[Part of a Series. Introduction: For Movement]
Porto, Portugal, June 9th, 2009
Porto, the second city of Portugal, reminds me constantly of Bombay. Not in the way I thought it would, or the way I think the Portuguese would like it to. Mothership cities of Empires past are moments of origin. Origins in search of which the colonies were to be re-made. We are post-colonial now, though my fingers would rather type past-colonial in a Freudian slip that I wish was true. Still, the edges of empire have frayed since Indian began shining, Singapore and Dubai became newer horizons and the peripheries of the cities at the centres of Empire became more visible. Yet cracked original moulds are moulds still. Even as no mothership city – Paris, London – ever manages on closer examination to be the origin we once imagined it to be, their centres still hold inklings of the moulds. A sweep, a façade, a boulevard, a constant air of entitlement, a setting of terms, an unthinking confidence. Cracked moulds are moulds still. Enough, at least, for an slightly-unresolved-though-vaguely-global Indian imagination like mine to lower its gaze and hunch its shoulders just a little. Then, of course, I catch myself, remember to think rather than feel, auto-critique my moment of doubt, intellectually collect several counter-arguments and shine once more. And this is why I avoid, whenever possible, traveling to Europe – the baggage allowance isn’t enough to cover all the shit it rakes up inside me.

