I have now lived 2 full years of my glorious life in Mumbai. Looking back at my early experiences, I can’t quite believe that this is the city that I loathed so much, one that I swore I would never come back to.
I can almost hear a bunch of voices gasp in astonishment- “Ada Paavi, neeya ipdi solre” (My my! I can’t believe it is YOU who is uttering these words. How could you….).
Am I a sellout? Well, the answer is probably yes. But it is the how and why that never ceases to amaze me.
Yes, the infamous local trains are crowded and sticky as ever. Yes, there is pushing and shoving that only worsens by the day.People still come up to me asking for directions like the very first day I landed here.
The queue for the BEST buses after office hours is excruciatingly long and the wait is only getting longer as days pass by. Do I it like it? Not one bit. But, there is something fundamentally pedestrian, warm and comforting at the thought of being able to travel from Sandhurst road to Powai Lake at 2am on public transport. Or the fact that, on a rainy July morning at 4:30am an immigrant taxi driver hailing from Gorakhpur would ferry you from the airport in Santacruz to a residential suburb in Thane. And strictly adhering to the meter without kicking up a fuss. In a city full of imperfections, these little wonders have sufficed to make my heart swell.
I long for those rainy days at the bus queue- my wet shirt sticking onto my cold body, puddles of muddy water all around liberally splashing on my polished formal shoes and a badly battered umbrella that hangs smugly over my head.
One could say that I was the stereotypical man who never asked for directions (I never asked for anything anyways!) and tried to ‘figure out’ the route- often from incomprehensible station codes and similar looking confusing platforms. The introvert that I was (I still am) I wallowed in my pitiful condition waiting for somebody to come and help me. The wait was long and frustrating. Day after day, I would walk through a sea of unknown faces, of people hurrying across to nowhere, of people chasing their dreams, of people who couldn’t care less for some random bystander. And to all of them I would silently look up with an expectant face. But I remained a faceless soul.
Slowly and steadily I learnt to speak up, to think on my feet and to make bold moves (like, launch a courtesy shove on co-passengers that signals that you need to alight at the next station and that you mean business!). I went after the city, the city that I was unsuccessfully attempting to shake off my back. And it embraced me – a shrewd mentor that it was. Though I’m still the silent kid that I was, I realize that silence is not always golden.
As the waves gently lap onto the concrete rocks on marine drive, it never ceases to amaze. Watching the long row of people seated at the promenade, one can feel the enormity of thoughts, feelings and aspirations floating in the air above the water. This is the place where countless anonymous souls, away from their distant homes find freedom, this is the place where they discover little reasons to celebrate and sink their sorrows into the sea. It is here that they gather strength to see another day.
I remember my first visit to marine drive. It was on the top of my ‘30 things to do in 30 days’ list and I couldn’t wait to strike it off. Despite the monsoons, I braved it across the city in the harbor line to reach VT. As I stood on the road, waiting for a taxi, the steady drizzle wet my head. I could feel the heaviness of my damp hair and it pissed me off to no end. I was half cursing myself for putting me through it, when I flagged down a taxi and barked away orders to take me to ‘intercontinental on marine drive’ - the lines in Hindi, practiced and perfected meticulously with help from a local friend. That day was a forgettable one to say the least. I was in a foul mood and everywhere I could see pretty much the same thing- foulness. The air smelt foul, the weather was rotten and water – black as dirt. It would take the passing of clouds and a warm winter afternoon to change my opinion.
Much of what I’ve come to love as Mumbai is derived from experiences in the eastern suburb of Chembur. Of late I dream of pleasant things - of gliding up the elevator at K star mall, ordering food from Mc Donald’s and looking around for a free table amongst the ‘family crowd’ at the perennially crowded food court.
I’ve visited Mc D outlets across Mumbai, Delhi, Hyderabad, Bangalore and Chennai, but the burgers served at the Chembur outlet are the tastiest. Maybe it is more than just taste buds or olfactory senses at work. Hotel Naveena is a small eatery in Chembur run by a Christian migrant from Thanjavur. The soft parotas and spicy kari-kolambu served here more than compensates for the sweet sambhar dished out by innumerous Udipi ‘Bhavans’. (Which are not surprisingly flocked by sweet loving Gujjus). The flavor is straight out of the Tamil heartland and surpasses even the delicious Parotas available in good ol’ Madras. As I sit at a table watching lungi clad men whipping, lashing and kneading the maida dough with oil, talking in thickly accented Tamil, I’m starkly reminded that it is Bombay when a chotu from Jharkhand takes down the order, his speech peppered with broken Tamil.
The first time I witnessed the grandiose scale of ganesh Chaturthi celebrations, I felt alienated. People made merry all around and the loud drum beats and men dancing along the procession whipped up some of that old regressive fear. Wafts of mari-attha songs in Chembur offered succor during the winter season. But come second year and my heart raced with excitement when I heard the drum beats, almost wanting to break into a jig.
A lot about the city remains much the same as it was- filthy, crowded and harsh. The streets are filled with boys sporting fluorescent tees and crinkled jeans and girls dressed in halter tops, chequered shorts and oversized shades parade the latest line worn by this Bollywood star in that movie. Driving around Bandra or Colaba at night, scenes of young men and women, outside popular hangouts, engaged in animated conversation and smoking with gay abandon greet you. The pretence of cosmopolitan air chokes you more than the thick nicotine flavored air.
As June approaches, the wake of the monsoon fills the air with the stench of the city. But it is the same stench that reminds me of sweet memories of a season long gone by.
For it is the wonder of human experience- the joy of hearing voices that you’ve grown to love, of simple memories that now mean the world to you, of unasked favors and unspoken promises, of uninhibited laughter- that has woven an invisible net around you which tugs at your heart’s strings every time you look back on the city. It could happen at any place- but it happens a lot more in Mumbai for ‘This is Bombay man’.
