The Red Godzilla on the Run

They say, in a big city, you must look up. The high-rises, towering above you, remind you of how small you really are. And yet, when the sun hits them just right, the light wraps the concrete in something almost magnificent—something worth pausing for. I’ve mostly grown up in cities, or in places that felt like half-cities—semi-urban pockets where life was always pushing forward. And no matter how much I crave greenery, the stillness of nature, I can never stay away from the city for long. A couple of days amidst silence, and I start missing the chaos. The hustle and bustle. The squeaky noise. The strange motivation hidden inside the mess of a concrete jungle.

From the north-facing balcony of our apartment, all I see is a sea of buildings. Residential towers stacked high, office blocks, and schools with their bright banners. The soundscape is wild—sirens tearing through, fire engines wailing, taxis and autos honking like they own the road, raucous at bus stands, the endless clatter of construction, political rallies, and sometimes a wedding band blaring at midnight. Oddly enough, I’ve developed the skill to tune in and out at will. What used to feel unbearable now feels like…music. Yes, music. The city has its own orchestra—untamed, imperfect, both irritating and soothing. Somewhere in that loudness, I’ve learned to hear rhythm.

Living here has taught me that architecture is not just about cement and glass—it’s about what it communicates to the people who move through it. I’ve come to believe we are all architects, in some way—building and shaping the worlds we live in. This life—part careless, part careful—has made me sharper, more cut-throat when I need to be, but also oddly soft in places I didn’t expect. That’s the city’s gift: its madness is its magic. And you have to believe in magic to survive here.

Of course, this isn’t about pitting the urban against the rural. I think both belong, and one completes the other. To truly enjoy the peace of nature, maybe you first need to know the restless hunger of the city. A villager may know the land, but perhaps a city dweller can see the countryside in a way the locals never do—through contrast, through longing. City life isn’t for everyone, I know that. But if you find yourself pulled toward the glitter of lights on the sea link, toward the rush of crowds moving like tides, then you might already belong here.

I’ve seen sunsets from the countryside, from mountain tops, and now from this 24th-floor balcony. Each one is different, each one is equally beautiful. And yet, every sunset carries the same truth—when the sky turns orange, with its hints of red, yellow, and blue, the world looks softer. Almost kind. Nature is generous like that—it never repeats itself, and still, it feels familiar.

And lately, as I look at the skyline, I notice how colourful the buildings have become. Blues, yellows, greys, splashes of graffiti that tell Mumbai’s own Bollywood stories. But among all of them, my eyes always return to one—the RED building. Not the tallest, not the grandest, but oddly fascinating. It looks like a beast crouching—its jagged lines like canines ready to devour the city. Sometimes I imagine it as Godzilla, rising from behind, swallowing buildings like grapes. What would that sound like—the chewing of concrete, the crunch of glass, the tearing of steel? Terrifying, maybe. Or thrilling.

Strange, isn’t it? These small, absurd observations are what make me fall in love with cities again and again. Beneath the chaos, the noise, the exhaustion—there’s a pulse. A wild, flawed, unpredictable heartbeat. And somehow, it matches my own.