India – a blend, that’s what it feels like. Not a hotpot, too messy for that; not an amalgamation, too fancy. Just a blend of everything – emotions, colors, flavors, sounds, and lives. Human and non-human. Stray and free. It’s like stepping into a living, breathing canvas that changes with every step.
This time, though, it felt warmer. Not in temperature, but in spirit. I met people whose hearts were full, whose kindness was genuine, whose souls were nourishing. And in that warmth, I found something that renewed my hope. Yes, the politics of the country wear you down, the cruelty of capitalism stings – I know my privilege, and how it shields me, though it doesn’t change the truth. But despite all that, the people – yes, it sounds like a Bollywood line, but doesn't Bollywood reflect the spirit of the people (or at least it used to?) – the people, with their ever-giving outstretched hands and open hearts, reminded me that hope is alive.
So, here it is, a tribute to them, based on a travel story in the mild winter of December of 2025. To the ones who make it all worthwhile:
I might have heard those waves hit
the Mumbai Bandstand for the 156th time,
But it still feels just the right amount of fine.
The right amount of calm, warm,
And cheeks kissed by the settling breeze of dawn.
There’s a dull ache of pain,
From the hands of goons at gain,
In the same city I can’t overlook,
From the smog of its sins.
But here, I take the pleasure of all the pain,
Cursing capitalism from my air-conditioned 19th-floor gain.
So I move… move to the slowest city in the world, as they say... Bangalore.
Slow traffic, slow life to embrace all those gains.
A city of startups and slow-paced days
Of tech dreams and old-school ways.
Where rain falls softly, the skies are blue and gray,
But somehow, it still feels like a lost and found home, someway.
A short stop on the way, I meet Kochi,
Clearly a well versed global, liberal and secular friend.
Filled with immense natural beauty and heritage,
Hosting history from distant shores - a blend.
In Mattancherry, the past lingers on,
Woven together in a vibrant song.
Jews trading spices, their stories unfold,
Followed by Parsis, Christians, and Muslims bold.
Hindus, with their temples, leaving their mark,
Once separate, now entwined in the dark.
A blend of faiths, time’s hand refined,
Creating a history that’s both yours and mine.
Thrissur and Guruvayur, the heart of celebration,
Where mighty elephants serve in divine devotion.
Are they gods themselves, in grandeur so bold,
Or sacred beasts, in stories retold?
Decorated in splendor, like the temple aglow,
A thousand lights sparkle, as the spirits flow.
Here, the temple isn’t just stone or clay,
It becomes the life, the pulse of the day.
No matter your belief, you stand in awe,
Witnessing a miracle, a divine law.
Last stop of Hyderabad, a city so grand,
Where biryani’s aroma fills the land.
The Charminar watches as centuries blend,
In markets where cultures and colors transcend.
Lanes of bangles that shimmer and shine,
Stories of faith in every design.
A breeze through the bazaar, memories arrange,
Of home, of unity, of a hopeful change.
- Rhythima
A humble resident of many of these homes
