Bir.
Bir.
Paragliders dotted the horizon,
landing in the wide-open space
next to my temporary home.
We all gravitated there, day after day.
Six evenings, I was pulled in too.
Back in Bangalore,
concrete and glass hem me in.
No patch of earth to call our own,
no place to just be.
Rewind to childhood:
the neighborhood park,
our second home.
We’d sprawl on the grass for hours,
munching cheap popcorn,
our currency was gossip and laughter.
No need to buy our way into belonging.
of simply existing
Now, in this urban jungle,
friends’ living rooms are our refuges.
without walls closing in.
But maybe,
just maybe,
my bicycle is the key.
Pedaling through the city’s arteries,
I’m chasing that feeling again:
of space.