“Foreigners are future posterity.” said Madame De Staël, years before my birth. I concur; foreigners are future posterity. As I was, to the city that has –for the longest time– enamoured me, with all the prose and poetry I’ve read, describing it as– magic. Simply, magic. Bombay is an enigma to me, that gets harder to reduce to word or sound with every minute I spend within it. It is a city that romanticises its congruence of aesthetics and culture; churning out what can only be described as… Magic.

There is life in these parts,
Not known to the eyes –
Of the patrons to the souks,
Where the merchants, they lie;
About powder and potion, bone and tooth;
That would fix your spirit, and retain your youth.

There is life in these parts,
And the water’s about,
The pain in one’s heart,
It does help douse.
There is more to the rains,
Than flooding the streets;
There’s more to these parts–
than you’ve made out to be.

Though your tears are made silent,
Amongst falling leaves.
And the winds, too violent,
To wear your heart on your sleeve.

There is love in these parts,
Though that love is scarce.
There are hearts that are broken;
The one’s that are scared.

And although it rains,
These hearts do not heal;
They write in pain,
All they’ve been longing to feel.

But there is pain, and there is pain.
But only one your heart cannot contain.
Give into the sea, give into the rain,
Give in for a moment, forget that– pain.

The Marina extends past its rocky cage,
Into the shores of my eyes;
Where lies written a page,
Of the joy and times that this city gave me,
By allowing me life, and letting me see.