The city of zest

"The man who likes chess sufficiently to

look forward throughout his working day to the game that he will play in the evening is fortunate, but the man who gives up work in order to play chess all day has lost the virtue of moderation.”

"One man, in the course of a long train journey, will fail entirely to observe any of his fellow travellers while another will have summed them all up, analysed their characters, made a shrewd guess at their circumstances, and perhaps even ascertained the most secret histories of several of them”.

“Some men will travel through many countries, always going to the best hotels, eating exactly the same food as they would eat at home, meeting the same idle rich whom they would meet at home, conversing on the same topics upon which they converse at their own dinner-table.

Other men, wherever they go, see what is characteristic, make the acquaintance of people who typify the locality, observe whatever is of interest either historically or socially, eat the food of the country, learn its manners and its language, and come home with a new stock of pleasant thoughts”.

The above descriptions remind me of a city that is known for its zest for life. Once, what the city thought, the nation followed. Now, what the city thinks is taken with a pinch of salt. Those who love the city feel quietly saddened. Those who scorn the city are quick to call it dead.

The city that once lit minds, now flickers in the shadows. This was the city where art whispered from every alley. No bullet struck its heart; no fire razed its homes.

What happened to the city that cradled the renaissance?

Cities are like spores. They lie dormant, not defeated. The question is—Who will water the roots again?