The Idea-smithy

It seems almost pathetic to call the sight of satellite dish antennae, scaffolding rods and TV aerials beautiful. But that’s what the skyline in Mumbai looks like. And even for a jaded, gritty city-zen, the freshness of that undefinable colour of light creeping up behind the buildings before the sun is mesmerizing.

And down below, in the heart of the darkness is that which distinguishes this from any other skyline. A small fire glowing, warming a faceless entity. Watchman? Slum-dweller? Milk shopkeeper? Just another one of those people who’re up and awake and keep the city bustling while some of us slumber in the city that never sleeps.

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~O~O~ I call myself a chronic thinker. A few centuries ago, I’d have been called a Thinker. Or burnt at stake for being a witch. My degree is my passport to the world of respectability. I moonlight as a troubled poet, a warrior princess and a closet sorceress. I am all of these and yet none of them is all of me. All I was born to be really, was a story-teller. Scheherazade, Galelio, Cleopatra and Salvador have passed through. This time round, just call me IdeaSmith. Read more ideas

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