Cats and The City

By Nabam Rimi

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Hi, I’m Bangalore. Yes, the bustling city everyone talks about. I have noticed people introducing me to others in terms of the fast-phased life that I provide to people. Well, now that I have been given the opportunity to speak, I will talk about cats. Because my cats understand me better than my maps do. 

There are cats who live inside rooms, and cats who walk my streets. Wherever they live, they are MY CATS! They both tell my story in different languages and accents. 

The room cats live in flats with closed windows, potted plants, warm beds, and a caring friend (the one who sponsors their life.) These cats know the schedule of their human friend who loses themselves in the bustling life of a metropolitan city. They listen to office/classroom meetings through laptop speakers, they listen to the sound of keyboards daily, sleep through productivity, own lots of toys, sleep between their human friend’s legs, and wake up only when the packets of treats make that special sound. 

They sit at windows like quiet thinkers, looking out through the barred windows, or soak themselves under the ray of sunlight that comes through the windows. They know every corner of their room the same way some people know their entire childhoods. They are loved deeply and loudly. 

At night, when the city lowers its volume and the fan in the room starts speaking, the room cat goes to the window. They press their noses to the iron bars. They look at the roads glowing after rain. They do not want to run away, they simply wish to feel the wind without filters. 

Then there are my street cats. They are the rooftop walkers. They know the sound of fish markets, the warmth of bike seats after long rides (which they like to scratch and tear, regardless of the bike owner’s several attempts to keep the seats safe,) and the kindness of one particular tea stall owner. They sleep under autos, behind temples, under half-constructed buildings. They are never called by any names, all they hear from passersby is “pspspsps.” 

They are free in a way that makes even the moon curious. But freedom here tastes sometimes like hunger, sometimes like rainwater, sometimes like being invisible. They are stroked only by accident (rarely) and chased more often than welcomed. Still, they walk the streets with grace and hope.

Every evening something magical happens that nobody writes about. The room cat sits behind a window on the third floor. The street cat walks below, tail like a question mark. For one second, their eyes meet. 

Neither wants the other’s life entirely. They long for only a portion of it. And I, the city, watch this silent exchange and feel something I do not have a word for. 

People like to say I am a city of technology, of growth, of development charts. But some evenings, I feel like a city of unspoken longings about the lives that are almost complete, but not fully.

No one here is entirely trapped.

No one here is entirely free.