I have loved London, if for the only reason that it was my home since birth, it was the place where I grew up, where I played, where I formed...
During the course of the last few years or so, our family has suffered a considerable amount of emotional hardship; I lost my dad in the summer of 2016 and just five short months later, we lost my mum during the winter. Needless to say, we pulled forth into the New Year with heavy hearts, full of grief and mourning. And I cannot explain to you in words what that inner turmoil felt like, what it
still feels like -- the pain that comes with watching your loved ones having fought almost valiantly (
for years),
only to witness them slowly succumb to the devastating hands of that cancerous grip, is metamorphic. It changes you, moulds you into something else.
We have good days and some bad days. Almost two years late, I'd like to say we err on the side of good but it's the bad days, those small transient moments, that completely catch you off your guard and hit you right out of the blue. Sometimes, the grief can be relentless and almost impossible to bare but we bare it, nonetheless. And as we must. We wear grief's scarring wound and familiarise our minds with the burden that it takes on the body. I suspect that we will always carry this pain somewhere deep inside of us - where it will reside sometimes quiet in the hush of its dormant state, and at other times awaken from slumber to return to its active and temporary overflow - until the day that we, ourselves, contribute to someone else's change.
Mum and Dad were always a constant fixture in my life, they became a constant in my Mr. Storm's life and then, as another generation is born, in our children's lives... And then suddenly, they were both gone. They left behind an aching cavity in the pit of the stomach in a world that allows no respite, no rest, no time to breathe or reflect upon what it is that you have lost. Because it is not just they who have departed; with their absence, gone is the rooted anchor that once held me so entirely to London; a place that has been another kind of constant in life. London has been my familiar, my birthplace, my playpen, my educational circuit. This is the city where I met my husband, it's where our children were born and spent their formative years blooming and where we have family and friends still residing. London has always been my home. And despite its misgivings, I think I'll always hold those fond memories close to my heart.
But London is no longer the place to be, not for us, not anymore. It has changed so much since I was a child. Growing up in East London was an experience in itself. We lived in the London Borough of Hackney along a quiet residential street of terraced houses that is now lined with rows of trees that blossom so beautifully in the spring, ready to embrace the summer. We knew many of the families on our street as well as the neighbouring ones -- and my mum and dad, being the bubbly and charming people that they were, knew practically everybody by face and many by name and everybody knew them -- and we were certainly not the most sociable of units. Yet, there it was, a functional community of people who, in the right kind of measure, were truly useful and cordial to one another without being imposing or interfering. Growing up, my sisters and I knew all of the shop keepers and stall owners up to a miles walking distance into the nearest market district of Well Street. We were friends with doctors, Chatterjee and Adireddi, at our local GP, our newsagents, Sid and Jan, the postman (when postmen were reliable and consistent and your mum would always offer him a cup of tea in the winter), the milkman (when there was business for one), the friendly family who ran the Post Office and pharmacies that serviced the Kingsmead and Homerton High Road area. People used to know one another, we showed common courtesy.
When people become indifferent, social cohesion is lost. And so, London seems more unfamiliar to me than ever. I was going to say more about this London that everyone loves to love but the truth of it is this; most will not have known the London that I have known or been party to some of the experiences that I have had and there would be little use trying to explain to you that I miss what my London was and cannot find the will to care enough for what it has become. What I really want is some peace and quiet, security in safety, an old school kind of functional community where our children have the very real opportunity to grow into healthy, happy citizens of the world. And, quite frankly, I want so much more in life for our children than what London has to offer.
Not all love stories end well, or the way we want them too, but they can pave the way to greater things. Farewell, London. You were, indeed, an experience.
