Beguiling Bombay!

Bombay.

The city of Bollywood. The city where rags to riches are built. The bewitched one. The city of bedecked chauffeurs, the city of opportunities. THE CITY OF DREAMS.

 Having dwelled in the maya-nagri for a couple of couple years, I feel terribly nostalgic despite the solace of being home. Both physically and emotionally. Mumbai has never been about comfort; has it?

After about half a year of home coming, I swear on my dead body, I don’t really miss Mumbai. What is there to miss about the city of bedlam, befoulment and the unremitted squirt of noise?

My #AMovieADay let-me-kill-time-project got me all nostalgic today afternoon when a montage of memories ran through my head each time I nictated. Being a student at St. Xavier’s, South Mumbai is where I can walk through without having to ask for directions and of course, sans the phone GPRS.

I have spent hours sauntering through the Colaba causeway, I have walked the J. J. Flyover a hundred times, I have swam through the red light areas of Grant Road and Napada in buses and taxis, I have spent my fun nights on the streets of Mumbai.

However, I have been oblivious towards the Bombay that it has always been. The Bombay that has not really changed when the movie Salaam Bombay was shot in 1988 and today. Pre and post LPG.

While Mumbai is known as a city of dreams, the caustic verity is buried when those thousands of dreams that are shattered while only half dreams come true and while a couple dozen reach halfway.

I miss Mumbai. I miss my TGIFs, I miss beer with my closest friends, I miss the secret smoke puffs, I miss those endless house parties, I miss sneaking late into my hostel room, I miss Gokuls, I miss Bademiyaan, I miss Horneyman’s circle, I miss the stairs of the Asaitic Library, I miss Fort, I miss Colaba causeway, I miss Marine Lines, I miss Walking through Carter’s, I miss taking wrong buses, I miss staring at the cab meter, I miss omelet evenings at the Parsi bakery and I miss the long train rides of solitude.

While I still kvetch the discomfort of being in Mumbai, I have come to realize how oblivious I have been to the thousands of those who have found comfort in the slums and streets of Mumbai.

I cringe when the beggar touches me in locals but do I really know what lead him there?
I walk away from the man with unkempt hair on the paseo but do I have the slightest idea about where he was thrown out from?
I comment on the poor mother with half a cricket team but do I care if she was a victim of prostitution or domestic rape?

I look back at myself six months from now where a fat enough pay cheque at my first job was not enough to satisfy me. A 2 BHK flat with an air-con and all the other basic amenities didn’t give me a comfortable sleep at night. Three of the best flat-mates I could ever have in the whole wide world were not enough for me to stick to the life of immense laughter, scrumptious food, a bean bag, salad Saturdays and memorable hickeys.

Was my pain the air-conditioned office and wadding through the crowd in local trains and at Dadar station? Was my pain the Saturday night hangover and having to make my own coffee? Was commuting through public transport my pain or those Friday nights when I got late from work?

Sometimes, I sit in the shallowness of my room, look into the mirror and tell myself “If I could rewind, I would.” What seemed so bad then isn’t as bad when I see the realities of what Mumbai has done to thousands who live in the slums. Only if I wasn’t as ungrateful, I would have still lived in a house where I earned my own beers and beef steak, paid my own rent, laughed everyday like a retard and spent Sunday noons in bed while paying occasional visits to the lake in the eves!

They say, grass is always greener on the other side. You bet ! 

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