I took a picture of the lonely railway platform that lay opposite to us. I quickly typed "bye" and sent the snap to the people I loved. I quietly put an Instagram story of the same snap. I was bidding farewell to a city I had lived for four years. Maybe this was the feeling of growing up. I realised I was about to become a migratory species moving from city to city. No, I had already become one when I came to this city. The city, whose traffic and streets I disliked, but it did gift me with many beautiful sunsets and souls that I will cherish forever. But, forever had already lost its meaning. The train departed. I waved at them as they disappeared slowly. I crawled up to the upper-berth to get some sleep (and to shed a few years). As I opened my eyes, I could hear the rain rattling against the window. Cold. I slowly went outside and stood against the door. I tried to capture the essence of the greenery that spread in front of me. Last time. I had already done many last times...
There is this feeling that I have on rare days. The love for my city. Yes, I call this city mine. The city that I wasn't born in, but the city that brought me up. As I was walking in the middle of the street amongst the festivities, I could feel the love of this community that spread through the air. മൈത്രി. Festival that does not have the boundaries of religion, the festival of equality. And I saw a presentation with she/he/they pronouns. The festival that embraces progress. And the random chayakada chettan I met. He conversed with us in Malayalam with a tint of Tamil. He asked why we hadn't bought the komb(horns) to wear on our heads. And I replied that we were too old for that. And then he said, "60 vayassayirikka ningalkk? You are still in your twenties. You are supposed to do everything from the age of 16 to 26." This conversation reminded me that I was still young. For a person who has come to dread conversations with people, I love chatting with random human b...
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