The City That Never Knew Me

The City That Never Knew Me

I came with a suitcase too big,
and a heart too soft for this city.
The train that brought me in
also carried a hundred hopes —
mine just happened to be quieter.

Mumbai didn’t notice.
It never does.
Not when you pause at a crossing
to catch your breath,
or when your kurta gets stained
in the rush-hour push.

I thought this city would welcome me.
Instead, it watched
as I lost trains,
missed lectures,
and stared too long at buildings
I couldn’t afford to dream in.

No one tells you
how lonely a city can feel
when everyone’s always moving.
Or how heavy your chest gets
when your hometown number rings
and you say “I’m fine”
with a smile that no one can see.

The city still doesn’t know me.
It doesn’t remember my name,
doesn’t ask if I ate.
It doesn’t slow down
when you're lost in the crowd,
crying on a platform
you can’t pronounce yet.

But slowly — the city teaches you.
You learn to jump in before the train stops,
to fold your fear like laundry,
to laugh with girls who don’t speak your language
but know exactly what your eyes are saying.

You learn that some days,
making it to class on time
is a victory.
That sharing a cutting chai
feels like love.
That a window seat
can heal things your heart won’t name.

No, Mumbai never really knew me.
Never asked who I was
or where I came from.
But in its chaos,
its noise, its sharp edges —
I found the version of me
that does not need permission to belong.
And maybe that’s enough.

Because maybe I didn’t come here
to be known by Mumbai.
Maybe I came
to know me.

~ yogini