It isn’t the same


As I am travelling in the train to go back to the place I now call home in the land of the colonisers, I can feel that it is not the same.

There is a difference between this and home. Even though I make my heart believe this is home, my eyes cannot be deceived.

The train passes by trees and there are buildings behind those trees which has flats like they do in Mumbai. But you know why it isn’t the same? Because there is no chaos. The windows have neatly drawn curtains with and with dimly lit rooms. My eyes immediately narrow because the picture seems too perfect, a little to structured for my own taste. My eyes search for those well lit rooms with bright tube lights, with mud pots or bisleri bottles on the window that hold water. The middle aged woman in her nighty cooking in the kitchen with the pressure cooker or a belan. The maid cleaning the utensils.

The houses need to be cluttered and has to seem like the family is completely utilising the space. The dimly lit houses don’t hold the same souls that are constantly on their feet about something. The dimly lit houses in fact has nobody and is almost always empty.

It is pretty in structure but carries nothing in character. The colourfulness of the houses you see as you pass by them in a Mumbai local or anywhere in India beats the prim and proper of English.

The well lit streets still look grim with hardly any traffic. Maybe because there are no rickshaws. It is perfect. But its just not right.

England you’re beautiful but I can’t live in total perfection, cause for my heart it just doesn’t seem right. It seems a little too messed up than it shows. It seems like the perfection is a mask for something deeply hurt underneath.

I prefer the honest colours and serene noisyness of my country.

P.S. I don’t really look into people’s houses like that. This post makes me sound like a stalker. :p

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