Small Town Saga, Big City Blues

Chhotein chhotein shaharon se
Khali-bore dupaharon se
Hum toh jhola uthake chale...

Back when I was a proud Mumbaikar and loving every minute of it, if anyone had told me that a few years down the line I would baulk at the prospect of having to stay there, I would have laughed, nay, jeered at them. Me and hate Bombay? Wha..?! After all, wasn't I the one who sang paens about the muddy-grey Arabian sea, how at 3 am near Plaza cinema, 'the city that never sleeps' smelt of fresh coriander, the fact that I could take a train back home at 1 am all by myself, the panipuripavbhajivadapavmisalsizzlingbrowniesundaegoldenbutteredbhuttainmonsoons, how I could rub shoulders with actors and actresses while buying bhaji at the local market?
Last week, I tried to revive just a tiny portion of that love for Bombay as I struggled with the difficult choice of either being gainfully employed but miserable in the metropolis or being jobless in a small town. For the time being at least, I have opted for the latter.
I was born in a small town and couldn't wait to get out of there. So I don't know when I turned into someone who preferred the minimal creature comforts of such places as opposed to the hustle and bustle of a boomtown.
People ask me how I find Baroda in comparison to Bombay and look surprised when I tell them that I love it. (Of course, I would love it even more had there been more job openings for me here, but that's another story altogether.) But I do, seriously. I love that even the most distant suburb of Baroda is barely half an hour away from the rest of the city. I love the spacious garden in my house where birds and bees socialise with squirrels, frogs, monkeys and sundry other creatures that I'm happy not to be acquainted with. And I am seriously in love with the tiny, quaint airport.
While I have had my share of Bombay's hep and bindaas offerings, Baroda has almost everything that I would be content with in my old age: nice eating joints, a couple of good bookstores, good multiplexes, a decent amount of shopping, the odd play or two.
Take away the cattle which double up as mobile roadblocks and magnanimously drop their "holy, purifying offerings" outside my gate each morning, take away the motorists who feel that driving on the right side of the road is only for sissies, take away the unique ability of Baroda to transmorgify into Venice or Amsterdam during the monsoons, throw in a couple of decent-paying jobs for me, and you would have a place where I would ideally like to retire.
Now, if only someone could bring the muddy-grey Arabian Sea here, I would achieve nirvana.