// A city of stories.
There are remnants of a Victorian Bombay in nooks and corners of this city. Old brick walls, engrained with stories. Gothic arches, in churches, libraries, railway stations, town halls.
Stone pillars carved with gargoyles. Indo-Saracenic, where East meets West in architecture. Patterned floor tiles, some with classic chequered floors, some with geometric patterns, centuries old.
Antiquated interiors romance light, in the most beautiful of ways. A waltz of light and shadows, evoking trails of nostalgia.
Bentwood chairs with woven backs. Some broken, some torn. Some musky, holding nineteenth century scents in their aged wood.
The city stands torn, between an old poetic Bombay, and the bustling chaos of an imposing new metropolitan.
Perhaps it mirrors what each one of its inhabitants feel today. Old souls, with yesteryear magic, yet minds of manic, chasing different realities, leaving behind their dreams.
A Bombay lost in translation, of old and new.
A black and white portrait, turned photograph.
A postcard of yesterday, romanced fondly today, yet buried deep in books that rest on shelves, only picked up when the heart yearns for something familiar. A forgotten story, yet to unfold.
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