Londonwallah

Mohsin Hamid wrote, “There is something magical about London. It can coax a water lily to sink its roots into soil.”

Somewhere in between the suits on London Bridge, and the laptop bag carrying army on Liverpool Street, lives a soul. It’s the soul that defines a city.
If you were being trained to be a writer, I’d like to throw in my two dollars (pounds?) worth. Don’t write after a night out in the city! A night out which involves endless rounds of scotch at Ain’t Nothing but the Blues Bar, off Carnaby Street. Where the music plays with your senses, and the barmaid well, also plays with your senses.
Old friends buying rounds, and discussing life! Life = crisis, something that one needs to go through, as soon as the clock touches 20 something. More often than not it’s about the job you don’t like, or the winter that’s suddenly become unbearable. Or, of one half of North London, The Arsenal, finally living up to potential .Or just the girl, the term “girl” on such a night is not very well-defined. It could be the one you miss, or the one across the bar. London does that to you. It’s in the air.
While the drummer looked bored, the bassist requested for several pints of bitter. The lighting helped set the atmosphere. We found ourselves, in our comfort zone. I grew up in Kolkata, and we became adults at Someplace Else. It was, and still is a dingy pub, in the basement of a plush hotel on Park Street. We shared our first beer there, and swayed to local bands churning out covers of great bands from the 1960s and 70s. Perhaps the transition to move to London has been made a whole lot easier because of the upbringing in Kolkata. Perhaps, being the key word.
Once the bars close in London, the streets are meant for those that are fit for survival. Night buses are overcrowded. Filled with the craziest people. Most behave like their time is spent at an institution, the non-academic type of institution, that is. And if you’re in the mood to get a glimpse of the dark side, you might even see movies scripts unfolding around you. The girl at the crossing of Regent Street looking for company, the homeless looking for shelter, or beer. The Starbucks cups on the sidewalk, McDonald’s brown paper bags complimenting the adverts on the hoardings. The wild side is unleashed. You might even see groups of teenagers pledging allegiance, not the one written by Francis Bellamy in 1892, the words are different the meaning similar “I swear blood, for you… anything blood”. Dirty town, this.
If you’re hungry, the best way to get food at the wee hours of the morning are to walk down narrow lanes of Soho. The chances are you’ll stumble upon your favourite Russian joint that does the best fried eggs around 3 am. Or the brothers that run the falafel place. And if experimenting isn’t your cup of tea, then sleep is the best option! No food at 3 am otherwise. What a dirty little town.
I waited at the bus stop, for bus number 453. I had a chance to reflect on all that was. The Christmas lights that look majestic on Oxford Street, the 5 am junta, waiting for the Underground routes to open.
The cold didn’t feel all that unbearable. A city is what you make of it. A transition, a holiday destination or in my case… home. London for me will always be special. As I complete another year here, I have realised that it is possible to live in the city with a negative bank balance (which will require close friends having an additional couch), or with a job that allows you to pay rent. London is what you make of it.
London is a “she” for me. I have a bench by the river. I have stories of magical nights. There are waiters that know me by name, where conversations have lasted till last orders, sometimes even beyond. There is the shrink at the underground cocktail bar, Freuds. The Arsenal faithful at Bayswater. The Bengali connections in East London. The taxi driver won’t ask you where you have to go, till you are comfortably seated in the back seat. The bus driver on every route will ask you to hurry up, especially when one can’t find their travel card, also known as the Oyster by the Londonwallahs. There still exist black and white photographs of John and Paul, Mick and Keith. The loud, opinionated still continue to take over parts of Hyde Park every Sunday. Speakers’ corner, or speakers’ convention, have your pick!

And when the tourist asks you for directions, you know you’re a Londonwallah!

I love this dirty town.