We don’t have a song, we have a city

Concrete roads look better than tar ones, though nothing beats the scent of steaming fresh tar. Insects rain down the concrete during summer monsoons, outnumbered by the din of singing crickets and mosquitos. Avoid flooded streets. The drain lids come off and I don't want to die choking on someone else's shit. The cockroach reminds me of how old the earth is and how juvenile homo sapiens are. If we destroy the planet, they will take over the rubble. The dogs on the street belong to me. They bite and defend me—like family. The crow comes to my kitchen window—one legged. Had an accident somewhere; no one is spared in the city. I toss it a piece of roti and hope it visits tomorrow. Do we really know our neighbors these days? 

It wasn't like this in the village, my mother moans. We would walk under moonlight for miles to visit the family next door. But the ones near us fight all day. They named their dog ‘sexy’ just to yell, ‘Down sexy! Down sexy bitch!’ What could I say to them on the stairway out the door? ‘Did you bring sexy back?’ The city grows like cancer. New builds squat next to old ones, challenging their architectural choices, blocking out the sun. Bauhaus lines next to ornate verandahs. Old votes next to new ones. Forever changing lane names to make them our own. 

There are good things in the city too. The street food on every corner, for every price point. The background radiation that puts me to sleep. Close my eyes in peace knowing, someone, somewhere is awake, keeping watch. The kids play in the streets, stop for moving cars and autorickshaws. The kids don't care which build you live in. They puddle in the middle of the road, exchange toys and ideas, force their parents to talk to each other on birthdays and festivals. A hundred festivals to celebrate; doesn’t matter which God you were born to. Burst the crackers, break your fast, bake sugary treats with friends, family and maybe the neighbors. I finally know what to say. Happy Diwali! Eid Mubarak! Merry Christmas! Until next election! Until the city eats us all and the cockroach nibbles at corpses, returning the ruin back to mother earth. 

There are great things in the city too. The finding of home, of little corners that will accept me, that will forget the village my ancestors came from. I can disappear in the city, become someone new. Somewhere along those crowded footpaths my father bumped into your mother. Old friends reunited by the city. She asked him how I was. Whether I was looking for a husband. Because in the end we all come from the village. And my dear that is how our love began. In the city of our birth. In the city that was once seven islands, sewn together like only humans would dare to.

Karen Grace Soans is an Indian scientist and writer living in Germany. She uses the instagram handle @doodlinscientist and website www.doodlinscientist.com to share her art, documenting the highs and lows of experiment and discovery. She writes to survive, to confess, to hope.