency.

And now I’m here.
In the land of the Dream.
Right in the thick of Americana.
And all I want to do is call you and tell you
That I was closer to that dream
when I was sitting with you in Bombay
looking out to sea.