LOVE LETTER for THE UNLOVED
Ugly is evil. Yes? So billions of children around the world have been told for ages. Take Cinderella, for instance: the quintessential damsel in distress and the reasons for her stress -- harpies of a stepmother and two stepsisters. As countless fables and ancient scripts would have us believe, good always triumphs over evil and somehow “good” is always associated with the visually appealing. Naturally, the beautiful Cinderella lives happily ever after with her Prince Charming (they didn't have prenups back then) and the ugly sisters get their due.
However, unfortunately for Cinderella and all the other good (read pretty) vs. bad (ugly) stories, some folks decide to grow up. There are at least 12 different versions (including retellings by contemporary writers) of Cinderella. Tanith Lee's “When the Clock Strikes” speaks of a Cinderella who practices black magic and wants to smite the prince while Gregory Maguire's Cinderella in “Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister” is a manipulative, self-pitying bimbo who hates her new family, fears the outside world and holes up at home until a visiting French prince's search for a bride offers a chance at escape.
You see, pretty is not always blameless and unattractive, nor necessarily evil.
Once upon a time, out of a delta, emerged a quaint trading post that morphed into a metropolis. A megacity broken by its own weight. A desperate parent who could never meet the needs of an ever-growing family and had to constantly cut corners. A home that could best be described as makeshift, if you were being kind. It's hell for pedestrians, and public transportation is inadequate. It certainly is one of the most overcrowded places in the universe or maybe its people just don't appreciate personal space. Sidewalks (that usually smell like urea factories) are invaded by vendors; if it rains even for a couple of hours, streets are clogged and traffic is backed up all the way to Timbuktu (during protests and rallies they become warzones). Crime and violence are on the rise (no its name doesn't start with 'G' and end with 'M'). There's little or no source of recreation (some might argue that mushrooming malls in every block and food carts popping up every week are great options). And then the honour of making it to the list of top unliveable cities.
She gets a lot of hate. Not loving her is the easy way out.
But in 400 years she has never turned anyone away. At the cost of her wellbeing and beauty, she shelters millions -- over 15 million if you like numbers. The homeless live off the generosity of fellow citizens and even her poorest are extra-hospitable. Crowds take a stand against injustice within minutes. Her streets take on mesmerising hues of Krishnachura red, Radhachura yellow and Jarul purple. The air in her ancient, narrow alleys is still heavy with the whiff of bakarkhani being baked...
Magic hour starts post 10pm. That's when the ban on three-wheeled chariots is lifted from her major streets. The city everyone loves to curse is hardly recognisable.
Should I love her because I signed an invisible contract when I was born within her boundaries? Because hating her would be unseemly? I'll admit there are days when I hate her like a nasty summer rash. And then there are days when I love her like a slice of the perfect guava -- not too ripe, not too hard -- with salt and red chilli flakes on top. I have the right to love and hate; I see her, in her entirety.
Lovable/unliveable, she is mine.
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