An Excuse

As the train rushes through countless cities, each subtly distinct yet equally soothing in their cadence, I sit by the rain-kissed window of the AC coach, pondering a question someone once asked me: “What would be the city you’d want to live in?” A seemingly simple query, yet I find myself at a perpetual loss when trying to answer. Where do I truly wish to belong? What would a place possess to make me think, this is it—this is where I’ll spend the rest of my days?

I’ve heard people speak with reverence of their hometowns, reciting tales of familiarity that feel almost sacred. They know every crevice, every corner, as if the streets themselves are etched into their souls. They speak of the ice cream vendor at the crossroad who remembers their flavour of choice, the pan corner that keeps their favourite cigarette brand in stock just in case they show up one day. Their hands, guided by muscle memory, navigate their vehicles through the impossibly narrow lanes, swerving instinctively around potholes older than the city council’s ambition, and tilting just enough to escape the cruel rise of the speed bump. They know the obscure tea stall exactly 3.7 kilometres away, where the brew is magic in a chipped earthen cup. Familiar with the haven of culinary secrets, they always seem to know that the famed burger joint pales in comparison to the one tucked beside it.

To be of a place so deeply that it becomes your mind’s palace—that is a feeling I’ve never known. And so, when someone asks me, “Where would you want to retire?” I feel lost. Perhaps it isn’t the place that matters to me, but the time spent there that simply makes me nostalgic to reminisce everything. I could revisit the same streets, yet find them stripped of meaning—lifeless without the echoes of what was, or what might have been. It’s a strange melancholy, knowing that the idea of belonging to a place will always haunt me. Perhaps, for me, it has never been about the ground underfoot, but the souls I’ve shared it with. Yet whenever someone asks me “Where are you from?” I simply answer “NCR” not because I consider that place my home, but simply because that is the place I’ve known the longest. I would definitely never dream of staying in NCR, not with its smog-choked skies and suffocating rush. Yet, I’d spend every last rupee of mine to sit with my favourite people there. To light a joint, pour a generous peg of whiskey, gather around a crackling bonfire, and talk until dawn dissolves the night. To watch the sunrise with them, and then, in shared exhaustion, collapse onto the same bed. I would queue up my favourite songs, sit there, and hope—hope—that one day, as I wander aimlessly on the metro, I might see her again. To catch a fleeting glimpse of those luminous eyes, to feel my heart skip its rhythm at the sight of her. I’d sing to her then, in my dreadful voice, every lyric that reminds me of her on nights like these. Like a drunken Uzair Jaswal, perched precariously on the edge of the metro platform, shouting out my soul in song:

“Tere bin mere naina,

Kahi paaye na chaina.”

I loathe NCR with every fibre of my being, yet it would become sacred ground if only for the people I love. For her. This meandering train of thought has always been an excuse, I realize—a final attempt to write something for her. I’ve never been good at words, at keeping promises, at being the partner she deserved. But even now, I’d say:

“Jo roothe bhi tu,

Na jaana kahi,

Main tera tha kal,

Main tera abhi.”