I lose Bombay to the endless weave of beady lights. A long road running through the heart of the city is lit like a gold necklace--I haven't spent enough time here to ascertain, from thousands of feet above, which one it is. I've always only been a visitor.
I'm disappointed though that I don't glimpse the uneven neckline of Marine Drive as a heavy cloud cover has between me and the city I can never understand. From far above, the glittering weave of humanity looks wholesome, ever reassuring. Earlier in the day, stuck in a tormented, angry downpour, it seemed vicious and untenable.
I'm finally on a twice-cancelled flight to back home, to Delhi. I welcome the prospect of tress, of a wider road, my own pillow. I marvel at how much I hate and love home at the same time. It's getting to be a definitive conflict. Definitive of character, of an attempt to realise an ultimate personality. But like the city I love (and even those that I despise), it changes and stays constant.
We've already flown over Vadodra, Ahemdabad, Ajmer and are heading towards Jaipur, as the dutiful, chatty pilot informs us. In between these different weaves of lights are smaller, sparsely lit editions. Citylings. Tier-Twos. Rest of India. Even more abundant are the swathes of black in between. The Rest of India. It's a scary thought.
We only see what we believe. We judge books by their covers. We're covered in bright lights. The Rest of India is covered in dark, with a few highways leading into it. What are these places, my snobbish, city-bred mind wonders. What are these points between dark and light, between self-assuring knowledge and complete, bitter oblivion?
As we get closer, the lights get brighter. They blind us. They block out the black, the little enormous swathes of dark.
Touchdown.
