By Sunil Kumar

Bombay, the Anglicized version of Mumbai. Sometimes brash, sometimes rotten, the whore of opportunity. Lest any of you forget or take offence, I was referring to human nature. The city by the sea had seven islands; reclaimed, joined together by the umbilical cord of cement.

Yes, it has its charms, but I refuse denigration. There is a sordid sullen underbelly; the darker fabric of existence peeping out of the woodwork, a zombie trying to resurrect itself. The city that often sleeps; poetic and journalistic metaphors cannot disguise reality. We like to believe in myths, collective consciousness is bamboozled by self-created metaphors, often accepted; carved by a few rotten souls who impose their mental imagery on the vast unthinking majority.

I have no consistent focus in this short synopsis of my mind. The world is crock; an ode to something, sore and crucified. Trains and buses; millions in this bustling metropolis rushing around everywhere. Politics and self-serving social crusaders are cliched; the world is endless debate often going round in circles; the snake swallowing its own tail.

Draw imaginary lines everywhere. Hey, all of you marketing jocks surfing the web; I want the site to be a forum for debate; an idea going round; somebody discuss something here. Not, an endless exercise in myself or yourself; try to put something relevant; for god’s sake; intelligence is a pattern, perhaps. Even the most cerebral of people did not really decipher the meaning of true intellect.

Returning to the often livid conscience of 20 million people; and my interaction with a few. Pick up a newspaper; watch the television; or speak to anybody; the world’s greatest life stories; told often, very often. I, We, Me. They hanged somebody today. The good, the bad, and the good. Drops in the ocean of consciousness, if there is such a thing. Skepticism Incorporated, sometimes no, sometimes yes. Aum Shanti, Shanti, Shanti!

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