I'm a Tourist in my City

This time, I don't feel like I owe my reader an apology for using a cliché in my title. Because clichés are good at expressing a collective repetitive feeling and they deserve credit for never holding a grudge for being used, overused or misused.

I can't count how many times in the past three years I have passed a tourist - denim shorts, branded shades, big backpack, camera, wisps of hair left to the mercy of wind or heat, and partially scrunched up eyebrows. And of course, the quintessential big map blowing in the wind, hastily folded and unfolded and stuffed into a back pocket over a hundred times. When they stop to ask me for directions, I realize two things - one, I look like I belong to this strange place and am approachable for this reason when directions are needed; and two, I almost always know exactly what path they need to take to reach their destination. Then we smile and wave goodbye, and I continue walking in the real world, while they explore the island excitedly for a few more days, and then go home to some other country, far away.

I can't count how many times in the past three years I have passed a tourist and wished I was him or her, without a real-world care, here only long enough to fall in love with the good side of Singapore and appreciate it's beauty - but not long enough to find out the things they hate, the things that are ugly and just as real.

Even though things have changed for me on this tropical island, and even though I now like leaving my wisps of hair for the wind to blow or sweat to cling to, I'm only just starting to call it home. Because there's a sense of freedom, choices, responsibilities - all the things that a tourist is limited to by virtue of the amount of time he or she can spend here.

But the last time I flew home and had to fill out an immigration card, my pen lingered just a moment longer than usual over the words "Country of Residence". They seemed to be raising an eyebrow at me, not mocking, but half-curious, waiting for me to write an answer so they could be stamped by an Immigrations officer and filed away forever.

Of course I still wrote India.

An Undaunted City

The city rages on, undaunted by last night's furious rain.

That rain pelted on my windows last night like countless tiny fists begging for sanctuary.

Those fists are tired now, they are pelting lightly on the same window panes, only rapping lightly with weak knuckles.

I nearly opened my window just to let them in and rest.

But that would have meant welcoming the howling wind inside as well.

And the wind was just a haunting menace that wouldn't let me sleep.

So I left half the window open and some grateful drops sprayed in, while the rest tumbled towards the ground and ended their miserable fall.

As I look out at the city, it rages on, nothing is changing on the ground as everything is changing in the sky.