Your river side- full of worn out people in black in a funeral procession of going home from work.
Amidst all the classy and unclassy concrete which raises from all sides [some one called it 'architecture of high capitalism'], your water tries hard to not be some sort of fancy industrial liquid to awe the passers by. Bereft of the plains and hills and rockside, it is amazing, how it clings on to being water.
It must be hard being you. I should some times shut out the din of work and sit by your side, to listen to your story. It might do both of us some good. I am just a passer by, with no kind of ownership over you. It will be like talking to an absolute stranger. The days when I yearn for more than "what are you having for lunch" for a conversation, may be I should come and sit by your side.
I just have vague ideas about your ageless past. We are plain stupid, trying to pass our mortality onto the agelessness of land and sea by our attempts at writing 'history'. I know you have seen as much plunder, blood, disease and death as any other city . That is in the lineage of big cities, right? A concoction of blood and despair which brings in a new load of people with their colours of happiness and sorrow, to drench the city in one more colour.
The pale skinned men who sailed off from your ports to far off lands like mine...bringing plunder and murder in varying degrees..till the malaria and dysentery or some other gift from the tropics took them. You must have watched those journeys with the stoicism of immortality-knowing well that our human games of greed and hate and murder too will have to end, and we too will have to bow away from the surface of earth with as much dignity as we can manage.
I know, all your stories wouldn't smell of blood and despair. Like every city, you too pave your streets with flowers in spring, every bloom a sort of return gift for the kindness and love and laughter and music which fill your streets. The man who walks up to the woman in the bus stop and says with dignity that he needs to have a coffee and the respect with which the woman gives a few pounds, as if she was sharing one of the countless free newspapers in your streets. The man in the restaurant who gives out a dessert for free to a not so well off customer. The smile on the face of the old man who tries his best to find the way for a direction challenged new comer....
The love and hate, the despair and hope, the destitution and richness...all that which you keep inside. May be one day I should sit by your side and listen to your story